A Fucking Investment Ch. 13
Seeing and being seen, the naked revelation
Author's Note: This is a bit of a voyeur's delight. The main character does not get to wet his wick at all but he audits plenty. As a consequence, this is a separate episode. Some important developments proceed, filling out some background and providing the rationale for what follows. Thanks for your support. Leave comments and vote, its good for the soul. If you want to see some pictures that inspire the women in this series, send me a note and I'll include you in the list.
John Sawyer arrived at my house promptly at seven. I was waiting but not impatiently. I had a lot on my mind. At about six, one of my audit counselors called to report that Sharon was wading into deep water again, this time not of her own making. She wanted to handle it herself so was not consulting me on it. I understood the need to try her wings but in describing the situation, I realized it could get out of hand quickly if she was not lucky and that was unlikely, her being lucky I mean.
In addition, I had arranged for Crowley to have the house wired to an eye in the sky they could manage from the home office. We had a good tech group. We started them young, gave them support, education (college), and then jobs once they graduated. They got to do things and many had left us to do startups of their own, chasing their techno dreams.
Several had come back, beaten by the world beyond bytes and bits. These provided counsel to the others and created stabilizing influences. Having them there, also gave those who chose to leave motivation to be circumspect and to leave on good terms, because doing so usually meant they would have an excellent chance of returning to us when or if their foray into the tech jungle scarred and marred their dreams.
I mention this because I was giving Crowley's crew a way to watch me fuck myself to death. We trusted them and had reason to think that was a reasonable thing to do. In other words, my sex object would not end up on the Internet doing a strip tease. Crowley would handle it and I expected him to be circumspect. There was risk but I considered it to be an acceptable risk. Okay, there was a little thrill, too. Just a little.
Arrangements had been made to send a team to wire the house. It was a challenging thing, to tear into the structure and wire it, that is post cameras peeking into virtually every corner without leaving any indication they were there. My intent was to give the house eyes but not advertise the fact. That alone is a challenge.
I sat Jennifer down and gave her four or five days away. I told her, I needed some "private time" which, as intended, she took to mean one of the shyer members of the community was going to be negotiating with me. I let her think that, hoping she was genuinely taken in by my assertion. I told her to take till Wednesday. She said she'd invite her sister down for the weekend. I suggested she fuck Jeff, just as a favor to me, for him being such a good guy about turning her over to me. She said, she'd see, telling me she understood precisely how the suggestion was intended, as a suggestion, not a command.
She was up packing when John arrived. We drove to one of the nicest restaurants in town. When he turned in, he had the good grace to look over at me. He said, "I know. You are buying, shouldn't I pick a better place and by better, I mean less expensive." He grinned that dark smile of his. "You want to fuck my wife and for all I know, I am helping you accomplish that. Shouldn't a good meal at Le Chez d'Or balance fine with that? After all, I am helping." He shrugged, "If this night does not suggest my value to you, then fine. I guess you can add this onto my bill. Eve's bill," he corrected himself. "You can fuck her for my supper." He understood the contracts perfectly.
I waved at him. I had a wad in my pocket and in the breast pocket of my coat. I'd pay cash, just to avoid the paper trail. None of this was tax deductible till I got hold of the real estate. Even then, I might keep the expenses off the book and write them all off as personal entertainment. I was being entertained, after all.
"No worries, John. If tonight is half as rewarding as you imply, I am happy to buy. It is a long time since I have been out and having congenial company is a plus. Thanks for thinking of this place. I haven't been here but I have heard it is wonderful. Glad to have you along."
We parked, got our table, ordered drinks and dinner. We chatted about nothing much. Dinner came and it really was stupendous. I realized how starved for a night out I had been and so even if the rest of the night was a washout, the meal was clearly valuable, even at half a grand for the two of us.
We left in good spirits and John drove us downtown. He got lost twice and had to return to the exit we took to find his way both times. I was about to tell him to forget it when he pointed to an eight-story wall covered with the image of a girl in blue jeans on a field of white. It was peeling, the dark shards showed against the white all over the whole side of the building. It looked like snow in the light at night.
"There. Now I can find the way. I kept missing that chick in the jeans." John assured me and sure enough, we were soon parked, directed into a parking garage by two broad-chested guys in cheap tuxes over tight muscle shirts. They had big pores and thin mustaches. John showed one of them a golden card and the guy kept it, insisting it was out of date but allowing us to park with the other shiny and expensive cars.
I had never been to this part of town intentionally but the sight of so many high-end cars told me why. I am no expert but I am pretty sure the parking guys were packing weapons under their arms. I had a bad feeling. On the other hand, I got a warm feeling that John was fucking up and I would soon have Eve for my very own. The extended tease she represented seemed worth it now. I felt she was going to be mine. Maybe I would end up with her this weekend...I would have to take her to a hotel, rather than let her into the house with the work going on. I was way ahead of myself.
It turned out that the eight story building and the parking garage were part of the same building. "How did you find this place?"
John grinned at me. "I tailed Mrs. Lewis till she led me here." He opened a door and we went through a long corridor into a big amphitheater-like place that roared with the sound of gambling.
"Here? What? Is she a cigarette girl?"
He looked at me like he didn't get the reference. Too many old black and white movies while I was growing up.
"How much cash do you have?" He asked.
It seemed a little personal, a lot crass and for a moment I worried about answering him. In the end I shrugged and told him about five grand.
John nodded. "I think that should be fine. Josh, this place charges you to get in. A grand each."
"Fuck me. Really? Is it worth it?"
John colored. "I thought so. I, you can judge for yourself." He looked suitably embarrassed. "I, I had a gold card from before but the second time, I had to pay. I am tapped out. I squirreled away some cash when I folded my tents that Eve doesn't know about or my balls would be in jar by the alarm clock.
He led me through the light crowd; the place was not thronged, apparently because it did not appeal to the throngs, to the unwashed masses but relied on safety and circumspection to attract the well-heeled who didn't like rubbing elbows with anyone, as a matter of principle. I thought I understood, well, all but the fact that Jeri Lewis came here. If anything, this should explain an over abundance of debt...unless they only took cash. Then I was at a loss because you can't go into debt in a cash business.
At a gold door flanked by two guys with wide stances supporting their wide bodies, John talked to a guy and asked for my two grand. Of course he wanted to go in. I could not imagine what would be worth two grand for entrance but I was mistaken in that skepticism. That I paid testified to the value I placed on Jeri Lewis' ass. John was fairly jumping with eager excitement. "Hurry up, come on. She starts at nine on the nose. She's, she's never late!"
He got us to a table but we had not ordered when the curtains opened. We sat in a cavernous hall. The stage was set at about the third floor and well-lit private tables populated four tiers, all arranged to focus on the stage. For a moment, I could not understand what I was seeing. The stage was covered by glass, glass that magnified it. What was essentially a large space appeared huge. It was not a projection, it was a magnification. The glass was clearly ground to expose the stage to every location at nearly every distance perfectly.
The whole space went dark. A spot light appeared, small and throbbing, pulsing. Into it walked Jeri Lewis. Her face appeared and immediately the circle of light in the breathless amphitheater grew till it encompassed her. Music started. It possessed the whole space. The wait staff all came to halt, wherever they were, they stopped and stood still, facing the stage, feet together, hands locked behind the small of their backs. The ambient light of the theater dropped away and you could not see anything but the stage light.
She began to sing, her clear voice without the least waver of vibrato in it. She sang several Jazz standards from the big band era. She wore a glittering silver sheath that draped behind her, a train with no one to carry it. The swell of her breasts disappeared behind the shimmer in the spot light. The dress clung to her body but ran clear up her neck. At one point, though, she stepped forward and her long, bare leg appeared through a slit in the dress. It glistened, encased in a stocking. The second time it appeared, you could see the dark band of the stocking and three ribbons that disappeared upwards, presumably hooking the stocking to a garter belt.
The music changed. It began to throb. The volume swelled till it pulsed around us, a driving rhythm that rattled my fillings.
John leaned over to me. "This is a disco hit from 1977. Donna Summer, I feel love." He was nearly shouting. "When she is done with this, she will do Love to Love You Baby."
The music was new to me, before my time. The song began with her moaning as though making love. Her hips swayed, she held a light-colored mic that appeared for all the world like a dildo and thence like a cock. Her ruby lips approached it as she moaned and hummed into it, then launched into the song. For the next six or eight minutes, she sang and moaned and made that little sound a woman makes when you are landing too hard on her abdomen but she doesn't yet want you to quit.
Later I hunted up Donna Summer's original version and discovered that Jeri had taken it for her own, lowering it by a couple of octaves to match her rich contralto voice. Hers was lower but also, in the final analysis, huskier than the original version. In other words, she extended the hint of the original into a gyrating performance as near to sex on stage as you can imagine...until the next song began. Mrs. Lewis blended smoothly into the next.
When she began work with Love to Love You Baby, all pretext that she was holding a mic disappeared. She sucked on the cock in her hands, licking it and moaning as the song proceeded. Compared to the 1975 version, it was X rated. Jeri swung her hips and gyrated, singing and moaning her way through it. If she had not been alone, you would have sworn she was making love.
When she was done, the lights came up and she sashayed off the stage. The sliver dress was long, backless, strapless, with two thin lines holding it tight to her impressive chest with a full collar in front that disguised the missing back. Her hips rolled, the arch of each clearly visible, making the silvered dress shimmer and jump in the brilliant spotlight. The train snaked along behind her, twitching and jerking as her hips bobbed back and forth.
The last tones of the music faded, the throbbing beat, the charging, aggressive tone slowed and faded. The light disappeared and then the house lights came up again. Everyone stood stock still in the light, like robots with their plugs pulled and they had not yet restarted.
"Wow." I whispered. Jeri Lewis had just had a musical orgasm right there in front of several hundred people. She did nothing to hide it, nothing to disguise it, it was unmistakable. Hers was truly a climatic show. "I see. This is where she is making the money. But how can she be making enough...?" The obvious question stalled on my lips.
"She isn't." John muttered. "We aren't done. You need another two grand."
"Fuck, this is an expensive night out."
"Part of the investment." John said.
Since speaking with Bethlynn, I realized that I had to solve the Jeri Lewis problem. The words of Aurora Hines complimented the necessity. I looked over at John. "There's more?"
He nodded. The rumble of the crowd, slipping back into its collective conversation rose around us, reaching for the usual levels.
"More like that?" I asked.
"You used your own money to get in here?" I asked. Our projections had him running out of cash at his business in three months, not last week. It seems he had bit the bullet and bet on this, me, us. "Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Where to now?" I noticed he did not answer.
He got up and surrendered our number to the maître d'. Each table had a red ceramic, inverted V with a number on each side of it. John spoke to the man and he nodded, pointing up. The man called for someone and a young woman appeared in a short skirt and demure white top. She led us to an elevator. I paid two grand at the podium and they gave us a blue flag with a much smaller number on it, lower I mean, like two digits. The elevator arrived and we went up. It was difficult to imagine something above that performance space but there was. A tight, close, even dank space, with a round white dais, about the size of a three-car garage, in diameter. It turned, ever so slowly. It was brilliant white. On it, a woman lay on her back on a bench upholstered in red. She had one leg up on the bench, the other balanced her body. She was nude but for high, high heels, the sort of heels you need a stool to get into. She sat up, turned her head to the side and undulated her hips, fucking the dank air.
Thank god, they did not allow cigars or such because no one would have been able to see her clearly. The music was casual jazz, not artsy, just plain, instrumental jazz.
"A strip club." I muttered.
John looked back at me and patted the air. The woman made love to the bench. A topless woman with handsome breasts arrived and took our number, leading us through a very mixed crowd. Several women were kissing the men they were with, couples fonded each other through their clothing and handling each other in very familiar ways. Not a normal strip club. How could it be, at a grand a whack?
At our table, we sat and John ordered wine. It was fabulous, I'm not a connoisseur but even I knew it was good, no, great wine. I looked around. Plenty of women strode about in nothing but g-strings or thongs, their breasts swaying as they made their way through the closely set tables. One woman moved close to John and bumped into him, intentionally was my guess, brushing her bare boobs against the back of his head.
He turned his head and her sharp nipples could have put out his eye. He grinned and glanced at me then sucked on the nipple. The woman went still, leaning slightly forward, holding her breast at his lips. After a few moments, he released it and she moved on. She did not have the look of a pro. She looked back over her shoulder at him and smiled at what I presumed was John's smile. He turned back to me.
"It is understood, any woman can be had here, well, nearly any woman."
"Jeri Lewis?" I asked immediately. For some reason, I felt distinctly uneasy. This was around the corner from my neighborhood; and by that I mean, this was not my world, not my people, I did not understand the ways and means of this place. I felt cultural vertigo.
John leaned in. "Listen, she'll be here in a minute. If a woman touches you and you don't want it, just kiss her palm and hand her hand back to her. This is where class meets sleaze and people fuck like bunnies."
"And you followed her here?" I was mildly suspicious, or perhaps more than mildly.
John nodded though. "It took me nearly two weeks of trailing her from her house but I finally got her figured. She does lots of things to escape notice, finally going through a hotel and out a service entrance, then into another where she changes and catches a car that brings her here. That fooled me for several days, that change. But I got here. Eventually. That's what counts, right?"
The woman on the stage finished her routine and strutted off the stage. Two younger women strutted out, cleaned up after her and carried the cash and clothing off stage. Two guys moved the little bench. Background music came on. We sipped wine. After about twenty minutes during which the crowd seemed to turn its attention to each other, four guys pushed a large black piano out onto the dais.
"Jeri is coming." John said then chortled.
I waited, still uneasy.
Indeed she did. The place went dark and like down below, the crowd went silent in the darkness, though there were several squeaks and squeals before the spot appeared, catching one corner of the piano. It adjusted away then grew larger. An old jazz standard played. Jeri Lewis strode grandly into the spotlight, leaning on the piano. She had changed out of the silver dress. She wore a white formal, with long gloves to the elbows. Strings hung the dress from her shoulder, holding it against her now obviously large breasts. Their sides bulged out around the fabric.
The dress had ruffles about it but twin slits exposed her legs as she walked. Each appearing as a long flash of black stocking with an equally brief flash of her skin above the darker band of the stocking that tantalized the interested eyes, flashing her inner thighs. Above the ruffles, the dress clung to her hips and upper thighs, making her appear almost nude, so tight and sheer even a mole would have shone through.
When she turned around, the back was tied with white lines, binding her into the dress. She wore a corset, incongruous but evident. This dress too had a long, white train that trailed along the stage behind her, like a ships wake. She wore a broad gold belt, low on her hips that served to accent them and her narrow waist. It sat on the slope of her body. Jeri Lewis was a vast expanse of luxurious curves. Her chestnut hair cascaded around her and she threw it about with a hand like a cape.
She sang in a husky voice, rasping in a way that made me think of a woman in the midst of ecstasy; clearly that was her intent. By the end of the song, she had the gloves off. She sang as she had down stairs but while she did so, she loosed and pulled and gapped her clothing, pulling the white ruffles of the dress up her leg at one point till the tight part was all that covered her. Her leg was sheathed in a black stocking. She had black heels on. Her leg was perfect. She scrunched the elastic of the lower part of her dress higher till her pussy came into view and the lower strands of her garter belt. Then the ruffles dropped and her body disappeared in the confection of fabric.
The jazz faded and she looked around, one hand cupping the other under her chin. "Do you want to make love tonight?" She rasped into the mic she held, again, the same flesh colored thing that was in fact a very nice replica of a human cock, a large, erect human cock with no bend to it.