Welcome
to our Charity Sunday blog hop for September.
I
didn’t even need to think about what charity to support this month.
And yet, I’m embarrassed to admit that I had never heard of
Imagination Library
until Dolly Parton’s passing a few weeks ago.
I
spent a huge chunk of my childhood stretched out on my bed, reading
every book I could get my hands on. My parents mostly encouraged me
(except when my mom bugged me about going out and getting some fresh
air). I’d never thought about what it would be like to live in a
family where books were an unaffordable luxury. Or where parents
didn’t understand how important it was to foster their kids’ love
of reading.
I
have always admired Dolly Parton as an incredibly talented composer,
actress and performer. When she left the world, though, her real
impact became clear. I found comfort and cheer in her example. Her
light shines bright enough that it makes all the world’s darkness
fade into the background. What you achieve matters much less, I
understood, than who you are, how you treat others, and how much love
you share.
Anyway,
I don’t want to get maudlin. This month I will give two dollars to
Dolly’s Imagination Library for every comment I receive. That’s
bound to buy at least a couple of books to feed some hungry minds.
My
excerpt may seem a bit strange. It comes from my urban noir novel
Exposure, one of my darker
books. I’ve chosen it because the heroine, like Dolly, is ridiculed due to her large breasts, but turns that to her advantage.
Excerpt
(Rated X)
I
strip for the fun of it. Don’t let anyone tell you different. It’s
not the money. I could make nearly as much working at the mill and
keep my clothes on, but then I’d have to suck up to the bosses.
Here at the Peacock, I’m the one in charge, and I like it that way.
Sometimes
I think it’s a sort of revenge, for all the times I heard those
nasty calls trailing after me: Honey Jugs, Monster Boobs, Bouncer.
Not to mention those sweaty, awkward clinches in back seats, trying
to please. Trying to be popular. Now they can’t take their eyes off
my breasts, swinging back and forth in time to the music. Their
tongues are hanging out. I can see the tents in their laps. They all
want me. I know how to make them want me. I’m an expert. But I’m
off limits. They can look, they can drool, they can beg me. But my
job’s to turn them on and bring them to the bursting point, then
send them home unsatisfied.
That’s
my view, anyway. Some of the other girls think different. All in all,
though, the Peacock Lounge is a pretty classy joint, not like some of
the sleaze pits down near the railroad.
I
love the moment when the lights come down, and the DJ introduces me.
There’s this strange pause, as if I was floating. I can feel them
out there, the audience, holding their breath. Then, I hear the first
notes of my routine. Energy surges through me. I’m one hundred
percent alive. My nipples get hard and my sex tingles when I step out
onto the stage and meet their eyes.
That’s
my secret weapon: eye contact. Up close and personal. I can bump and
grind, shake my tits in their faces, bend over so they get a good
look at the G-string settled in my ass-crack. It doesn’t do any
good without my stare. I try to see their darkest fantasies. This one
pictures me sitting on him, his mouth burrowing in my bush. That one
wants me to hold his dick while he pees. That guy in the back, oh,
he’s bad news. He aches to tie me up and beat me with his belt.
Tough luck, feller. Dream on.
I
don’t know whether what I see is real or just my imagination, but
it has a real effect. They feel my eyes. They think I know them. They
get all flustered and embarrassed, wave to me, stick their tens and
twenties into my G-string. Watching me, anxious-like, all the time.
Meanwhile,
it turns me on. I dance a lot better when I’m horny. Sometimes I
play with myself a bit before my set, to get myself into the mood.
Then I hold my fingers under their noses, and watch their reactions.
I
feed off their desire. The more they want me, the hotter I get, the
better I dance. The more outrageous I become. So, it’s especially
annoying tonight that this one guy in the front row doesn’t react
at all.
It’s
early, and it’s Monday, slow. He’s the only one sitting close
enough for me to use my stare, and it isn’t working. The guy’s
good-looking in a clean-cut, straight-laced sort of way. Blond crew
cut, blue eyes, muscles that show even under his expensive suit. At
least it looks expensive to me.
He
hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I strutted onto the stage, but
his face is without expression. It’s like he has walls behind his
eyes. I can’t see into him at all. And now it’s me that’s
getting frustrated and hot under the collar. I’ve already stripped
down to my pasties, boots, and thong. I peel one of the tassels off
my nipple and dangle it in front of him. He looks only at my eyes.
He’s measuring me, sizing me up for something.
I
prance around on my stiletto heel boots. I shake my hips, do a slow,
sensuous shimmy, cup my tits in my palms and offer them to him. No
reaction. I take off the other tassel and attach it behind, where my
butt cheeks meet, a lewd little tail. There’s a whistle from a
table in the back, but Mr. Clean just continues to study me.
Damn
him. I’m sweaty from the effort. My cunt is throbbing in time with
the music. I can feel that the shred of nylon running between my legs
is sopping. Fixing him with my best stare, I sink onto my knees in
front of him, thighs spread wide. Then I slide both my forefingers
inside the G-string and start to touch myself. We’re not supposed
to do really explicit stuff like that. If Joey, the owner of the
club, saw me, he’d give me hell. But this is a desperate case. I
will not allow this guy to get the better of me.
I’m
actually quite close to coming, when finally I see him give a little
smile. So maybe he is enjoying himself after all. My music is ending.
Time for the grand finale. Standing up, I unsnap the sides of the
thong and pull it back and forth through my crotch a couple of times.
Just to make sure it’s totally saturated. Then I drop it in the
guy’s lap and strut off the stage, naked except for my boots.
Please
leave a comment! Every one will bring the love of reading into some child’s
life.
