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Subject: {ASSM} Tales of the Booty Bandit, vol.2: The Strippers Union {MichaelD}(MF, breasts, size)(1/3)
Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2000 21:10:09 -0400
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AUTHOR'S NOTE AND LEGAL STUFF
I did not e-mail you this story. If you unexpectedly found it in your mailbox,
it's because your kid and/or your spouse is subscribing to adult newsgroups
without your knowledge. Flame them, not me.
This story contains explicit sex. If you're a minor, you've obviously gotten
past whatever paltry filters your parents tried to put on your computer, so
hell, you might as well read it. No one ever died from reading about sex.
This story is mine. Free reposting and archiving is okay; commercial use is
not (that includes using it on some slimeball banner farm). Contact me if you
have any questions; cross me and I'll have you fed to rabid weasels.
This is episode 2 of the adventures of Jason Boutey, Esq. If you want to see
more of him, let me know.
My stories, including this one, are archived at:
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/MichaelD/www/
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Richard_Bissell/www (all the work of my alter ego)
www.storiesonline.net (complete but not always up)
---
Jason Boutey, Esq. (#209945)
2301 1/2 Mission Boulevard
Sunshine City, Sunshine 90024
THE BOOTY BANDIT
v.
LOCAL 201 OF THE ENTERTAINERS, DANCERS,
AND ESCORTS INTERNATIONAL UNION
---
Copyright 2000 by MichaelD38@aol.com. No commercial use without prior
authorization.
<->
LAWYER, n.: One skilled in circumvention of the law.
LIAR, n.: A lawyer with a roving commission.
--Ambrose Bierce, "The Devil's Dictionary"
<->
1.
The girl's tits have to be the size of watermelon halves. Even for implants,
I've never seen anything that big. She's wearing a trim suit with a silk
blouse under her jacket, but it still looks like she shouldn't even be able to
stand up straight. If she bent over to touch her toes, I bet her nipples would
hit the floor before her fingers did.
"Let's begin when you started work at the club," I say. "Start from there and
move forward."
She takes a deep breath, nearly busting the buttons on her blouse.
"The union sent me over there back in March," she says. "I worked Wednesdays
through Sundays, eight to three."
"Union wages?"
"Scale. Fifteen an hour, plus tips. Tips are where we make the money. The
split was sixty-forty in our favor."
I nod. That's the standard arrangement under the collective bargaining
agreement her union has with the local strip clubs.
"At first everything went fine. I was making good money. The place was really
busy, especially on the weekends. It was a good gig. I was really popular
too, you know, because of my breasts."
She sticks her chest out a little, as if I could possibly have avoided noticing
it before now. No problem there. Only a blind man could miss her tits, and
only if he stayed at least six feet away from her to avoid the breeze when she
moved.
I look back over my initial notes.
"What was the name of this place again?"
"Silicone Valley. They specialize in girls like me. I was the biggest one
there, though."
"Okay. Go on."
"One night about a month ago, the owner, Guido, told me he was moving me to the
weekday shift, Sunday through Thursday, which is the bullshit slot for the fat
girls. He said it was because I wasn't popular enough, which is crap. I was
pulling in more tips than anyone else."
"What did you tell him?"
"Just what I said. That he was full of shit, and I wasn't giving up my spot."
"What's Guido's last name?"
"Senigrandi." She spells it for me. "He's Italian."
"What was his reaction?"
"He just laughed at me. He said I could move or find somewhere else to work."
That pricks up my ears.
"That's a no-no under your CBA."
"I know. But filing a grievance is a pain in the ass, and I might have been
out of work for a couple of weeks. I've got bills to pay. I can't afford to
sit on my butt."
"So what did you do?"
"I moved. What else could I do? My tips dropped by half. After a week I was
ready to walk out. That's when Guido started coming on to me."
"What exactly did he do? Let's be specific here."
"Oh, just said things like, 'You must be getting short of dough,' and 'I bet
you miss the other shift.' But he was saying it really sleazy, you know,
winking and giving me the eye like he was waiting for me to offer him something
to get back on the good shift."
"I assume you didn't."
She squirms in her seat.
"No way. He's a toad."
"What else happened?"
"He got more and more direct about it, you know, pinching my butt or
'accidentally' bumping my tits with his arm, all the time telling me he thought
I deserved the other shift, he just couldn't shuffle the other girls around
right now."
"Did he ask you to do anything specific?"
She nods.
"That's what brought me in here. The other day he came flat out and told me
he'd move me back if I'd let him tit-fuck me every night before I went on."
My eyebrows go up.
"Tit-fuck you?"
"Yeah, you know, stick his dick between my tits until he gets off?"
"I know what it means. That's all he wanted? Not even a blow job?"
"No. He's got a thing about big tits."
I tap my pen on my notes for a few seconds.
"You know that sexual harassment claims are specifically excluded from your
union agreement? We can't just file a grievance here. We're going to have to
sue him."
"I know."
"It's going to get very nasty. There's no nastier type of litigation than
sexual harassment, even without the sex industry angle we've got here."
"I understand. I want sue to him. I want to nail that bastard to the wall."
"Okay. My terms on something like this are forty percent of the recovery.
Normally I take a third, but with this kind of case, the lawyering is going to
get very hard and dirty, and there's no guarantee we're going to get a cent."
"That's fine."
That remark, more than anything else she's said so far, gets my attention.
Usually my clients bug their eyes out at this point and want to argue about my
fee, but she just sits there and takes it. I guess she really is pissed at
this guy.
I call Rachel in with the retainer agreement. The girl signs it "Mary Smith,"
which is her legal name. She apparently went to court and changed about the
time she had her tits done. We conclude with a few more legal niceties, then
she takes off.
Rachel sticks her head back into my office. She's wearing one of my favorite
outfits, a low-cut silk tank top, but she suddenly seems almost flat-chested.
"I assume you're going to want to visit this club?"
"Put it on my calendar."
She smirks at me and heads back to her desk.
---
2.
I started representing strippers around Sunshine City about the time they got
unionized a couple of years ago. There are nude and topless bars all over
Sunshine County, and for the most part the girls were getting screwed by the
club owners (literally and figuratively) until a feminist professor from
Sunshine State Law School began agitating to get them organized. There were no
unions like it anywhere in the country, so this woman contacted one in Europe
and got them to form a local in Sunshine City. The organization drive had
camera crews from every local TV station following them around throughout the
campaign, although it was less for the news value than for the opportunity to
plaster shots of half-naked women all over the newscasts and make a lot of lame
jokes about big breasts. The vote on forming the union made the opening story
on every national newscast that night, and despite universal opposition from
the club owners and outraged moralizing from the religious nuts, the girls
voted 95% in favor of it. After that, any club owner who wanted girls on his
stage had to hire a labor lawyer first. I knew a couple of strippers from
having represented them on drug or morals charges, and somehow that got me on
the list of their union representatives. That's how Mary Smith ended up in my
office wanting to sue her boss.
I find Silicone Valley not far from my office, about six blocks down Mission
Boulevard from the Sunshine State campus. Like most strip clubs, the building
itself is nondescript, although it has a flashing neon sign out front:
"Silicone Valley" spelled out in big pink letters, stylized to look like a pair
of huge breasts (with the "a" and the "e" in "Valley" marking the nipples).
It's Friday night and the parking lot is full by the time I get there, so I
have to park the Jag along the street. The bouncer at the front door takes my
ten bucks, explains about the two-drink minimum, and lets me in.
I'm not sure what to expect from Mary's description, but this is not a trendy
watering hole trying to pretend it's something it's not. And she wasn't
kidding about the owner's breast fixation. In most strip clubs I've been to,
even if most of the girls have implants, you still tend to see a variety of
body shapes, ranging from petite to voluptuous. Not here. I doubt the owner
would give Rachel, with her modest 36D endowments, more than two seconds of his
time.
Up on the stage, two blondes are bouncing around showing themselves off through
the cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke in the air. They look as if they have
softballs implanted in their tits, and the other girls walking around hustling
private dances are no smaller. A few of them are almost as big as Mary is,
although it might just seem that way since they're out of their clothes. Not a
single girl I see is without a few pints of silicone stitched to her chest.
I take a seat at a table near the rail. A big-chested waitress appears at
once, taking my order for two beers. Like the other nude bars in Sunshine
City, they can only serve beer and wine. It used to be that the nude bars were
completely dry, but that was another change unionization had wrought. The
topless bars can serve anything they want and generally do.
I watch the girls for about ten minutes, though I'm not here to get myself off.
I mean, you see one pair of 48EEE tits, you've seen them all, right? This is
a research trip.
I spot Guido fairly quickly, and this guy has "Italian Stallion" written all
over him, from the receding, slicked-back hair to the bowling shirt and
obscenely tight slacks to the stack-heeled snakeskin loafers. I almost expect
the cast of "Grease" to walk into the place at any moment. At first he looks
to be in his mid-thirties, but as I watch him, I realize that his "receding"
hairline is actually the result of a recent hair transplant, a little picket
fence of hair plugs across the top of his forehead. He's walking around the
club, joking with the regulars and occasionally whistling or calling to the
girls on the stage. The blonde at the pole gives him a dirty look and keeps
dancing.
Everything Mary said about him appears to be accurate. If I can get this guy
in front of a jury, and if he puts on a performance like he's doing now, I may
have a pretty good shot at winning this case. Unfortunately, the latter isn't
too likely unless Guido's lawyer proves to be an idiot, and the former isn't
going to happen for at least couple of years anyway.
I haven't been there very long before one of the dancers approaches me. She's
probably about twenty-two, pretty cute, with really long, straight, platinum
blonde hair, and breasts that would be oversized anywhere else. In this place,
she's actually below average. She introduces herself as Kelly and asks if I
want a private dance.
I give her a noncommittal reply, which is enough to get her to sit down.
"Have you been here before?" she asks.
"A couple of times. I was looking for one girl, Mary. I saw her here before.
She's got really big tits."
The girl nods.
"Yeah, but she only dances during the week. I think the owner is pissed at
her."
"She said something like that. Do you know her at all?"
"Not really. I mean I know her, but we don't get along. She kind of keeps to
herself. Nobody really likes her."
I think about that for a second. If Mary has even the slightest personality
flaw, it's going to come out in this case in spades.
Kelly and I make idle chit-chat for a few minutes, during which I can tell that
she's trying to appraise my net worth, asking what I do for a living and even
fingering the fabric of my suit and casually examining my watch. When the
current song ends, Kelly again asks if I want a private dance.
I need to know exactly what Mary is doing, so a private dance or two is
probably a good idea. Besides which, I'm billing her for the time I'm sitting
in this bar, so I can probably bill her for the dance too, although I'll have
to put it down as something like "percipient witness interview and employment
parameter investigation costs."
Kelly leads me into their back room, which is divided up into half a dozen
cubicles, each with a little sofa inside. She has me lie down on the sofa,
then strips out of the "dress" she has on and spends about three or four
minutes rubbing herself all over me. When the song ends, she asks if I want
another, and since it's not my money, I tell her to go ahead. By the end of
the second song, she's produced an erection in my slacks, which she's now
rubbing her thigh against vigorously.
After the third dance, Kelly once again asks if I want another one.
"I probably need to go."
She looks disappointed and pouts at me.
"I sometimes do private dances, outside of the club, for the right men."
Having been around the track a few times, I know what she's getting at.
"Tonight?"
"I get off in an hour, if you want to wait. Otherwise I could give you my
number."
"I guess I'll wait."
She tries to talk me into another series of dances, but I tell her it's not
necessary. I pay for what I've gotten, and when we get back out to the main
room, I pull out my Palm organizer and start up the billing software. Three
hours of my time in the club, plus the $150 I just paid Kelly. I'll have to
bill Mary for whatever Kelly has in mind later (hey, this is all part of the
case, right?), but that will have to wait until I know what it will cost.
I sit in the corner of the bar and fend off requests for private dances until
Kelly is ready to go. Guido is still being a toad, as Mary put it, but I don't
see anything else that really affects the case. After Kelly's last set, she
comes over to my table and asks me to wait for her outside, just down the
street, since leaving with a customer is frowned upon.
I head outside, and there I discover something that would have completely
ruined my night were I not about to fuck a cute blonde stripper. Someone has
taken it upon themselves to sideswipe the Jag, and by that I don't mean a
little fender-bender. The entire driver's side of the car is caved in, bumper
to bumper. Even the side windows are shattered. I look up to see the bouncer
approaching.
"That your car?"
"Yeah."
"I saw it happen man, but I didn't get a good look at the guy. I think he was
drunk, drifting all over the road, you know? He plowed into your car and just
kept right on going. Didn't even fucking slow down. I looked for his plates,
but it was too far away."
"You didn't get a look at the car?"
"It was just some dark old piece of junk. I might recognize it if I saw it
again, but I got no idea what make it was."
I struggle with the driver's side door for a few seconds. It appears to be
stuck.
"You want to call a wrecker or something?"
"No. It looks driveable."
I wonder if I should call the cops, except that will mean sitting here for two
hours at least, listening to random gunfire, until the SCPD deigns to send an
investigative unit out. On Friday nights in Sunshine City, especially in this
neighborhood, the cops tend to have a lot more important things to worry about
than car accidents. I might be sitting here until dawn.
The bouncer makes another gesture of helpless sympathy.
"Sorry, man."
"I'll live. Thanks."
I get into the car through the passenger side. It starts up fine, and I drive
down the block to where Kelly told me to wait. She appears about fifteen
minutes later in jeans and a leather jacket. I can see her making a face at
the damage to the Jag as she climbs in.
"Wow, what happened to your car?"
"Some asshole hit me while I was in the club."
"Jeez. That sucks."
"Tell me about it."
I pull out into the street, and on the way to my place we obliquely negotiate
about what she's going to do before settling on three hundred bucks for an
hour-long "dance."
"So you're a lawyer?" she goes.
"Yeah."
"What kind of law do you do?"
"It varies. I've done some work for your union, though."
"Huh. 'Cause I was thinking, I've got this friend, she's thinking of becoming
a dancer, but she doesn't want to join the union because of the dues, you know?
She asked me if she could still do it, but I didn't know what to tell her. Is
that, like, legal, or what?"
I grin.
"Tell her to call my secretary and make an appointment. I don't work for free
any more than you do."
She squirms uncomfortably in her seat for a moment.
"Oh. Sorry."
---
3.
Kelly acts a bit put out over that exchange for a few minutes until we get into
Kelsey Hills and park in front of my townhouse. The scent of money improves
her mood, and by the time we're inside, she's back to smiling and flirting with
me.
I get her a beer and dig three hundred bucks out of my wallet. I check the
clock on the wall as I hand it to her.
"We're here 'til one, right?"
She follows my gaze. I can tell that she sees as well as I do that it's only
11:53. She gives me an uncertain look, then nods.
"Okay. Yeah, one o'clock." She takes a drink of her beer and looks around.
"This is a nice place."
"Thanks."
"So what do you want to do?"
"Let's head upstairs."
I show her up to the bedroom, and by the time I'm down to my boxers on the bed
and Kelly has visited the bathroom and set up my stereo the way she wants, it's
now midnight exactly, as I intended. When you work hourly the way I do, you're
much more sensitive to the value of little blocks of time, and I knew Kelly
would have screwed me out of this seven-minute period had I not said anything.
She starts out dancing slowly at the end of the bed, gradually shedding her
clothes. She knows what she's doing, moving sinuously, giving me teasing
glances several times before revealing anything, smiling and licking her lips
at me now and then. At one point, she licks the tip of her finger and runs it
around her left nipple exactly once. The finger returns to her mouth, then she
does the same thing with her right nipple.
Kelly has a smooth, tanned dancer's physique, no tan lines at all, pubic hair
waxed completely off. Her plastic tits are the only disproportionate element
of her body, and I wonder what she looked like pre-surgery. She's got one of
those "Malibu Barbie" boob jobs: big, firm, sky-high on her chest--no pretense
of being natural at all. But the damage has been done, so I don't let it
interfere with my enjoyment.
Eventually she's completely nude, and after writhing around for me for another
minute, as if the very act of dancing for me is making her orgasm, she climbs
onto the bed, crawling over me until she has her tits hanging right in my face.
I take the offer and take her left tit in my mouth. She lets me suckle it for
about a minute, getting it all wet and swollen, then swings the other one over.
While I'm doing this, I sneak a hand up between her legs and start exploring.
A lot of hookers, usually the experienced ones, don't like to be pleasured at
all. They just want to do their business and go. Some of them--and I've
noticed they tend to be the part-timers like Kelly--don't care so much, and are
willing to accept some attention depending on how attracted they are to their
clients. And when I start playing with Kelly, lightly stroking her bald pussy
with my fingers as I'm suckling her tits, she just moans a little and wiggles
her butt.
I feel my way around her inner lips, keeping the contact light. She's hot but
still dry, even when I separate her a little and find her clit. When I start
playing with it, she moves her butt some more, rolling with my fingers, and
presses her tits down against my mouth. She's got so much flesh and silicone
in my face now that I can scarcely breath, and I have to push my head back to
get some air. Her long platinum hair is all around us now, and she's breathing
heavily through her teeth, eye closed.
All of a sudden my fingers are wet as her juices start oozing out of her. I
push my middle finger inside her wet twat, and she immediately starts humping
my hand. I curl my finger around, finding the bumpy ridges of her G-spot and
start massaging. Her hips are rolling with me like she's still dancing for me,
and her tits are still swinging over my face. Then her whole lower body starts
to shake, she lets out a little cry, and collapses onto my chest.
She gives me a smile after she's come down and curls around to my crotch.
After she slides off my boxers, I can feel her inspecting me for a moment, then
she's rolling a rubber onto my cock. I've got no idea where she was hiding it
before now--I guess it's a trade secret--but I'm not inclined to wonder because
it's at that point that she takes most of me into her mouth.
She bobs slowly over me for a few minutes, playing gently with my balls. I
just lay back and feel her mouth working me over, tongue swirling around. Then
she sits back and crawls over me onto the floor.
"Sit on the edge of the mattress."
"Why?"
"I need to be on the floor to do this."
I'm not sure what she means until she positions herself in front of me and
takes me back into her mouth. She pulls my erection down and tips her head
back a little, then forces me slowly into her throat. She's watching me the
whole time, watching my reaction until she has her nose right up to the base of
my cock. She pulls back a bit, then does it again. I hold her head as she
deep-throats me for nearly a minute. I suspect she's trying to get me off so
she can go home early, but I'm not about to let her.
Finally she relents and returns to the bed. She lays on her back, beckoning me
onto her. I crawl between her legs, taking cock in hand, and guide it into
her. She wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck as I
bottom out.
I start moving slowly in her, and she begins squeezing herself rhythmically,
matching my thrusts and rolling her hips with me. She's so good at this that I
decide I want to get seconds out of her if I can. I glance at the clock--it's
only 12:20. I release the brakes and just start fucking her. She likes it,
though we could debate the reasons why all night long. She keeps pulsing
herself around me, urging me on, moaning and writhing around. A minute or so
of this is enough to push me to the brink, and with a grunt, I spurt off as far
into her as I can get. As it happens, she lets out a shriek and arches her
back under me as if she's coming like mad. Maybe she is, but somehow I doubt
it.
She lays still as I come back to earth, holding me and letting me relax, though
she's still squeezing me slowly.
"Mmm. That was great."
"And we've still got another forty minutes."
I watch for the look of surprise in her eyes, and it comes. But she forces a
smile a second later.
"Of course."
I roll off of her and head to the bathroom to get rid of the rubber. Kelly is
lying on her side, one thigh pulled up, waiting for me when I return to the
bed.
"What do you want to do now?" she asks.
"Do yourself for a while. I like to watch girls play with themselves."
For the next ten minutes, Kelly gives me a nice little autoerotic
performance--sucking her own tits, finger-fucking herself on her back and her
stomach, generally writhing around moaning and groaning. I'm watching
carefully to see how much of it she's faking, and I think I can sense her
holding off a little. So when she rolls on her back again, I climb between her
legs and start eating her. She seems a little surprised at this at first and
almost seems as if she wants to stop me, but then changes her mind a moment
later. She's clean and smooth and very wet by this point, and it takes me only
about a minute to get her off. I've got a finger inside her as it happens, and
this time I know she's not faking anything because I can feel it around me. I
do it again, and the second time she doesn't fight me at all.
After that, it's twenty to one and I can feel my dick waking up again. So I
have Kelly suck another hard-on out of me, and we spend twenty minutes fucking
our brains out. She seems to have given up on faking anything by the end, and
she doesn't seem to notice that it's 1:06 when we finally finish.
Kelly gets cleaned up and dressed again, assures me she had a great time, then
presses her number into my hand and calls a cab. When she finally leaves, I
get my Palm organizer out again and complete the entry for that night's work:
another 1.5 hours of my time for "consultation with expert witness," plus $300
for the "expert witness fee."
I try to remember if I've ever billed a client for renting a hooker before. I
can't recall having done it, and I wonder if I've reached a new nadir in my
professional ethics. Then I remember another case I handled last year, during
which I billed my client for the three hours I spent in bed with her one
afternoon, and feel better. I get to sleep in about five minutes feeling proud
of myself.
---
The Booty Bandit v. Local 201 of the Entertainers, Dancers, and Escorts
International Union
Copyright 2000 by MichaelD38@aol.com.
Free redistribution permitted; no commercial use without authorization
Michael
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