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From: Don Winslow <dwin2001@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} On the Strip: A Vegas Story, Part 1
Date: Thu, 22 Mar 2001 00:10:03 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Vegas1R.txt" begin>
From: "Don Winslow" dwin2001@Yahoo.com
Subject: {Winslow} "On the Strip: A Vegas Story" (D/s, humil,
spanking)
Newsgroups: alt.sexstories.moderated, alt.sexstories
Content type: text/plain
On the Strip: A Vegas Story
Part 1
Don Winslow
Her eyes examined those blond good looks that greeted her with
such comforting reassurance, whenever she glanced in a mirror. 
At the moment her pretty face was less than attractive; the big
blue eyes watery, unappealing frown curling down the edges of her
brightly-painted lips, giving the girl a sort of spoiled-brat
pout.  Men feared that pouting look.  It always meant trouble. 
Cigarette smoke was her current annoyance.  It seemed to thicken
the warm moist air, already laden with strongly-scented perfumes,
hairsprays, deodorants, and the smell of dozens of sweaty women.
Sometimes it got so thick you could actually see the blue haze
hanging in the hot, brightly lit dressing room.
Nikki's gaze critically examined her makeup:  inspecting the
blush she had just applied to her cheeks, following the sweeping
twin arches of her lush, gleaming-red lips.  She now leaned
forward, coaxing her substantial tits into the half-formed cups
that dangled from her shoulders.  She settled her bosom into
place and cupped herself to plump them up a bit before securing
the tiny clasp at the front of the bra.  She gave herself a quick
squeeze, delighting, not for the first time, in the handsome
endowment nature had given her. Then she adjusted the
electric-blue bra; a wince of annoyance creased her smooth brow.
"Damn!  I hate these fuckin' push-ups," she opined. The words may
have been directed at her reflection in the glass, or they may
have been meant for Trixi who, still topless, sat next to her
fellow-dancer on the long padded bench, contemplating her own
image in the mirrored wall while brushing the finishing touches
on her long dark lashes.   "These goddamn wires cut right into
your boobs," Nikki complained in a tone that suggested she felt
quite put upon by the callous management who insisted on the hard
shelf bras the girls had to endure when they went on stage.
"Yeah," Trixi agreed, without much interest. "That's the price
you pay for family entertainment," she added dryly, referring to
the early show, which it was widely assumed was attended by a
more strait-laced crowd.   The midnight show, was an altogether
different matter.  No bras, not even panties.  Just a g-string,
thigh-highs, and a pair of wicked 4-inch heels.  And sometimes
there would be a late, late show, one where showgirls gave
specially-arranged performances for private parties, doing their
routines in the all-together.  It was funny, but after parading
around in the buff so much, even the scanty bras felt an
uncomfortable annoyance, needlessly confining.
Now Trixi was donning her own bright blue satiny top, enclosing
her tits within the straining cups so that her more modest
breasts were pressed together, cuddled to form two taut bulges
that threatened to spill out over the skimpy bra.  She thought
the look was quite sexy, and a little bit of discomfort didn't
bother her.  But then Trixi was a girl who took things instride.
Nikki was altogether another matter.  The big, curvaceous blonde
was not very popular with the other girls, not so much because
she was conceited and self-centered, but because she bitched
constantly.  Nothing ever satisfied her.  She was restless, a
girl on the make, one who could be so charming that you'd think
butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, at least where men were
concerned.  And then only certain men -- rich, powerful men. 
Nikki was ambitious, and she was very, very particular.  She had
always been careful about who she let get into her pants.  Even
back in high school, when she was Josephine Walziewleski, the
girl with the biggest tits in the sophomore class. 
Even then, though she dressed like the prick-teaser she was, she
was definitely not an easy lay.  She soon learned how to fend off
the sweaty, randy teenaged boys who followed her with lust in
their eyes whenever she walked by.   The pathetic bastards
practically drooled, sporting their silly, obvious erections.  A
lucky few, might occasionally be favored with a hand job.  She
even went down on a couple of guys, but none of the boys in her
high school ever got to fuck her, not "the princess" -- one of
the kinder things they called her.  Even then, Niki liked older
men.
It wasn't much different now that she was older.  Men were just
big boys.   Most of the guys she met in the casinos she dismissed
as "losers" to anyone who would listen.  The frequent admirer
that seemed to be always trailing after her, would get the quick
once over, and if she decided the guy didn't have the money or
the right connections, he was history.  The glamorous blonde slid
her cupped hands under her generous brassiered breasts, gave them
a final plumping, smiled at herself one last time, then rose to
her feet. 
 She turned in place to look over her shoulder, checking the view
from behind.  A hooked middle finger slipped under the elastic of
her left legband to re-seat the up-ridding panty, capturing an
errant rearcheek.  Assuring herself that her butt was properly
tucked in, she paused to admire the smiling undercurves of the
straining seat of her shiny blue panties.
 
'Nice ass,' she thought, giving herself a little pat.  Domenick
used to say that she had the classiest ass of any girl on the
strip.  He once offered her $500 if she'd let him spank her.  She
laughed and told him to shove it.  In all sincerity, he then
countered with an offer of 20 bucks if she'd only let him kiss
it.  He practically begged!  Some high roller, she laughed.  Some
day, she thought she might give the poor creep his chance, but
that kiss would cost him $100.  What a loser!  She put Domenick
firmly out of her mind, and thought about Bobby, and the bright
red Mazda that was almost hers. 
Still smiling to herself, the big blonde turned to thread her way
through the crowd of half-naked showgirls milling about in the
dressing room, She still needed to collect a tophat and cane,
props for the opening number.  It was showtime!
****    ****   ****    ****
The old man stood at the second story window, looking down on the
driveway as the familiar white Cadillac pulled up to the front
door.  He watched Al get out from behind the wheel, and walk
ponderously around the front of the car, his burly shoulders
straining the tight Chauffeur's jacket Natalie made him wear --
her idea of "class".  Al opened the rear door and the solid
figure of the old man's only daughter climbed out.  Natalie was a
small-breasted woman, tall and thin, in her early 50s.  Her lean
body was wrapped in a snug, rose-colored dress that flared out at
the knees.  Her salt-and-pepper hair was swept up and secured in
a tight bun, giving her hatchet face an especially severe look. 
'Just like her mother,' the old man thought.
Don Vincente Carducci slowly shook his weary head.  This was not
good.  He knew she would be coming to him today.  It was that
bastard she had married.  This time the little shit had gone too
far!
Vincente didn't like Bobby. Never liked him, but he tolerated
him, for Natalie's sake.  He never should have insisted that she
marry Fredo.    He never had any illusions as to the sort of
prospects his skinny, hard looking daughter might have where the
opposite sex were concerned.  But he had made a mistake by making
her marry that bum, even though, at the time, it seemed like the
right thing to do. They hadn't made it through a year together,
when the Don decided that Fredo, having just royally fucked up in
his first job as casino overseer, would have to quietly
disappear.  It was done.  And Natalie took it in stride.  She
never gave a shit about the little weasel in the first place.
Still, after Fredo, he always felt he owed her something.  And it
was years later, when she saw the second chance come her way,
with that pretty-boy of hers, that she jumped at the chance. 
This time the Don, though he had no respect for the boyish lounge
lizard, stayed out of it.  He gave her his blessing, and she
married that grinning jerk, 20 years her junior.  But he was good
looking; with a tanned, well-built, if soft body.  And Natalie
seemed happy.   Still, everyone knew the guy was nothing but a
gigolo; Natalie's fancy boy. It didn't matter.  She wanted him,
and Vincente made sure she got him.
Now he waited for his daughter to come to him, already knowing
the purpose of her visit.  She had been insulted in public by
that stupid bastard who couldn't keep it in his pants.  Worse, he
wasn't smart enough to make sure his dicking around was done in
private.  The whole town knew about him, and that blond bimbo of
his.  They were laughing at his daughter behind her back.   And
when they laughed at his daughter, they laughed at the Don. 
That, of course, could not be allowed.
****    ****     ****  ****
"Daddy, you know why I'm here," she began, turning her back on
him to make herself a drink.  Scotch on the rocks.  Afternoon
drinking, especially by women, met with the Don's silent
disapproval.
"Yes, Angel. I know why you've come to me."
"It's Bobby," she informed him, needlessly.
The Don's bald head slowly nodded up and down.
"He's chasing tail again.  Got some blond bitch this time.  A
goddamned showgirl."
"Angel, I don't like it when you talk like that. Watch your
mouth." It was said softly, but she instantly caught the warning.
 She realized she was treading dangerously close to the edge. 
She had let her momentary rage blind her to blurting out things
in a way she knew her father would find offensive.  She had to
get herself under control, to be more careful, to always show her
father the proper respect.  Above all respect.
That was what they talked about -- respect.  Something had to be
done about Bobby -- that much was obvious.  He had been warned,
but he just couldn't help chasing anything in a skirt.  The Don
nodded sagely.  In his mind a plan began to form, wherein a
speeding Porsche would meet with an unfortunate accident.  But
his daughter had something else in mind.  He listened to her
solution to the problem, and he had to admit he admire it.  His,
he felt sure, was a better solution, more final, no loose ends. 
But hers...well, he recognized it for what it was.  The scheming
of a jealous woman who had been wronged, and who was hell-bent on
revenge.  The Don appreciated revenge. Natalie was determined to
teach a lesson that would never be forgotten, but while it would
serve as a future warning for the little prick she was married
to, she reserved her full fury for the other woman.  
Now, for the first time, she surprised him.  Instead of asking
that he take care of things, which he fully expected her to do,
his seething daughter asked for the Don's permission to take care
of the bimbo, herself...her way.  The old Don couldn't help
smiling to himself, instinctively recognizing her as a chip off
the old block.  She had the same crafty mind, working to consider
all the possibilities, before deciding on how best to serve up
her cold revenge, and fully savor the sweet meal.  Don Vincente
eyed his daughter with a new appreciation, and nodded his
approval.
****    ****    ****    ****
Bobby Giordello swung his gleaming Porsche onto Flamingo Road,
and put the petal to the floor.  The shiny black sports car
surged forward.  He was driving too fast, way too fast, and he
knew it.  Family members were not be picked up on minor things
like speeding tickets; the Don didn't like it.  They were to be
law-abiding, model citizens.  Bobby knew all about it.  But at
the moment, the distraught driver wasn't thinking very clearly. 
Bobby was afraid, wildly desperate, as his powerful Porsche shot
down the wide boulevard.  
He sat up, tense at the wheel.  Under those loose curls of dark
hair, his boyish good looks were clearly troubled.  He had to get
to Nikki, to warn her!  They'd have to lay low for a while. 
Maybe even stop seeing each other, at least till it was safe. 
Natalie knew!  He was certain of it...Natalie knew.  She knew!!!!
 The thought terrified him.
He hated himself for being so stupid.  At first they had been
super careful enough, confining their lovemaking to her apartment
at times when he could arrange things.  But Nikki got bored with
hanging around her place, waiting for him; hated being "cooped
up."   She nagged him constantly about wanting to go out, even
though he explained to her how dangerous it was.  She didn't
believe him.  But then, she didn't know just how ruthless Natalie
could be.  
"Hey, Honey," she would wheedle in his ear, her naked body
slithering up against him, pausing to lick the outer shell of his
ear, her hot breath sending shivers through him, "C'mon, let's go
get a little action.  Whaddya say?"  
It was crazy; definitely against this better judgment, but he
simply couldn't deny Nikki whatever she wanted.  Even the red
Mazada, he thought bitterly.  Well, she could forget about that
one!  He had foolishly listened to her, and now they had been
made.  Of course, they were bound to be: there was nothing that
went on Vegas that Natalie's Daddy didn't know about.  Nothing!
He tightened his grip on the wheel, desperately hoping he wasn't
too late.  For once, the conceited young man wasn't even thinking
about his own neck.  Once Natalie was bent on revenge, she was
quite capable of having Nikki taken care of; he had to warn her!
His eyes never took in the flashing neon lights, as he barreled
along the familiar road.  He was thinking back to last night, and
the look Natalie gave him when he came home, creeping though the
front door, and abruptly being taken aback by finding her sitting
there, wide awake, watching the news on the big screen TV.  She
didn't say a word to him, just turned to look at him as he stood
in the hallway.  Her hard gaze said it all!  He had seen that
look before.  The same look her father had: those coarse features
set in stone, the tight lips with that brutal twist, and the
stare, cold and detached, as though she were examining a worm
under a microscope.  His muttered apology about being so late,
trailed off under those cold, furious eyes.  He hurried up the
stairs to his room.  And when he went to pour himself a drink, he
found his hands were shaking uncontrollably.
The Porsche roared up the curving driveway of her apartment
building and came to a screeching halt. He ran up the stairs, and
rang her bell repeatedly, frantic that he was too late.  She
should be home.  Must be home!  But there was no answering
buzzer, so he fumbled for his plastic key card, and slid it in
the slot, letting himself in.  Not waiting for the elevator, he
raced up the two flights of stairs.  He knocked; no answer. 
Trembling, he let himself into her place with his own key.  The
apartment was dark, and eerily quiet.  He had a sickening feeling
in the pit of his stomach; his knees weakened under him.  Holding
onto the door, he called out her name.  No answer.  It was then
he knew... knew with a chill of fear that rippled up his spine:
he was too late.
END OF PART 1
Copyright 2001, Don Winslow
dwin2001@Yahoo.com
https://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Don_Winslow/www
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