appreciation. Three hundred dollars. Not bad for her first dance of the night.
A gaggle of men lurked nearby, gawking like schoolboys who’d found a peephole to the girls’ locker room. The interest was in their eyes. The confidence to approach was not.
Finally, one of them stepped forward to prove that he had a pair. “Can I buy you a drink?”
She glanced up to do the man math. Married. Mid-thirties. Stopping in on his way home from work. Translation: A wallet with a Gold American Express that could take a beating. The smile that came with the question reached his eyes, revealing a certain kindness and decency that put Pippa instantly at ease.
As if on cue, the waitress swooped in to take the liquor order. She knew to put water in Pippa’s shot. She knew to boost the alcohol in the customer’s. And she knew to keep the drinks coming.
“I’m Tommy.”
“Little boys are named Tommy,” Pippa teased gently. “You look like a man to me. Do you mind if I call you Tom?” She smiled.
He smiled back, swallowing hard, scarcely able to make direct eye contact.
Up close, Pippa was nothing short of flawless. This gave her a distinctive edge over most of the dancers at Cheetah. The other girls often broke the illusion of the ultimate fantasy with cheap makeup, discount perfume, bad Mystic tans, pole bruises, beat-up shoes, broken nails, tacky costumes, and the stench of cigarettes.
On a conscious level, men didn’t necessarily take note of such things. After all, most guys would forgive a hairlip and missing teeth for a nice rack and a tight, shapely ass. But the allure of perfection could be a magical draw. It was the reason why Pippa took in double the money. Sometimes triple.
She used the most expensive cosmetics and booked time with top makeup artists to learn how to expertly apply the products herself. Spa-quality manicures and pedicures were a weekly ritual. Every piece of clothing that draped her body was from designer A-lines. None of this Stella McCartney for H&M rubbish. Every pair of shoes that adorned her feet was cause for celebration—Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo, Miu Miu.
But perhaps what separated her most from the pack was the way she smelled. Pippa owed it all to her new favorite fragrance, Love in White by Creed, a heady mixture of iris, white jasmine, magnolia, Bulgarian rose, daffodil, and other exotic notes. The impact was pure, sensual, intimate, and deliciously feminine. It had never failed to turn men into human ATM machines. It wouldn’t fail now.
“I’d love a private dance.”
“We could do that, Tom,” Pippa said softly. “But we could also just sit here and talk.”
“That sounds nice, too,” he agreed.
Other dancers were eager to just grind a man raw and move on to the next horny subject. But Pippa knew better, thanks to shrewd coaching from Vinnie Rossetti, the manager of Cheetah. He proudly referred to her as “the club’s new secret weapon.”
This did nothing to endear Pippa to the rest of the girls. By nature, strippers could be a jaded group, regarding every new dancer as an enemy that would only take money out of their g-strings. So adding Pippa’s exalted status as Vinnie’s favorite pet to the mix made for a very tense environment.
But Pippa didn’t care. She worked at Cheetah to make money, not friends. Still, she hated to hear Vinnie openly brag to the other dancers that Star Baby was well on her way to becoming the club’s number one girl. Though he hoped the threat would motivate them to do better, it only served to intensify their hatred toward Pippa.
The ringleader of the hostility was an older dancer who went by the oh-so-subtle stage name Hellcat. She was a tall, hardened blonde with big fake breasts, multiple piercings, and more body art than Angelina Jolie. With Pippa being the lone exception, all the dancers kissed her ass and submitted to her controlling ways. She ruled over them like an underground empress.
Nothing stopped Hellcat from racking
A gaggle of men lurked nearby, gawking like schoolboys who’d found a peephole to the girls’ locker room. The interest was in their eyes. The confidence to approach was not.
Finally, one of them stepped forward to prove that he had a pair. “Can I buy you a drink?”
She glanced up to do the man math. Married. Mid-thirties. Stopping in on his way home from work. Translation: A wallet with a Gold American Express that could take a beating. The smile that came with the question reached his eyes, revealing a certain kindness and decency that put Pippa instantly at ease.
As if on cue, the waitress swooped in to take the liquor order. She knew to put water in Pippa’s shot. She knew to boost the alcohol in the customer’s. And she knew to keep the drinks coming.
“I’m Tommy.”
“Little boys are named Tommy,” Pippa teased gently. “You look like a man to me. Do you mind if I call you Tom?” She smiled.
He smiled back, swallowing hard, scarcely able to make direct eye contact.
Up close, Pippa was nothing short of flawless. This gave her a distinctive edge over most of the dancers at Cheetah. The other girls often broke the illusion of the ultimate fantasy with cheap makeup, discount perfume, bad Mystic tans, pole bruises, beat-up shoes, broken nails, tacky costumes, and the stench of cigarettes.
On a conscious level, men didn’t necessarily take note of such things. After all, most guys would forgive a hairlip and missing teeth for a nice rack and a tight, shapely ass. But the allure of perfection could be a magical draw. It was the reason why Pippa took in double the money. Sometimes triple.
She used the most expensive cosmetics and booked time with top makeup artists to learn how to expertly apply the products herself. Spa-quality manicures and pedicures were a weekly ritual. Every piece of clothing that draped her body was from designer A-lines. None of this Stella McCartney for H&M rubbish. Every pair of shoes that adorned her feet was cause for celebration—Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo, Miu Miu.
But perhaps what separated her most from the pack was the way she smelled. Pippa owed it all to her new favorite fragrance, Love in White by Creed, a heady mixture of iris, white jasmine, magnolia, Bulgarian rose, daffodil, and other exotic notes. The impact was pure, sensual, intimate, and deliciously feminine. It had never failed to turn men into human ATM machines. It wouldn’t fail now.
“I’d love a private dance.”
“We could do that, Tom,” Pippa said softly. “But we could also just sit here and talk.”
“That sounds nice, too,” he agreed.
Other dancers were eager to just grind a man raw and move on to the next horny subject. But Pippa knew better, thanks to shrewd coaching from Vinnie Rossetti, the manager of Cheetah. He proudly referred to her as “the club’s new secret weapon.”
This did nothing to endear Pippa to the rest of the girls. By nature, strippers could be a jaded group, regarding every new dancer as an enemy that would only take money out of their g-strings. So adding Pippa’s exalted status as Vinnie’s favorite pet to the mix made for a very tense environment.
But Pippa didn’t care. She worked at Cheetah to make money, not friends. Still, she hated to hear Vinnie openly brag to the other dancers that Star Baby was well on her way to becoming the club’s number one girl. Though he hoped the threat would motivate them to do better, it only served to intensify their hatred toward Pippa.
The ringleader of the hostility was an older dancer who went by the oh-so-subtle stage name Hellcat. She was a tall, hardened blonde with big fake breasts, multiple piercings, and more body art than Angelina Jolie. With Pippa being the lone exception, all the dancers kissed her ass and submitted to her controlling ways. She ruled over them like an underground empress.
Nothing stopped Hellcat from racking
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