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Lauren was on her third dance. Both waitressing stints had been fairly richly rewarded—almost $70 in tips from each one—as had her last turn dancing; the $55 from that one had actually more than covered the cost of her sexy cat outfit. She got the impression she might have even been in the lead tip-wise. Each time had left her exhausted, sore, and just wanting for some time out of her heels, though, so she’d yet to offer any private dances.
Now, though, The Landing Strip seemed to be in a pre-dinner lull. She hadn’t counted yet, but she knew she wasn’t anywhere close to paying for the cop outfit that she had started this session with. There just weren’t enough men to dance for. She grimaced at that thought—now she was wishing that there were more men to dance naked in front of?
Thinking that the third song was almost over, she’d prematurely dropped her thong just as the DJ sent it in to some extensive remix, so she had spent the better part of five minutes on all fours in front of the lone man at the bar and shaking her ass to the beat of the music. She didn’t care how obscene it was—she needed the tips.
He slid a bill up and down her inner thigh and tickled her slit with it before stuffing it in her garter. Then, he hauled back with a full-armed slap to her rear.
SMACK! “Yeah, shake that ass baby.”
It really hurt. He hadn’t held back at all. She turned to him, about to tell him in her anger to keep his goddamned hands to himself. Then she saw the stack of bills in front of him. Twenties. He was tipping with twenty-dollar bills. So, she smiled and shook her ass a little more seductively. She needed the tips.
A moment later, a friend of the first man sat down next to him and leered at Lauren’s display. He walked his hand up and down the back of thigh like a spider before tucking a bill into her garter. Then he slapped her ass and shouted over the music, “Hey, how ‘bout giving us a different view?”
She looked back at him, looked at the stack of twenties, and then, hating herself for it, rolled over onto her back and opened and closed her legs to the rhythm of the music. The song was almost over. Please, she thought to herself, turning her face so they wouldn’t see the wetness in her eyes, just one more twenty and that will make this worth it.
But the song ended without any more tips. Lauren pushed herself up and thanked the two gentlemen for watching—hoping more than anything else that they’d take it as a signal to give her another tip, but the big spender ignored her completely and his friend brushed her off with a, “Yeah, yeah,” and a pat on the butt. They were too engrossed in Emma’s entrance in a very skimpy Wonder Woman outfit to pay Lauren any mind.
Dejectedly, she walked over to the cashier’s window and counted out her tips. Seventeen dollars, and the outfit had cost her $45. She’d just paid $28 to dance naked for . . . wait . . . how could that be? The one man had been tipping with twenties!
She stormed over and grabbed the friend’s shoulder. “Give it back,” she yelled. “Give it back now!”
The man turned and shrugged her hand off his shoulder. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
In an instant, one of the bouncers was over interposing himself between the heavy man and naked Lauren. “What’s the problem?”
Suddenly uncomfortably aware of the power dynamics involved in a naked woman arguing with dressed men, Lauren was relieved to have the help. She pointed vehemently at the thief. “This . . . this asshole stole some of my tips. His friend was tipping with twenty dollar bills but when I got over to the cashier, I only had $17.”
Before anybody else could speak, the big spender started laughing. “I wasn’t tipping that big.” He held up his stack of bills and showed that it was a twenty on a stack of ones. “I always stick a twenty on top because it draws you gold-digging twits right over.”
The bouncer looked from the not-so-big spender to Lauren with a frown. “You have two choices. You can be disqualified, forfeit all your tips plus pay the fines that your contract calls for, and leave now, or you can give this man a free private dance when your waitressing shift is up.”
She felt her arms sliding back into Position 2 and forced herself to keep them at her side; she would maintain what dignity she could.
She smiled and said through clenched teeth, “Is there a specific outfit you’d like me to wear, sir?”
The heavy man looked her up-and-down, smirking. “Let’s go with the Princess Leia outfit. Not that you’ll be wearing it long.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, turning to relieve Becky of her waitress duties before any more degradation could be piled on her.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’m happy to have feedback from anybody whether it be through reviews or emails. I have two specific requests, one about the story and one not:
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