attitude. Oh, baby, she gave it to them good. And the salivating fools loved her for it. Why? Because they all wanted to believe that they had what it takes between their legs to bring her down a notch.
Ha! Men and their dicks. Never a smart combination. For them, that is. For Pippa, it was a brilliant pairing. Loads of cash were coming her way. In fact, she had shoe boxes full of money that she hadn’t even counted yet.
Pippa swayed to the hypnotizing electronic beat, undulating her body just enough to drive them almost crazy. That’s exactly where she held them off, too. Almost crazy. Almost touching her. Almost thinking they had a chance in bloody hell of finding out how she tasted and what she felt like. It was a delicate balancing act of subtle sexual torture. And only two months since entering the world of exotic dancing, Pippa Keith had become a master of the game.
“Slow down and dance with me/Yeah, slow/Skip a beat and move with my body/Yeah, slow…”
The breathy voice of Kylie Minogue provided the soundtrack for Pippa’s stage seduction as “Star Baby,” the mysteriously young and oh-so-tender fantasy girl with the starfishlike scar a few inches underneath her left breast.
Pippa opened her legs and eased down into a standing squat position. The move transformed the entire alpha-hetero lot into a bunch of foaming-at-
the-mouth loons. Her secret trick was to wet her thong before going onstage. This gave the perverts a better peek at the little piece of heaven that would forever elude them.
When it came down to actual dancing, Pippa barely broke a sweat. Why bother? She could just stand up here reading the Miami Herald and still get fistfuls of dollars…as long as she did it half-naked.
Girls who gave it everything and more ended up injured. There were head traumas from hitting the pole, bruised bone points, stage burns, bunions, corns, spurs, sprained ankles, swollen knees, shin splints, lower back pain—the list went on and on. Who knew that taking off your clothes to music could have such occupational hazards? By comparison, playing in the NFL would be less damaging to the body.
The song ended. A throng of guys crowded the stage to throw money at her.
“Save me a private dance, Star Baby,” a man with a goatee, a wedding ring, and at least fifty reasons to go on the South Beach Diet said.
“You’re so beautiful!” another guy shouted. “How much to sit on my face?”
Pippa assassinated the pig with a haughty glare. “If you have to ask, dear, you can’t afford it.”
This triggered nervous laughter all around. Men. Put a hot, naked girl in front of them and their egos turned to eggshells.
Pippa loved it. She loved being in control of herself. She loved being in control of them. She loved the attention. She loved the cash. She loved the power. Oh God, yes, the power. On the stage, she ruled. And at the retail counters, she conquered.
“Excuse me, miss, but that particular bag is two thousand dollars.” So warned the snooty bitch at the Chanel boutique in Bal Harbour Shops.
“Oh, is that all?” Pippa had responded innocently.
“Then I think I’ll take the black one and the pink one. And be quick about it, darling. I’m pressed for time and still have stops to make at Louis Vuitton and Gucci.”
Damage at the register—four grand. Look on the shopgirl’s face— priceless. If Pippa wanted it, then Pippa bought it. Price tags didn’t matter anymore. She was a total bling addict.
But the cash came with a cost. To make it meant working all the time. She never saw her friends or her mother anymore. Luckily, she could blame all of her time away on her new job as the assistant to an entertainment promoter. There was also the MACPA drama club. That was a great excuse as well. If they only knew. She was a permanent fixture at this vile place, a constant source of eye candy for these disgusting men.
Pippa left the stage and settled into a booth in the back corner to total up the
Ha! Men and their dicks. Never a smart combination. For them, that is. For Pippa, it was a brilliant pairing. Loads of cash were coming her way. In fact, she had shoe boxes full of money that she hadn’t even counted yet.
Pippa swayed to the hypnotizing electronic beat, undulating her body just enough to drive them almost crazy. That’s exactly where she held them off, too. Almost crazy. Almost touching her. Almost thinking they had a chance in bloody hell of finding out how she tasted and what she felt like. It was a delicate balancing act of subtle sexual torture. And only two months since entering the world of exotic dancing, Pippa Keith had become a master of the game.
“Slow down and dance with me/Yeah, slow/Skip a beat and move with my body/Yeah, slow…”
The breathy voice of Kylie Minogue provided the soundtrack for Pippa’s stage seduction as “Star Baby,” the mysteriously young and oh-so-tender fantasy girl with the starfishlike scar a few inches underneath her left breast.
Pippa opened her legs and eased down into a standing squat position. The move transformed the entire alpha-hetero lot into a bunch of foaming-at-
the-mouth loons. Her secret trick was to wet her thong before going onstage. This gave the perverts a better peek at the little piece of heaven that would forever elude them.
When it came down to actual dancing, Pippa barely broke a sweat. Why bother? She could just stand up here reading the Miami Herald and still get fistfuls of dollars…as long as she did it half-naked.
Girls who gave it everything and more ended up injured. There were head traumas from hitting the pole, bruised bone points, stage burns, bunions, corns, spurs, sprained ankles, swollen knees, shin splints, lower back pain—the list went on and on. Who knew that taking off your clothes to music could have such occupational hazards? By comparison, playing in the NFL would be less damaging to the body.
The song ended. A throng of guys crowded the stage to throw money at her.
“Save me a private dance, Star Baby,” a man with a goatee, a wedding ring, and at least fifty reasons to go on the South Beach Diet said.
“You’re so beautiful!” another guy shouted. “How much to sit on my face?”
Pippa assassinated the pig with a haughty glare. “If you have to ask, dear, you can’t afford it.”
This triggered nervous laughter all around. Men. Put a hot, naked girl in front of them and their egos turned to eggshells.
Pippa loved it. She loved being in control of herself. She loved being in control of them. She loved the attention. She loved the cash. She loved the power. Oh God, yes, the power. On the stage, she ruled. And at the retail counters, she conquered.
“Excuse me, miss, but that particular bag is two thousand dollars.” So warned the snooty bitch at the Chanel boutique in Bal Harbour Shops.
“Oh, is that all?” Pippa had responded innocently.
“Then I think I’ll take the black one and the pink one. And be quick about it, darling. I’m pressed for time and still have stops to make at Louis Vuitton and Gucci.”
Damage at the register—four grand. Look on the shopgirl’s face— priceless. If Pippa wanted it, then Pippa bought it. Price tags didn’t matter anymore. She was a total bling addict.
But the cash came with a cost. To make it meant working all the time. She never saw her friends or her mother anymore. Luckily, she could blame all of her time away on her new job as the assistant to an entertainment promoter. There was also the MACPA drama club. That was a great excuse as well. If they only knew. She was a permanent fixture at this vile place, a constant source of eye candy for these disgusting men.
Pippa left the stage and settled into a booth in the back corner to total up the
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