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She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 01

By: flinchny010



* * * * *

I've had my fair share of girlfriends, but Ali is one of the most interesting. She's the sort of person who, after talking to her for 30 minutes, you wonder how she gets through life. You're fearful that she votes. She's built like a brick house, so you find yourself making plays on her without even meaning to. And she's the kind of girl who reacts to your come-ons -- positively -- without really noticing it.

Sample conversation:

Ali and I are in a nightclub, standing at the bar. She's just come in from the dance floor, her chest is heaving, her skin is damp with perspiration. The straps of her dress are sliding off her shoulders.

Strange man, to Ali: "So, what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Ali, to me: "What are we doing here again? This guy wants to know."

Strange man, slightly put off: "I mean, can I buy you a drink?" 

Ali, to man: "I don't know the rules. See, we've never been here before. Let's ask the bartender." 

Or sample interlude:

I'm cooking dinner, and I need some cream for the port wine sauce. I tell Ali, and she volunteers to get it. She grabs some money, and runs out of the apartment to the bodega up the street. She's only wearing clogs and a long t-shirt.

After we were going together for a while, sample interlude:

I ring the door-bell to her apartment. Ali flings open the door, wearing nothing but a towel. "Oh! Tyler! I didn't expect you!" She leads me into the living room, where her fifty-something male roommate has a porn movie running. To her, watching a porn movie is as natural as watching any Hollywood movie. She snuggles between both of us, her towel slowly peeling off her body.

* * * * *

I can't say I created Ali the singer. She did all that hard work herself. But Ali the stage personality -- that's a different story. Jump back two years, to before she was clicking onstage, getting good gigs. For two years, until she got proper representation, I was the manager of Ali Katz, and they were fuckass fun years. 

She was twenty-three, and had run out of money for college. Rather than leave New York, she was waitressing at a run-down diner and trying to build a career as a rock'n'roll star. 

When I first met her (she waited on my table and then started taking her breaks with me), I believed her when she said she was a singer in a band. I was twenty six, with a good job, and going almost blind from horniness. I would've believed her if she said she was a voodoo princess.

I asked, "What's it like, going on stage?"

She thought for a while. "Mostly, they're about two feet off the ground. So you have to step up to get on them."

When I finally saw her on stage -- it took about a month of diner food to gain her trust -- I was agog. No, she wasn't good. She was bad on an epic scale. Galactically bad. Anti-music. 

While the band fidgeted behind her, she crept onstage wearing a gigantic mu-mu top over baggy jeans. She put her hand above her eyes to block out the lights, peered into the audience for me, and /waved/. Then she apologized for her voice -- she had a sore throat. Then she started in on a set of wavering, emotional songs. Odes to high school crushes. A song about a football player. Tear-jerkers about family pets. Simultaneously, the guitarist rocketed off on unrehearsed solos that ended in buttfuck Egypt.

The thing I noticed is that everybody in the band acted like they'd fucked her. While setting up and breaking down, they leaned into her to talk. They caught her attention with a hand on her stomach, or at the top of her ass. They sniffed her hair when they were close enough. The guitarist (with the unlikely name of "Tamb") acted like he owned her. He'd catch her by the neck and pull her face to his, so he could talk to her from four inches away. 

Tamb ran his hand over her breast. He said, "You have something on your shirt."

She looked down. "For pete's sake, get it off me!"

He obligingly helped wipe the 'something' off her chest. He cupped her breast, and thumbed whatever it was off the peak of her nipple. (This was on-stage.)

"Thanks," she said. 

"There it is again!" said Tamb, reaching up again.

As this happened, Ali glanced nervously my way -- but I was a perv, and got off on seeing her get attention. It was one of the things that drew me to her in the first place -- I had /thought/ I'd caught the prototypical New York bombshell. The sultry singer, displayed under hot lights, nightly ogled by horny club-goers. What I actually /got/ was something quite different... and, I eventually realized, much better than I'd hoped for.

When she came off stage, she was too nervous to ask what I thought. We were two drinks into the next band before she said, "Well?"

"You were wonderful," I said, honestly. It had been great fun to watch her stammering on stage, seeing the band members screw up and each start a different song. I'd laughed along with the snide comments from the audience. Ali Katz would not be invited back to /this/ bar. "But to be honest -- I need to be honest with you -- your band needs some work."

"/They/ need work?" she snorted. "I need work." 

For two months I suffered through her gigs. It was worth it -- under her froo-froo clothing, she was built like fucking Cleopatra. She had curves. Her skin was sunless pale white -- she never uncovered during the day, apparently. But her stomach was cut, her calves were like river rocks. Her breasts, 31Cs (big cups on a small ribcage), pointed at the ceiling when she was on her back, and slid with their own solid consistency across her ribs as I tossed her around the bed.

Her body was hard. But for someone trying to make it in the business, Ali was categorically not hard. She reported every argument with her guitarist; she took the criticisms of club managers to heart; hecklers were reported nightly as pillow-talk. She'd be straddling my lap, rocking above me, fretting about a guy who made a pass at her. Sometimes I just wanted to tell her, "For pete's sake, just let them make passes at you. Why do I need to hear about it?" 

Tamb the guitar player was what caused Ali's and my agreement. Much as I admired his style with her -- with a few choice words, he could cop a feel off her anywhere on her body, at any time. Copying him, I groped Ali for the first time, and discovered she was indeed well put together (she wore voluminous, shape-disguising outfits). But Tamb was also the major roadblock to improving her band. And if I was going to have to watch her gigs, I wanted the band improved.

We were in a bar off Bleecker Street, we were on a date. But it was a working date. She was there to evaluate the guitarist of the band on stage.

I'd managed the design production of a music video, once. As soon as she'd learned about that, she was constantly hitting me up for advice. As if I knew anything about the industry. I didn't, but I could fake it well. See, there are life-rules you can apply everywhere, if you know the rules. Ali didn't know those rules -- like I said, she was soft. She's the sort of person who needs someone else to take things firmly in hand, even if those things are her own ambitions. 

I leaned over to her and whispered, "See how he follows along? He's a follower. He probably takes direction well. You need that."

"I guess I do," she said. "But he's not as good as Tamberlain." 

"You don't need good. You need a reliable backup. Remember all the times he left you hanging?"

"Fuck yeah," she said. She was hunched over. Since she had to impress the guitarist, I'd talked her into a multi-layer silk knee-skirt and a peasant blouse. The blouse was causing her angst, either one side or the other was always sliding off her shoulder, lowering the decolletage down her breast. She hadn't caught on yet that both sides weren't /supposed/ to stay up at the same time. With her fiddling, she often had both sides sliding down her shoulders -- it freaked her out. For me, I was just pleased she had something in her wardrobe that showed a little skin.

The band's set was ending. I said, "Go up to him and let him know you're here."

"Right now?" she breathed, her eyes widening. So help me, she was /nervous/ speaking to another musician!

"Yeah, babe. He's expecting to meet you, remember. He's gonna tell you he's not looking for another band. Tell him you don't need a full-time member. Just someone to practice with. For money." 

I added that last part impulsively. 

"What money?" she asked. Musicians were always suspicous and eager about that word.

"If he wants to know, bring him back here."

"Okay," she said, sighing. She stood, pulling her skirt down. As she walked over, she was plucking at her top. Of course, it caused a lot of attention to be directed to her chest, not that she noticed. 

The guitarist, Raff his name was, watched her as she drew close. The house music was coming up, she had to lean over to him to shout in his ear. Without much shame, he bent forward to listen, his eyes delving deep down her top. I was starting to /like/ that blouse.

They talked for a while, and she returned to the table. Her hips rocked with her big, excited steps. For once, she seemed unconcerned about her clothes. 

She planted a big kiss on my cheek. "It went exactly like you said! Almost word for word. How did you know?" 

"Just basic strategy. We need to give him an offer, but he won't want to listen to it. He won't want to flake on his band -- remember, he's a follower, not a leader. So you tell him it's not serious, and he listens. Mention money, and then he's hooked. It just worked out."

"You're so smart!" she gushed, with a huge smile. Was this stuff really not extremely simple for her, as it was for me?

Raff sat down next to her, so they both faced me. He said, "So what's the money like?"

I thought fast. What would I, personally, be willing to spend to make Ali happy? "Twenty dollars a session. Four sessions a week. A cut of the house if you go onstage with us."

"I thought you said you didn't need a band member. Why would I go onstage?" He glanced suspiciously at Ali. She gulped air, unable to formulate an answer.

I stepped in again. "Our needs might change. It's money. What do you care?" I knew he didn't. His simple musician mind had caught an inconsistency, and now that he'd stated it, he was done. The facts made no difference to him.

He nodded sagely. "The money's good. Real good. Is the girl good?"

Ali turned to me, awaiting my answer. How did I get into this? "She's getting there. She's on her way."

"Does the band fuck her?"

I turned from him to her, trying to keep expression off my face. Ali was looking to me for the answer, the same way she'd done with the prior question. It was too much. 

"What happens, happens." I said obliquely. Ali nodded encouragingly and turned back to him. Perhaps she had a little bit of salesman in her -- say anything to close the deal. She was highly interested in getting this guy in the band, now that it seemed possible. Or maybe his question hadn't registered on her yet. "But if it happens, it happens with reliable musicians."

Raff shrugged. "With that sort of money, she doesn't have to fuck the band."

"You'd be surprised," said Ali, trying to sound worldly.

I choked on my drink, trying to stifle laughter. I swear, it was like watching two tamagochi electronic pets discussing world literature. Ali's blouse had slid off her shoulder again, but she was too caught up in the conversation to notice. Raff did; his eyes slid between me and the smooth high curve of the top of her breast. The neckline hung low enough so that, when she shifted in her seat, we could both see her chest shift. She was going bra-less, since she hadn't had any off-the-shoulder bras in her possession.

After that, Ali and Raff chatted freely. Mostly stage stories. Raff addressed her chest, and she answered his face, untroubled any by lack of eye contact. They were each figuring out where the other stood in the musical pantheon. 

He asked, "What do you sing?" 

Ali looked to me again. I had my favorite type of music, so I said it. "Alternative folk, edgy. Highly charged sexually. Confessional. Stuff only a woman can get away with."

"Really?" asked Ali, sensing a compliment. 

"Really," I said. "The audience wants a sort of alternative universe created for them. They want to go to a club or a bar, and see a fantasy woman fronting the band. They want to feel a real connection to the woman."

Raff's next set was starting. He stood, and shook my hand. "I'll send Ali an email so you can contact me. You seem pretty cool, down to earth."

"Thanks," I said. I'd felt manipulative, but if I came off as genuine, so much the better.

"It'll be nice to work with a singer with a real manager." 

He left, Ali watching him go. 

"You hear what he said?" I asked. "'Work with a singer.' Not 'play in a band.' That's what we want to hear."

"What do you think?" she asked.

"He seems solid. That sex with the band stuff was weird."

"You get used to it," she said dismissively. "That's how the bad singers get backing. But did you hear how he called you a real manager?"

"Yeah. Funny."

"What do you think?" she asked again.

"About..."

"About managing me?" She was breathing quickly, her eyes fixed on mine. Like she'd discovered a surprise treasure. A diamond ring on the street. 

"Me? Manage you? I don't have the experience."

"You just got me a guitarist, Tyler. Don't sell yourself short." 

I had to admit, I really, really, /really/ wanted to change her. Toss her stupid songs. Tell her, without tact, how to act on stage. Put her in some reasonable clothes.

"You know me, Ali. You know what I like. That's how I will manage you."

"That's fine," she said quickly.

"No. Before you agree. I'm going to manage everything. You know I'm kinkier than you. You know you're sort of innocent. I'm going to have everything under tight control."

"Okay," she said. Her eyes held mine. "I want that. And I'm not so innocent."

"I'm gonna control everything. Your songs, your stage persona. Your gigs."

"Man, yes!" She was nodding furiously. "Just say you'll do it. Start tomorrow. Start tonight!"

One more time, just to make sure, I said: "Since I'm starting to pay money, you have to do /everything/ I say."

"I will. That's fine."

"Everything."

She gave me a 'what's the big deal?' expression. "Everything."

* * * *

She slept at my apartment that night. The next morning it was bright and warm outside, and I called in sick to work. There was simply too much to do. The prospect of managing Ali had captured my imagination. Forget managing -- owning. She had ceceded herself, and her ambitions, to me. Several times. On the walk home, she'd repeated her promise. She was in love with the idea of not having to manage her band for herself. Our sex was earth-shattering, she sucked me off with such force that I thought I would invert. 

Since I'd awoken before Ali, I threw her skirt and peasant blouse down the disposal chute in the hallway. I'd had enough of following her around, seeing her in the clothing equivalent of a parachute.

I was making coffee when she sleepily walked into the kitchen. She was wearing her bikini panties, and nothing else. She scratched her head, "I couldn't find my clothes. Didja see them?"

I said, "Honey, you're too nervous when you're on stage."

"I know," she crossed her arms under her breasts. They protruded past her forearms. She had an awesome rack. "I sometimes freeze up, but I'm getting over it."

"Not fast enough. We're going to work on that. You have to be comfortable on stage. As comfortable as you are now."

"I'm not all that comfortable. Look at me."

"I'm looking!" I smirked at her, and she blushed. "The coffee is almost ready. Here's what I want you to do."

"What?"

"That window--" I indicated the window next to the table. It faced onto the street, but the blinds were down. Ali pulled them whenever she visited. "Go pull the blinds up, and stand in front of it."

"In front. Of the window!?" Her brow crinkled. "Okay. Where are my clothes?"

"No clothes. Just your underwear."

"Like this?"

I could tell she wasn't digging the idea. "Consider it an experiment in trust. In trusting your new manager."

"I said I'd do anything, but--" she went to the window and peeked out. "We're on the second floor, and that's a major street! I see lots of people out there."

"Honey," I said, trying a different tack, "you're going to be a great singer someday. Someday soon, if I have my way. I want to see you succeed. But to succeed, you can't be shy. You have to put yourself out there."

She stared at me in stony silence.

I said, "Please, honey. Just stand in the window, until I have your coffee ready."

"I don't know," she said. I noticed, now, how she never said no. She was a pleaser, a follower. But this was something she certainly didn't want to do. She stared at the floor, shifting her weight on her feet.

I stared at her, considering. Maybe this was all wrong. Maybe I was the wrong person. I'd stayed up all night concocting very strange ways to make her an extrovert. Maybe I was being unfair to her, too radical. I glanced at the clock, it was not too late to call work and tell them I could make it after all.

"Don't you have work today?" she asked suddenly, seeing an out.

"I'd cancelled it. Called in sick."

"You called in sick?"

"I was excited about being your manager. But it's not too late for me to call again. I'm sorry -- maybe I'm not..."

Before I could finish, she'd pulled the blind and it snapped up, rolling at the top of the window. Sunlight flooded into the kitchen, bathing her flawlessly proportioned body with light. She glanced at me over her shoulder.

I nodded to her. "Good."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I wasn't thinking. You're taking this just as seriously as I want to."

Always one to exploit an apology, I said, "I can't explain everything. We don't have the time for that. You just have to trust me. Trust your manager."

"I will."

The coffee was done. I started filling two mugs. "Turn back to the window."

She did. I watched as she stood there, full-on to the window.

"For goodness' sake, try to look casual. Relaxed."

"There are men down there. Plus the building across the street. One of them just looked up! Oh fuck. Ha! He fell over."

I listened to her running commentary with a grin and a raging hard-on. I carried her coffee over to her, and stood behind her. I let my dong lie against the crevice of her ass. Nuzzling her neck, I glanced at the street over her shoulder. There were indeed many people down there, but very few of them looked up. On the street in New York, you never really look up, unless other people are already doing so. I sometimes wondered at all the shows I'd missed, shows like what Ali was providing just then. 

When we did see people looking up, we pointed them out to each other. When a gaze swept over her, and quickly returned, her knees trembled. She made a small "Mnn-mnn-mnn" noise, but didn't flinch away. She slowly sipped her coffee, and tried to act casual -- even as my cock dug through our two layers of underwear into her ass.

Eventually, a few youngish men with nothing better to do, apparently, had gathered on the sidewalk across the street. They were staring up at us, chatting idly. A group of people looking up will cause others to look up. Her little knot of admirers grew by a new member every few minutes.

Ali asked me what they were saying -- she clearly wasn't thinking straight. I liked how she came to me for answers, though. 

"They're probably wishing you didn't have any underwear on."

"That's true," she said, nonsensically.

When her coffee was finished, I took it from her hand and stepped deep into the kitchen. 


She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 01



"Come to me, now." I said.

She stepped quickly back from the window, breathing hard. 

I stared at her with pride (and yearning). Her arms were no longer crossed over her chest. That was good -- a more assertive posture. 

I pointed at my boxers. "Now go down on me."

This made her smirk. "Is this part of my training?"

"It sure is," I said, grinning back. "As you suck me off -- or anybody -- always remember what you do with your hands. From now on, you're going to do that to the microphone. It's a sexual suggestion, on stage. Remember how you tilt your head, how you move your fingers on my cock. You're going to do the same actions with the microphone."

"I'm going to look like a whore," she said. She stepped forward and got on her knees. I hadn't meant for her to do it in the kitchen -- but oh well. She pulled down my underwear and dug out my cock.

"You won't look like a whore, because you have class." I gasped as her mouth enveloped my cock. Whether it was from the nervousness of the window, or her anxiousness to learn, her actions weren't smooth. Her mouth was wet, dripping with saliva. At some point in her past, she had become an awesome cocksucker, but now her training escaped her. "Besides, you're working on suggestiveness. People shouldn't know what they're seeing."

I stopped talking and leaned back against the counter, her breasts slapping my thighs as she worked. She paused every now and then, eyeing her hands, tilting her head. Jeez, she was such a simple thing. My dick was still in her mouth, but I swear I heard her mouthing the lyrics to one of her songs.

* * * * *

My plan for the day was to replace her wardrobe. 

I meant to clean it out and replace it with stylish, clingy gig outfits. I'm not made of money, I told her, so they'll have to be from second-hand stores. She was okay with that. I told her I'd already thrown out her skirt and blouse, and she merely nodded. Then, I said, we'd visit her apartment and get rid of all her clothes. We'd empty her shelves.

From now on, I told her, she would only ever wear gig outfits, stuff for the stage. She would have to start filling out the persona of a singer, 24/7, starting today.

She was following me around as I talked, nodding. A streak of cum was still on her cheek. She padded through my apartment in just her panties, her hands gripping her elbows behind her back. This did wonderful things to her chest, and she accepted my hands on her tits without changine her attentive expression.

I'd found a fresh pair of silk boxers that were a little small for me, and a muscle shirt. "Put these on." 

She pulled on the boxers. "They're loose and my panties show," she reported.

"Take off the panties, then. We'll safety-pin the boxers. Here -- come to the window, for the light."

She sighed, but turned and went to the kitchen. I hadn't told her which window. I followed her with some pins, and found her standing in front of the window again. 

"Go ahead," I said.

She pulled her panties off and stepped out of them, dropping them in the garbage. I couldn't help but smile. I held the boxers for her as she stepped into them, and then pinned them tight at the waist. When they were snug, I rolled the hem down over her hips several times, to hide the pins, I told her.

She had to bend at the waist to see the results over her chest. Her hip-bones were showing, and her stomach was bare down to about four inches below her belly button. As I watched, her knees trembled. This would be her sign to me that she was nervous. 

"You know you're standing in front of an open window, don't you?" I asked.

"Don't remind me."

"Aren't you wondering why your street clothes today are so small?"

She shrugged, eyeing the shirt in my hands. Her nipples were hard little knots, pointed at the ceiling. "I thought it was more of the same."

"It isn't. Who cares who looks at you in the streets?"

"I do."

"No you don't. That's your job: to get noticed. It's their job to notice you. So forget being embarassed on the street. These clothes are small, honey, because you need sunlight."

I held out the muscle-shirt, and she shrugged into it quickly. I continued, "You're too pale on stage. You need to be a little darker. Until you get a tan, you should wear as little as possible. Okay?"

"Okay."

While I was on a roll, I added, "And, every morning, get up and come to this window. While I make coffee."

"Okay."

"But no panties, next time!"

"Okay."

"Now, find some scissors, and cut up the shirt."

She looked frightened again. The arm-holes hung halfway down her ribcage -- the curves of her breasts peeked out on either side of the straps. It was my shirt, after all, and it was much too big to be appropriate for her. But she was worried about cutting it off!

"Leave some extra cloth in front. You're going to tie it up, under your tits." 

"Shit-okay," she said, quivering. As I got ready to go out, I watched her progress. She found some scissors in a kitchen drawer, and then -- so help me -- returned to the window. She was cutting away at the fabric, twisting every direction. I'd rarely seen her look sexier -- her hair was hanging in her eyes as she looked down, attentive to her task. Her chest pointed this way and that as she turned her shoulders, the muscles of her stomach, arms and back bulging and rippling in the morning light. Her ass flexed as she stood on her tippy-toes.

"It'll be easier if you just take it off again," I suggested, passing through the room.

"Oh! Duh!" she said. She pulled it off, and layed it on the window sill, to make an even cut.

"Is anybody watching you?"

"Mmmm," she glanced out. "The same guys, mostly. And a few in the building across the street."

Her tone of voice was so matter of fact about it, I started getting hard again. She was concentrating on her task, of course. But still, it sounded like she just didn't mind who saw her. I was making a righteously exhibitionist extrovert! 

When we paused by the door to leave, I gave her a good long look. She was quite hot -- quite a difference from the regular Ali. She was all cut stomach, bulging half-covered chest, leg, thigh, high muscled ass. Her hair was still a mess -- but it looked endearing. The cum had dried on her cheek.

"We're ready. How do you feel?"

She was staring determinedly at the door, as if willing it to stay shut. Quietly, she said, "Like a star." Then the broke the mood, and glanced at me. "Right?"

"Right," I said drily. "That's how you feel. Remember to strut."

"I will."

Outside, the streets were starting to get crowded in earnest. We stood outside the door, pausing to watch the people pass. The street vendors were starting to set up their tables -- ties, chokers, cheap jewelery, suspenders, alpaca sweaters, bootleg videos. 

Ali, despite her revealing outfit, didn't really stand out. In New York, perhaps one in five people passing by was a woman worth checking out. Perhaps one in fifty was an attractive woman wearing something sexy, who gave you whiplash as she went by. If anything, Ali had been more exceptional /before/ I'd dressed her -- a beautiful woman in frumpy, formless clothes: not the most common thing on New York streets. Not that this made Ali any more relaxed.

She stood slightly apart from me, nervously locking and unlocking her knees. It was one of the ways she fidgeted. Today it had the effect of rocking the hem of her boxers up and down, bringing attention to the narrow band of silk over her lap.

I took her hand, and walked her into the crowd. We were slower than the people around us, and they passed us in both directions. A few slowed down and trailed us from behind or a little to the side, watching her.

"Try to keep count of how many guys look back at you," I said to her. "They're your feedback. Remember the outfits that work the best."

"I will," she said. Her voice tremored. 

With each step she took, the hem of her boxers rolled like a ship at sea. They weren't exceedingly tight, and had soon settled far below her hips, held up by the swell of her ass. The sunglight soaked into her fair skin, causing the downy, transparent little hairs on her stomach and shoulders to glow.

At the first intersection, Ali was inspected up close. We waited to cross in a tight clump of businessmen, tourists and neighborhood types. I glanced around, and thought I noticed a lot of people checking her out, from under a foot away. I couldn't be sure -- with her hand in mine, they might've been selfconscious about being noticed by me.

"How many are looking at you?" I whispered.

"I've lost count. I'd put it at half."

"The male half?"

She gave a humored snort. "Yeah."

Squeezing her hand encouragingly, I said, "You go on ahead of me. I'll follow behind. I need to see what they're seeing."

"I don't understand. They're seeing me, obviously." 

"I have to see what they like about you. Whether it's your legs, or your ass. Or your stomach, or tits." 

"That makes sense," she said.

"I'll be right behind you. I'll catch up in a block or two."

With a juddering sigh, she stepped out ahead of me as we crossed the street. She was in the middle of the clump of people, but as they spread out, the situation resolved. Some men were walking around her, some were strolling behind, having slowed their pace to her's. By the middle of the next block, an Ali admiration society of about 6 men were sticking close to her, trying to look innocent.

Everything about her was hot. I could barely believe my luck. Was I really fucking that woman at night? Was I really taking her public persona under my control, and was she really obedient to my every suggestion? Well, yeah. I only had to think back to waking up with her, to the window in the kitchen, the blow-job with her on her knees. I knew where to look on her cheek, to see the dried, shiny streak of my cum. But following behind her seemed to take all that knowledge out of me. I felt chancy, loose, willing to forgo my destination to follow her -- the same way any man felt behind a hot woman on the street.

Her spine was a little string of notches down her back. Muscles played out from that central line. Her waist was hard and smooth, as if turned on a lathe. Each step shifted the rolled waistline of the boxers, and the sunlight picked up the beginnings of the crevice of her ass. Her legs were long and powerful, thighs shrinking into knees, calves flaring from the ankles. My shortened boxers were quite short on her, each step disclosed a brief, almost subliminal glimpse of the fold under her ass. If she bent at the waist for anything, her ass would appear under the hem. Her legs seemed longer because of the elevated, chunky shoes she was wearing. Those shoes hadn't seemed so over-the-top sexy the night before, with her modest skirt/blouse outfit.

But by far, the best part of Ali was her chest. Even from behind. When she swung her arms -- and she was carrying nothing, no purse (her ID and cash were in my pocket) -- I could see the curves of her breasts around her back. Her rack was large for her small frame, it overhung her torso. Each step she took caused them to bounce and roll, side to side. 

I wanted to keep her in the street all day. There was just one thing wrong.

Her boxers were pinned up. Not tight, but no longer elastic. Every time she tried on some clothes, she would have to unroll them, unpin them, and take them off. As a male, I knew that the best part about clothes shopping was /not/ waiting for the woman in the dressing room. She needed a belt, or something.

I paused at the next street vendor, who was watching Ali stride down the street with her entourage. 

This vendor had it all. Scarfs, ties, suspenders, jewelery. He was only partially set up, and had paused to watch Ali move past. I liked how she seemed to own the street. 

I quickly scanned his offerings. This would be perfect. I bought some narrow suspenders, and impulsively added a choker with a little cameo in the middle. They were both black, so they would sort of match.

"Fifteen, together," he said. Ali was out of sight, and he deigned to assist me.

"No bag, thanks. Here." I passed over the money, and hustled to catch up.

Two blocks up, she was waiting for me. This was at Broadway and 8th Street, a very crowded part of Manhattan, being near a subway stop and close to New York University. She was searching the crowd, looking for me.

"There you are!" she said as I walked up. Her nipples, I noticed, were hard again, poking out against the thin ribbed fabric of the muscle shirt.

"How are you holding up?"

"This is one hell of a way to get a tan," she said. "You should've heard everybody talking to me."

"What, were they being mean?" 

"Not really," she shook her head. "Just things like, 'Hey baby, wanna do me?' And, 'Are you expensive?' And, of course, nice tits, ass, rack, boobs. I didn't know people chatted with strangers, they just walked up and started talking."

"Get used to it. Everybody's going to want to talk to you."

She grinned at me, flattered. If she thought 'Nice tits' was friendly conversation, who was I to argue? "What do you have there?"

I held up the suspenders and choker. They looked like bondage gear. "New part of your outfit. I realized that you're going to have to get in and out of those shorts, and you'll take too long with the safety pins."

"I've never worn suspenders before," she said, eyeing them.

I guided her to the edge of the sidewalk by the nearest building. "Put on the choker first."

The choker looked great on her, like I expected. Of course, I'm a sucker for chokers. It was about an inch and a half wide, cheap black lace, and the cameo was in the middle of her throat. She gave a wide smile.

"That was really sweet and thoughtful," she said. "How does it look?"

"Perfect. Now the suspenders."

I'd worn suspenders exactly once, but I knew how they went. I put the straps over her shoulders, and fastened the back clips to the waistline of the boxers, which she rolled up for me. The straps, in front, bracketed her chest. 

She had to bend over to see her waist, and fasten the front clips. "Every time I look down, I just see my breasts hanging out," she reported.

I shrugged. "Are those clipped? Yeah? Now take off the safety pins." 

I stepped back and watched her. As streams of people passed, she was bent over, intent on the pins. Soon she had them off, and held them out for me to take. The boxers slid further down her waist -- a little too far. The muscles of her lower belly slid into view, v-shaped and pointing towards her crotch. In back, the top quarter of her ass had slipped into view. 

"You can shorten the straps a little bit," I told her. "To bring the boxers higher."

"Mmm. If you say so." She fiddled with the sliders, peering around her breasts. She'd accumulated another little group of watchers, scattered unobtrusively around the sidewalk. She didn't seem to notice them at all. "Is this okay?"

"That's fucking great," I breathed. "I'm a genius."

"You sure are! Those pins were digging into me. I was worried I'd get stuck!" 

"Walk ahead of me again. Remember, you're a star. Go into that used clothing boutique at the end of the block."

"Oh, that one!?" her face lit up. She had always commented how cool the clothes were when we passed. 

She struck out on her own again, with me following. I sure /was/ a genius. Suspenders are nothing like a belt, nothing like a pinned-up waistline. The boxers hung from the suspenders, which hung haphazardly from her shoulders. Pushed out by her breasts, the front clips of the suspenders held the hemline away from her stomach. With every movement, the boxers swished away from her torso in the front and back, but especially the front. When I was close, I could stare down her tummy, down her hip, down her ass -- and get brief glimpses down the briefs. 

The herring-bone pattern of the boxers seemed to print her skin with a weird pattern, shifting and confusing. And, too -- the silk of the boxers flouresced in the sunlight -- you couldn't help but notice her shorts. And noticing those, you noticed the broad expanses of skin that showed. Of course, the boxers were no longer short -- they hung a third of the way down her thighs, making them merely look normal.

And Ali, bless her, didn't seem to care about any of this. Perhaps she was just so generally anxious, she couldn't be specifically anxious about her there, not-there waistline. Or perhaps she didn't know, because she couldn't look down without only seeing her chest. 

I caught up to her again and wrapped my hand around her waist. One of the straps of the suspenders fell, and she scooped it up again -- natural for a woman. Except usually when they replaced a strap, it was to cover the chest. Now, the straps contributed to covering her lap. 

"Still keeping track of who's doing double-takes on you?" I asked.

She shrugged, her chest lifting. "I forgot. I'm guessing about the same."

I peeked down her boxers as she strode along. The muscles of her lower stomach surged and rippled, disappearing down into the light-pattern and then curving under to her sex.

With her high heels, she climbed the stoop to the boutique, her ass shaking above me. Inside, I bought her no less than ten outfits. I put them all on my credit card. Though the clothing was used, it was a Manhattan boutique. The stuff was /not/ cheap. 

Apparently the prevailing fashion was repurposed negliges. If the boutique was anything to go by, trendy young women were donning lacy, silky, semi-sheer underthings from the forties, fifties and sixties as normal day-wear. That was fine by me. I pulled hangars from the rack, and piled them in Ali's arms. She tried them on in the changing room, running out to the mirror. Each outfit was better than the last -- I was honing in on the short slips, the lacy camisols, anything where the shoulder straps were tied in little bows -- the bows I could re-tie into something inappropriate.

Ali, for her part, was soon in the spirit. We were reinventing her, after all. And this reinvention was taking the form of a shopping spree. Even though these clothes were not her style, sexier by a multiple of twenty than her normal gear, her enthusiasm grew until she was almost bubbling. 

We visited another boutique, this one with trashier club clothes. I got her some more conventional outfits -- tie-on halters, little flaring skirts, nylons, netted tops. Money would be tight for me after these purchases, but I knew it would be worth it.

Afterwards (I told her because we were loaded down with bags), I headed us for the subway. We didn't need the subway -- we were young, the day was nice. Her apartment was only two stops away. But by then I was pretty far gone. I was drunk on how she looked, how easy it was to visually penetrate her flimsy outfit to her body. I was a little out of my head about all the looks being sent her way, how men jostled and turned abruptly in her presence, trying to look innocent, unable to keep from staring at her.

And I was imaginging the subway ride. Those trains, even in mid-morning, were always crowded. I imagined standing behind her as we borded the train, my arm around her and my palm flat on her stomach, my lap buried in her ass. Walking her onto the train, pressing her forward, tits-first into the mass of people. 

This is what I wanted to try: I'd press her towards one of the central poles in the subway car. The one surrounded by commuters, with the forest of hands attached to it. I'd walk her right up to it, press her towards it, and watch the hands, the wrists and arms, gently connect with her chest. As the train rocked, her weight would shift, her tits would brush the stranger's extremeties.

I could envision it as if I was some lucky schmoe on the train standing next to her. My eyes cast downward, as normal, so I don't have to avoid the eyes of the other commuters. And then her chest comes into view, right under my eyes. I glance up and see her flawless skin, the open, unthinking expression on her face. Her unchallenging eyes. Her breast would squash against my chest, I (as the stranger) would freeze, hoping the contact would last. It would. Disbelieving my luck, I would pick strategic moments (when her head was turned, as she swayed with her eyes closed or down-cast) to glance down at her. Eventually, my eyes would track past the magnificent view down the muscle shirt, to her shorts. 




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 01



I'd be agog (as the stranger), fucking out of my mind, wouldn't I? I would stop caring if she noticed me stare. My eyes would flick greedily from her shorts, to her shirt, to her face. She would notice, of course. My eyes would laser my need into her eyes, my naked lust for her. And she would be collecting lust-energy from all the men around her, eyes going from man to man. 

And then her boyfriend, the handsome devil behind her, would whisper something in her ear. Selfconsciously, with a small voice that belied the vision she presented, she would start listing for him (but as if to us) all the bars where she would be performing with her band in the next month. And, as that lucky stranger, I would memorize them.



She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 02



Before I'd "taken over" Ali's career, all I'd seen of her life were the days at the crappy diner where she worked, a few gigs, and her apartment. I had no clue what a shambles she was in. Typical young New Yorker, she had no finances to speak of. Everything was a handshake deal, waiting to fall through. She wouldn't have been eating if it hadn't been for men who offered her food. 

She wasn't paying rent on her apartment. It wasn't her apartment. It belonged to an older guy, 49, who was the friend of a friend. Ali occupied the couch at night, and kept her clothes in 1/2 of the apartment's only closet. It was a temporary arrangement, they both made sure to point out, but still. She didn't even have keys -- she got into her apartment only when he was home.

I don't know what Harvey was getting out of it, but I could guess what he thought he would be getting out of it. Here was a young, pneumatically built young woman, dressing up his apartment. If I'd been him, I would have planned for Ali in a towel walking from the shower, in minscular nighties painting her toe-nails, in bra and panties stalking through the rooms. In reality, Ali was as modest as a nun, she slept in jeans.

She was two paychecks ahead on her waitressing job. The manager, barely civil to her, clearly did not consider her his favorite. She only worked during days, made next to nothing in tips, and so ate many of her meals at the restaurant. Ali mentioned once in passing how Subram didn't like her to eat left-overs off the patrons' plates. Most recently, he'd been leaning on her to work nights, something she couldn't do if she was performing.

The practice space for her band was also unpaid. As such, half the time they were pre-empted by paying clients. Morale was at an all-time low among her band members. 

She had no bank account, no cash. Her life was waiting to implode, and when it finally did, she would have to leave New York, return to her parents, and get a job as an un-credentialed office drone. Life over.

As far as Ali was concerned, I was supposed to fix all this.

* * * * *

At Ali's apartment, Harvey let us in. He had a big smile for her, and her little cut-up muscle shirt and loose-hanging boxers. For me, he had blank suspicion. He clearly didn't like sharing her with some guy walking in off the street. 

I knew then, seeing his expression, that if I was going to stay in Ali's life, he would be kicking her out. A visiting boyfriend would be the last straw.

He hovered in the background as we organized her new wardrobe. Her half of the closet was cleaned out and tossed on the couch. He was all eyes as she bent and stretched, and squeezed past him in the hall. She naively took his ogling as interest, and told him all about how I was her new manager, and we were rebuilding her career. She held up each outfit in turn, and pointed out its strengths and weaknesses. Harvey made noncommital sounds, rarely meeting her eyes as she talked, staring down her top and her shorts -- not that she noticed.

He finally went to the bathroom. I quickly dragged Ali to the far side of the apartment, where he wouldn't be able to overhear us.

"He's not going to let you stay here much longer," I whispered.

"How did you know? He's already talked to me about it. I'm trying to be extra nice."

"You can't get kicked out right now, honey. You can't afford it."

"I know," she shrugged. "But what can I do? It's his place."

"You have to change his mind," I told her.

"I've tried, but he says he wants his life back." 

"It's worse because I'm here," I admitted. "He's actually feeling jealous." 

She shook her head. "I'm not about to lose you for him."

"We'll make it go away. If he brings it up again, tell him you're getting a place, but it will take 2 months."

"Okay. He might bend. But after two months..." 

"I'll tell you how to shut him up. Will you do it?"

"Fuck, yeah," she said. 

"It's simple, Ali. He wants a normal twenty-something girl in his apartment. You have to give it to him."

"I'm already in his apartment."

"You have to be comfortable in his apartment." I held her eyes, to make sure she was listening. "Anytime after 9pm, and before 9am, you have to be in panties and a t-shirt. That's all you can wear."

"Oh," she said.

"Sleep on top of the covers on the couch. So when he walks out in the morning, you're all shiny and snuggly where he can see you. When you take a shower, wrap a towel around you and come out of the bathroom, to pick your clothes."

"Oh. I see what you're saying."

"These are rules you can't break, at least for the next two months."

"Yeah."

"About 3 times a week, ask him what you should wear. Tell him you can't decide, have him pull hangers out of the closet and hold them against you. On the weekends, you'll be putting on your bikini and tanning on the roof. Hang out, before and after, in your bathing suit."

"Okay."

"Cook a meal once a week, and make some extra for him. You can both eat together on the couch. Can you do all this?"

"Um," she sounded uncertain. "Cooking? I guess."

"You have to. Or else we'll start hearing about how you have to leave again." 

"Okay."

"Leave the bathroom door open when you're doing your hair and putting on make-up. If he's in the shower, ask to come in every now and then, to get something. And here's the hardest thing..."

"What's that?" she asked.

"If you need to change and he's in the living room, just turn your back while you change. Change quickly, don't talk about it. Just do it. You know why you're doing all this?"

"To shut him up?"

"Well, yeah," I said. "But mostly, what Harvey wants is a roommate. He wants to be one of the guys. Recapture his college days, before everybody turned shy and modest. He secretly wants you to feel comfortable around him."

"I understand," she said.

"Tell him about your life, even if he doesn't seem interested. Just babble. Ask him for advice on sex. Get him into your world. Men like it when women talk, and they don't have to answer."

Harvey exited the bathroom, and started puttering in the kitchen. I dug through the pile of clothes on the couch, and separated out a few old, thready t-shirts. I put them with a package of new thong underwear. "These are your pajamas from now on, okay?"

"Sure," she said. 

The rest of the clothes we stuffed into a big plastic garbage bag. Ali watched, half wistful, as I carried it into the hall and threw it down the chute. She was committed now.

When I returned, Harvey was on the couch, silently chewing on a bowl of cereal. Ali was standing in front of him, on the other side of the coffee table, holding up two dresses. She was, with a chirpy open voice, trying to drag an opinion out of him as to which looked nicer.

* * * * *

I was on one end of the couch, relaxing. Ali was lying with her head in my lap, her knees bent and pointed at the ceiling. She looked up at me with wide, trusting eyes. The more I talked, the more she listened. It was exhausting. I had to always make sense. I always had to rationalize what I asked her to do, and weigh it against what it made sense for her to do.

It had been a tiring morning -- and it was now only one in the afternoon! I'd stripped her naked in front of the window of my apartment. I'd had her work my cock like a microphone. I'd dressed her in something scandalous and walked her on the street. I'd spent a month's paycheck on clothes. I'd told her to preen and prance in front of a dirty old man (Harvey) so she could keep sleeping on his couch. 

"What do you think?" I asked finally. I wanted to hear if she could say anything but 'okay.' "How do you think it's going so far?"

She thought for a while. "I've never been more strung out," she said. She laughed suddenly. "The clothes. The whole new 'look at me' attitude. The thing at the window -- shit! And that thing in the subway with no personal space, and those dudes breathing down my chest. Did you know I was pressed right up against the pole? Against their hands?"

I shrugged. "But this manager thing. Do you think it'll work?"

"I do, I really do," she said earnestly. "I mean... I want you to know that I'll do what you say. I won't question anything. I can do it. Just watch. I'll make you proud."

"I know," I said. The weight of her head in my lap was making me a little stiff. My eyes were coasting up and down her body. Ali was nearly perfect, her shape at least. Even as she lay there, relaxed, bonelessly molded to the couch, her neck over my thigh, her breasts pointed at the ceiling without any apparent obeisance to gravity. The suspenders hung from her shoulders, casting complicated shadows on her skin.

"So I guess I feel strung out," she continued. "Nervous, but learning. I guess I always thought -- if I put on an act on stage? -- I guess I thought it would be like, fake. You know? It wouldn't be me, I'd get lost somehow. But, so far, it's all me. I don't feel like I'm lost. I feel like I'm magnified. I still have my little voice in my head, and it doesn't change if I'm naked in front of a window, or strutting down the street counting all the guys who look at me. I'm still me, but more so. I shouldn't have worried."

Harvey kept entering the living room, on one pretext or another. I guess he was cleaning the apartment or something. I know he was there to check Ali out, to listen to our conversation. I'd do the same, if a tight, young twenty-something was splayed on my couch. So I didn't mind, and besides, it was fun teasing him.

I whispered, "Don't mind him. He's coming under your spell." 

"Jeez," she giggled softly. She crossed her arms under her chest and hugged herself. "I'm just me. I'm not putting anyone under a spell." 

I felt myself falling into the teaching role again. "Well, you have to try. Everybody you meet should come under your spell. Start being spellbinding. That thing on the subway? You said you had no personal space? Work on that. I want you to have zero personal space around you, okay? You can't be distant."

"Okay," she said again. The word came easily to her, it seemed. Harvey was in the room again, and he heard it. It was simple, unchallenging. Her tone of voice was so tractable it nearly froze him in his tracks.

Then the phone rang. Harvey picked it up off the coffee table and answered. 

"Oh. Ali, it's for you," he said. He came around the table to her.

She lifted her legs to clear a spot on the couch. She was so nonchalant about it that he unthinkingly sat before passing the phone to her. When she settled her legs back down, he was stuck there. Her calves rested on his thighs, and her little bare feet pressed against his left arm. 

"That's what I'm talking about," I said proudly. 

"What?" She glanced around. She had to lift her head to see her legs. "Oh. I wasn't even thinking... Hello?"

Harvey and I paused, waiting. He looked slightly befuddled, like he wanted to be there, but he wanted something to justify him being there. He sort of shifted his weight, nestling into the couch, and took her in. Which was what I was doing.

The boxers had worked into a narrow little band, well below her belly button. They were loose around her legs, making for interesting uncovered zones well up her legs. The open hole of the boxer's fly disclosed even more skin. But the most captivating was her chest, rising in twin peaks to the tight-stretched fabric over her nipples.

"Right now?" Ali asked, sounding annoyed. "Well, no. I can come down. But for just an hour."

Harvey met my eyes. We were both thinking the same thing: Ali was leaving us. 

"What the hell was that?" I asked when she dropped the phone. 

"Work!" she said. She stomped her feet on the arm of the sofa, her calves bouncing on Harvey's thighs. "That was Subram. I have to go down and cover for Nancy. She got stuck at the doctor's office. Just for an hour or two." 

"If you have to go, you have to go," I said.

"Damn right. I need the money. But the tips are so shitty in that... that..." She glanced at Harvey. "What's a bad word for that place?" 

"Umm," he said. He wrenched his eyes upwards to her face. "Rat hole?"

"Yeah!" she said. "Tyler, I'm sorry. You took off work."

I patted her cheek comfortingly. I let my fingers drift down her neck and squeeze her shoulder. I watched Harvey watching from the corner of my eye. We were both so fixated on Ali, it was hilarious. Every little move sent shimmers to her chest. Every shift of weight pointed out that she was lying across us.

"I'll be there. With a notebook. We have lots of planning to do. Posters, flyers. Pictures for the posters. Money." I peered down at her. "How are you set for money?"

"I have ten dollars to my name," she groaned. Her hands flopped to her side, and started picking at the boxers. "I hate this. Sponging off friends. Taking advantage of Harvey. You buying me clothes." 

I framed my response carefully. This was for Harvey's benefit as much as it was for her's. "I don't see the problem, Ali. Look at it like this. At this time in your life, guys exist to do things for you. I'm a guy. Harvey's a guy. Guys like providing for women. We want to see you succeed. We know you need help. You don't even have to be smart. Just be friendly and follow your dreams. That's all a guy needs."

"Quite!" added Harvey. "If you need any mo..." His burst of effusiveness ended in uncomfortable silence.

"Aw, that's sweet, you guys," Ali smiled. She kicked Harvey's arm until he smiled back at her. "But I won't take any money."

"No," I said. "You have to earn that. We have to make that waitressing thing into a money maker. I can't be spending like crazy. You have to make money for the stylist. For the photographer. For lipstick. It's expensive being a woman, isn't it?"

Harvey nodded. "It sure is."

"I'll tell you this, as your manager. You're going to make money, and spend that money the same day, until Harvey kicks you into the street and you have to pay rent somewhere."

"Oh, gosh--" he started.

"The time will come someday, Harv," I said. "You can't be generous forever."

"Tyler's right," Ali raised her head to see him over her chest. "You've been so good to me already." 

"I've only just begun," he said gallantly.

"Harvey and I, we'll fix your money problem," I gave him a buddy-buddy grin. "We'll turn you into a tip magnet." 

"Uh-oh," Ali said. She swivled on her ass and sat upright as I stood. She was now pressed close against Harvey, legs kicking in front of her, hand resting unthinkingly on his thigh. She was a natural. I didn't think she was even aware of her effect on him. 

"I'm serious," I said. "You two stay there. If there's one thing men know, it's waitresses, and how they get the big tips. Am I right, Harvey?"

"Possibly," he said.

When I returned to the living room, some clothing in my hands, she was chatting away. Harvey's head was turned, he was watching her full-on as she gestured. Oh, yes. He wouldn't be kicking her out any time soon. She was, amazingly, telling him about her episode in front of the window that morning. Only she was calling it an "actor's exercise."

Harvey was amazed. "And you just stood there? That is not to be believed!"

"Believe it!" she giggled. "Just some glass and some air, between those poor guys and big fat naked me!"

"Not fat," admonished Harvey. 

I tossed Ali some panties and a pair of button-up shorts. 

She said, "No peeking!" She stood and went behind the couch, a little behind Harvey's head. "Anyway, I'm supposed to do this every morning. Can you believe? It's supposed to help with my stage fright."

"Have you, uh--" Harvey struggled to keep his eyes forward, even as she kicked the boxers and suspenders across the carpet towards me. "Have you picked out a window here?"

"Here?" Ali stared at me with sudden shock, panties halfway up her legs. "Well..."

I gave her a nonchalant shrug.

"I guess..." she trailed off. "I guess that one. Over there."

She pulled the shorts on and came back around the couch, pointing to the window beside the kitchen. "It faces into the street."

"Every morning, you say?" Harvey confirmed. Clearly the gears were whirring in his mind.

"Yeah. Every morning." She said it slowly, and then rolled her eyes. Her knees were trembling. "For half an hour." She turned back to him swiftly. "If that's okay with you."

"Fine, fine," said Harvey expansively. He didn't bother to drag his eyes off the shorts. "I just hope you don't mind me. That's when I wake up."

I stifled a snicker. Ali hadn't mentioned when in the morning she would be at the window.

They were short shorts, red canvasy things. They were low off the hips, and tight around the stomach. The only thing saving them from being hotpants was that they hung away from her ass, and had loops for tools sewn into the waistline. They looked like normal, if exceedingly short, shorts -- they were vintage, from the 1970's. 

"So. Shorts? Easy to move in," said Ali. "But I won't get more tips just because of shorts."

Harvey looked like he wasn't so sure. And neither was I. She would be quite a vision striding between tables, sweatily delivering plates of food.

"There's more," I said. "The secret to every waitress is the bosom. Am I right, Harvey?"

"I suppose you are," he said, leaning forward. He was warming to this.

"Harvey and I have a choice," I said, acting like a maitre'd. "Silk camisole, low on the chest. Tight black t-shirt, to highlight the curves. Threadbare white t-shirt with a low scoop neck."

I held each item up in turn. Ali glanced between Harvey and me, looking for a favorite. "Can I choose?" 

"You most certainly can not," I intoned. "Your clothing is a weighty matter, suitable for only men to discuss."

Ali gave an amused moue, crossing her arms and stomping. Her breasts rocked against her forearms.

"What's wrong with her current top?" Harvey asked. 

"She'll be leaning over a lot," I explained.

"Oh, yes."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

Harvey looked slightly uncomfortable. "You'll -- erm -- fall out of your top if you lean over."

Ali raised an eyebrow. "Well, I've been leaning over all day, and no one has complained--"

"Anyway," I interrupted, before she could make a connection. "The black top here won't work."

"No," said Harvey.

I tossed it over my shoulder. Ali giggled. 

I said, "It's between the camisole and the t-shirt."

"The camisole is too fancy for the shorts," Harvey said. "The t-shirt is casual, and leaves some mystery. But it has those holes, and the scoop neck."

"Good choice," I said. 

I gave Ali the shirt. She turned her back on us and pulled the tank-top over her shoulders. We watched the broad, flawless expanse of her back. As she pulled on the new t-shirt, the muscles around her spine flexed. Harvey was rendered voiceless by the quick change, so when she turned back around, I said, "Oh, that's perfect."

The stitching up the sides was full of stretched, dime-sized holes. The collar was ragged and half-separated from the fabric. The cloth was thin, and her color showed through where it was tight. When she held her arms out, it shifted becomingly over her curves, like cloth drawn over a greek statue. It was wonderful on her -- grungy, casual, mesmerizing.

"I have the feeling it's too showy," said Ali. "Plus, I always sweat."

"Remember the tips," I said. "And women perspire, they don't sweat."

"Oh, that's right. The tips."

"There's something lacking," I added.

Harvey had finally found his voice. "I can't imagine what."

"Oh!" I snapped my fingers. "The stomach. Harvey, will you find some scissors and cut that shirt off? Like, at the midriff?" I traced a line over my stomach, just above the ribcage. Ali would know where to cut it. "I have to hit the bathroom before we go."




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 02



I didn't have to ask him twice. 

She threw her shoulders back as he gathered the fabric in his hand. 

"And a bra?" she asked.

"Umm. I think we threw them all out," I said.

"You'll do just fine without it," said Harvey encouragingly.

Kneeling before her, his head bent forward in concentration, it took him ten minutes to cut the bottom off her shirt. He was too conservative in his cuts. Ali kept him at it until it was up to her ribs. She chided him, saying she had done the same job that morning, on the tank top, in two minutes. 

As I watched, I understood the delay. How often does a single older man get to snip, tug, and twist the ever shortening t-shirt of a statuesque braless young woman as she prattles endlessly on about what she'd do for better tips? By the time he finished, he was palming her stomach and waist to turn her around, his nose inches away from her flawless skin, his eyes peering up under her shirt.

Ali was giggling and talking, acting kooky. It was completely natural for her to hug his face against her bosom when saying thank you.

* * * * *

Ali's restaurant was just up the block from her apartment. She went in before me, as I had stopped to get a notepad at a bodega on the way.

I entered the restaurant and found a table by the window. This was habitual -- better girl-watching. At the start, at least, I was watching Ali.

She moved comfortably by the kitchen, neatening the place up. The rest of the staff sort of pivoted around her as she moved. They clearly noticed, and liked, the change in Ali's wardrobe. They were always facing her direction. Her high ass held the attention of the people sitting at the counter as she swayed past. And when she turned back, I could see how the fluorescent lights penetrated her threadbare t-shirt. The dark circles of her aureoles swayed at the tips of her breasts as she passed a bottle of ketchup across the counter.

She was complaining to Subram, the manager, about having to work on her day off. Normally brusque, he was quite conciliatory just then, following her around during her tongue-lashing. She didn't seem to notice that he wasn't exactly listening.

"Be right with you, babe," she said to me as she passed, her arms full.

"Babe! I like that!" said one of the guys at the table in front of me. She laughed as she set down the plates in front of them. 

"You guys aren't babes," she said, throwing out a hip, "You're honeys."

"Wooo!" They cheered and laughed as she strode away.

"Fuck yeah," I heard one say. "Dinner and a show." 

Ali came back to me to take my order. "What can I get you?" she asked.

"Mmmm," I eyed her. "It all looks so good."

She laughed again. Counting the first time just a few seconds before, that was the second time I'd heard her laugh in the restaurant. Normally, it was a form of purgatory for her.

I curled my finger at her, and she obligingly leaned over to me. I could see straight down her cleavage to her shorts. It was beyond surreal. I wanted to grab her tits right there, as they swayed below us.

I whispered, "Lean over more when you serve people. And don't forget your ass. Stick your ass out when you lean over. That's for the benefit of the people behind you."

"Right. Okay." 

"And the teasing works. Guys love that. Don't worry about the women. You won't be able to please them."

"Sure," she said. She'd finally noticed the other patrons checking her out as she leaned over.

"You always work this day?" I asked, loudly.

She looked confused for a second. Then she caught on. "Um, no. Usually all the other weekdays except this one. I'm here to cover for someone."

"So Tuesday through Friday?" I clarified. Everybody around us was doubtless listening.

"That's right," she nodded. "What can I bring you?"

"Coffee, ham sandwich on rye with american cheese," I said.

"You betcha, cutie," she said.

"My name's Tyler," I said. "Can I call you Perky?" 

The guys at the next table heard that. "Perky!" they cried.

Ali smiled and rolled her eyes. Then Subram called out, "Oh, Perky? Order up!"

"Jeez," she sighed. "That's gonna stick."

For the next hour and a half, I worked out a budget for promoting Ali's band. Actually, that took about 15 minutes -- we didn't have much money in the budget. Another 30 minutes were killed scrawling out ideas for things we could do. You know how it is with a new project -- the first days are all flushed with imagination and energy. It's the execution part where everything bogs down.

But most of the time, I was surreptitiously eyeing Ali as she worked. She didn't so much work in the diner, as she inhabited it. Eyes tracked her movement around the restaurant. Her every little move was documented by dozens of hungry eyes, like when she arched over to scratch the inside of her knee, or when she raised her arms and fluffed out her damp hair. When she was near, conversation stopped. Everything she said was for general consumption -- everybody heard, and many repeated things back to her. She was having, basically, an hours-long conversation with the fast rotating crowds at the tables. 

Once, her hands were full with an order for a table of college frat guys. She swayed up to their table, the guys all stopping and turning to her as one. She stuck out a hip -- she had tucked a pile of paper napkins into her beltline. One awestruck, lucky boy reached out and pulled them slowly off her body. Only then did she lean over and put their plates down.

Everybody wanted to know more about her. ("People call me 'Perky', I don't know why," she answered someone, plucking at the uneven (and upcurling) bottom of her shirt. The man answered, "Probably because you're so sweet." Eyeing her tits.)

She passed by every now and then to refill my coffee mug. 

"Thanks for that nickname," she said, only half-amused. "Everybody loves it. And, by the way -- everybody's asking for my phone number, so I'm giving them yours. Just for your information."

And she was gone again, sassing at some old guy who observed (somehow) that she was cold. She was flushed with energy, a bounce in her step.

When Nancy finally showed up -- after two hours -- I finally stood, stretched, and walked out to wait for Ali in the street. I left her a big tip -- I felt she'd earned it.

She joined me five minutes later. She gave me a muscley hug, I had to grope for balance. She was smiling, and dewey with perspiration. When she pulled back, her breasts left two faintly damp ovals on my chest. "I might be going crazy," she said. "But that was actually fun."

"You're not crazy." I took her hand. "Why was it fun?"

"People were talking for once, not just bitching about the food. When they talked, they turned human for me. Not a usual occurrence." She shrugged. "Maybe they picked up on my cheerful vibe. Things are going right for me, for once. I just spread the joy around!"

She laughed loudly, overflowing with enthusiasm. I noticed again how men were watching her pass. She was half-dancing, half-strutting, pulling against the tether of my hand. 

"And the tips?" I prompted.

"Fifty dollars. In two hours. Can you believe it? Today I learned something about getting tips: Just be talky and cheerful, and you'll rake it in. Even the old regulars -- the retired horn-dogs who live to grab your ass? -- even they were leaving respectable tips. And they're misers."

"You got it solved," I said.

"I think I do," she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. "Or maybe I was just so happy 'cause you were there."

"Don't go all mushy on me," I laughed. 

"Oh, and thanks to you, Subram is getting me a new name badge." She slitted her eyes and looked at me. "'Perky'." 

"Ouch! Sorry." 

"I'll wear it as a badge of honor," she said. "It will always remind me that being friendly gets the big bucks."

Did she seriously believe a smile was the cause of her tips? Had the short-shorts, the holey cut-up t-shirt slipped her mind? Had my pervy advice to lean over and throw out her ass disappeared from her memory? I decided to let her believe what she wanted. If she thought the world's problems could be dismissed by cheerfulness, well, wasn't that more wholesome?

"It's a little early," said Ali, checking her watch. "But I guess we should get to practice. The guys don't know you're the new manager yet."

* * * * *

The practice room for Ali Katz & band was actually a recording studio. They were allowed to meet there, after hours, and practice, as long as they didn't fire up any of the recording equipment. The drummer, Seth, was the brother of the owner, and so the word had come down to the staff to play nice with us.

They did, to a degree. They let Ali's band practice, when there wasn't anybody using the studio. And when someone was around to let them in, and was staying late. 

I didn't like this arrangement. It's hard enough getting 5 musicians to achieve consensus over a single bar of music... getting a whole band to gel when half the practice dates were summarily canceled -- that was next to impossible. A formula for destruction.

So I told Ali that we'd have to renegotiate with the studio manager. She looked uneasy at that, chewing her lip most fetchingly, but she was falling into the groove of trusting me. 

The studio was tiny. One medium-sized room in a floor of rooms. Inside, the sound stage was partitioned from the control room with long panels of soundproofed glass. There was a tiny lounge area for visitors, and a smaller office for the manager. The toilets were down the hall. It was about as shabby as a recording studio could get, considering the rates they charged.

When we got there, another band was jamming in the sound area. Some grungy techno music -- when techno is involved, I don't know anything about quality. I try to avoid the stuff. The manager -- also the mixer -- was just entering the control room.

"Max," said Ali, "hey, Max!" 

He turned, looking harried. When he saw Ali, his brow uncreased, and his eyes traveled shamelessly up and down her body. Her fingers were nervously entwining with my hand, behind her back on her ass. It caused her chest to raise. Her anxiety caused her to take big, gulping breaths -- her bosom was heaving!

She paused while he took her in. "Max, I want you to meet Tyler. He's my new manager."

He flicked his eyes to me, and then back to Ali. Since I clearly was unimportant, I made sure to bring her with me as I crossed the lounge and shook his hand. I gently positioned her in front of me, a little to the side, about twelve inches away from him. It was that no-personal-space thing I'd mentioned to Ali earlier.

"What's this about?" Max asked Ali's cleavage. "I'm busy." 

"Um--" she bit her lip and looked back at me.

"We just need to talk about Ali's rehearsal arrangements. We're looking at a few changes, and we wanted to know what would work for you." 

"Oh. Hmmf." He thought for a moment, clearly looking for some flaw in the request. I'd phrased it to be neutral. "I'm busy. These guys need to lay down a track."

"No problem. We can talk in the control room." 

"It's hot in there," he hedged. "And small. You'll have to stand."

"Sounds like heaven," I said drily. I was getting bored with the guy already. I squeezed Ali's shoulder and gave her a little shake. His eyes dropped magnetically to her tits again. "Ali wanted to know what life is like on the other side of the glass wall. See what sound engineers have to go through. You know."

He seemed to like being called an engineer. "Sure, then."

He backed away, still scanning Ali. As he took his seat in the control room, I whispered to her, "Ask a few dumb questions."

"No problem," she said. With an assignment, she stopped fidgeting as much. 

The band has stopped playing when Max turned to the console. They were now scoping Ali through the glass, six young twenty-something guys, heavily pierced and tattooed. A fine female form crosses all boundaries of fashion and music.

I pushed Ali into the room ahead of me, so she could be next to Max, and then closed the door. He was right -- it was hot in there. I began sweating immediately.

"You weren't kidding," I said. "You suffer for your art."

"Sure do," grunted Max. Into the mic, he said, "Belly Twister, from the top. We'll do a general grab and start tweaking it later. Count from four."

The band nodded. They gave the count and broke into song. Max made a few adjustments on the console, and leaned back. Forty dollars an hour.

Ali leaned over next to him. She whispered, "What do those blinky things do?" 

"Those are lights," said Max. 

"Cool!" She grinned, having learned something, and started to stand.

Max spoke quickly drawing her back down to him: "They show the levels of the sound coming in from various mikes. Green is good, yellow is nice, but too much red, and you have to adjust it."

"Why is red bad?" she prompted.

They chatted on, while I listened to the band. Was it just me, or were they not very good at all? Maybe they would fix all the problems in post-production.

When I glanced over at Ali and Max, I discovered why he'd turned so verbose. She was pressed hard against him -- not much room to maneuver -- and leaning over. He had a commanding view down her shirt. The more Max raised the volume in the control room, the closer she leaned to whisper in his ear. Their foreheads were pressed together, her sweat-damp hair brushing his face. 

"Can the band hear us in here?" I asked suddenly. 

Max looked at me strangely for a moment, as if trying to remember who I was. "Um, no. Not unless you click the microphone." 

"I don't think they're very good," I said.

He gave me the first friendly smile of the night. "No. Want to know a secret? There is a lot of energy and excitement, and young folks, in the music biz. But nobody, nobody makes big money at it. Except a few. Most of the problems are related to quality. Bottom-feeders like us eat bottom-feeders like them." 

"They should be practicing, not recording."

"That's what I told them," he sighed. "But what do I know?"

"I think you know a lot!" said Ali obligingly. "You told me what the blinky things are. Lights."

I sighed longsufferingly. "Ali, squish over to the other side."

Still hunched over (bless her), she pivoted around Max's chair, cheek to cheek with him. She settled her ass on the arm of his chair, her leg pressed against his arm. With her arm over the back of his chair, another gross familiarity, her chest was about eye-level to poor ole Max. As I talked to him, he mostly kept his eyes forward on the console, and his cheek was intermittently daubed by the sweaty extremities of her breasts.

"Let me be frank," I told Max. 

"But your name is Tyler," he said absently.

I knew I could handle this guy. "As Tyler, let me be frank with you. Speak frankly?"

"Mmmm," he grunted. 

"Ali has a long way to go, as a performer," I said.

He glanced up at her, his face resting against her chest. She smiled down at him, nodding. 

I continued, "I think we agree she has a lot of promise. But she needs practice. A lot of it. I want her to be good."

"So do I," he said grudgingly. "But I've heard her. Unless she takes her clothes off on stage, she's not getting a fan base."

"I have a whole new wardrobe," said Ali. "And Tyler has me doing this thing with a window..."

"For this to work," I persisted, "we need to take her clothes off on stage, and practice. How much practice do you need, Ali?"

"A lot," she said, on cue.

"I'm talking four nights a week."

Max shook his head. "That'll be tough. You should work on the clothing angle." Just because his cheek was against Ali's left nipple, he shook his head again.

"As you can see, we're working that angle," I said patiently. Maybe he would be a tougher nut to crack than I thought. "We can start a few hours later, after your clients stop coming. You can give us a copy of the keys so you don't have to stick around. I'll be here -- if anything goes wrong, you can blame me."

"And what else?"

I hadn't wanted to do this, but I sighed and pressed on. "After her shift at the diner, on practice nights, Ali will work for you. Two, three hours. For free."

"I will?" Ali asked.

"You will," I told her, sounding stern. "You're going to learn this business inside and out. You're going to make contacts. Both of you will benefit." 

"That makes sense," she said. 

"Four days a week, you'll be going hard from 9am to midnight, but you can do that, you're young." 

"And what do I get out of it?" Max wanted to know.

"She'll greet your clients. She'll run errands. She'll keep the place clean. She'll follow your instructions. Or whoever is running the booth. She'll be a back-up singer, when you need one. You need a nice girl, to pretty up the place."

He nodded like I'd made some good points. Or maybe he was just rubbing her chest on his cheek. He looked up at her; she was staring down hopefully.

"All we need," I said, "is a better practice environment." 

"Regular times," he said, "and keys so you can close the place down." He paused to think about it. The grunge-techno song on the other side of the partition fizzled out. The musicians were all slapping high fives.

"All that," he said finally, "plus, if she ever records, it's my name on the CD jacket." 

"Good enough," I said. I knew that everything was negotiable. We'd probably split ways with Max before she was recording anything.

"How was it?" the band wanted to know.

"I got it all," said Max placidly. He queued the recording and began playing it back. He turned to Ali. "You have a deal."

"Oh!" she squealed. "Awesome!" She gave him an awkward hug, her hands around his head, his face in her chest. "Tyler, you're the best! You're the best manager alive!" 

I doubt that Max heard that last part, or if he did, it was muffled by Ali herself.

The lead singer said, "Hey, Max! Who's the pair of tits?"

Max extricated himself, blushing fiercely. "This is Ali. She's a singer. She works for me."

Ali waved at them.

"Tell her for us that she has great hooters."

"She can hear you herself," said Max.

Ali leaned into the microphone. "Hi! You guys sound great."

"When do we get to meet her?" the singer asked.

"You want her to sit in?" Max asked.

"Sure!" said the drummer. "We... uh... we need a tambourine, uh, element, to the song." 

"I'll send her in," said Max. He turned to her. "Babe, your life as a music professional starts now."

"Me!?" Ali was glowing. She was all excitement as she glanced from me to Max and back again. "I'm a nobody!"

"Don't worry about all that tits 'n hooters stuff they said," added Max.

"What stuff?" She asked. She was already squeezing past me to get out of the booth. 

Max and I watched as she bounced in to greet the band. Regardless of the quality of their music, she apparently saw them as higher on the food chain, since they were recording. For her, it was an honor to play tambourine on their techno track. The band encircled her from every side. She had a huge, stupid smile on her face as she shook hands, she was rocking back and forth on her legs, muscles rippling, causing her ass to jog.

Max shook his head as the singer hooked his fingers into the waistline of her shorts. He dragged her over next to the drumset mics. They positioned her with a maximum of hands on her waist and stomach. Max said, "They're thinking 'groupie.' Gang fuck. That's how these kids are. Totally disconnected from reality. And they won't be the last."

"So?"

"I mean, a pretty girl, working here, with all these over-sexed idiots. She better be a people person. Ach! Look at that." 

The singer was pressed up against her, explaining the inner workings of the tambourine. His arms were around her, holding her hands as they held the instrument to the microphone. Meanwhile, his pelvis was digging into her ass, his forearms were under her chest raising her breasts, his lips were brushing her ear as he talked. Ali was receiving the instructions seriously, intent on the task.




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 02



"In my day," said Max, "we called that dry humping."

"Let her learn," I said. Watching them with her, I had a hard-on that would pierce armor. "If she's going to learn, or be shocked, this is the time for it. Not later, when it counts."

"You're right," said Max. He seemed to be respecting my (nonexistent) knowledge of the biz. "Still, I hate throwing her to the wolves."

"If you think about it, it's good that the wolves want her. She'll be working here with you. Don't try to shield her, okay Max? She has to learn the biz. I don't think she even notices how they're all over her."

"Nope," he agreed. "She's 10% brains, that's for sure. 90% ass."

When the music started again, Max set her microphone to almost nothing. I could barely hear the tambourine against the wall of sound the musicians created. They were all ranged through the sound room, half facing her, watching her shamelessly beat the tambourine.

The music soon had her -- she was so easy to influence. She swayed to the beat, rocking her hips. By the halfway point, she was gyrating unselfconsciously, eyes closed, as the band rocked around her. They were feeding off her, and feeding her rhythm. The music sounded better for it, even to me. Her braless tits swayed in mesmerizing counter-time to her hips. She was built like the shit, and her tight little shorts, her thread-bare cut-off t-shirt did nothing to hide it.

At the end of the song, there were hugs all around. 

The singer had his arm around her waist, hand spread on her stomach. "How'd that sound?"

"Better," said Max. "Much better, actually."

"Ali is our muse," said the singer.

"How were my lights, Max?" Ali asked. Her nipples were hard, dark circles penetrating the thin white fabric. But I don't think that's what she meant.

"Looking good," said Max drily.

They had her on tambourine for the rest of the session, and once, singing backup. They had to start that take twice, because when Ali opened her mouth to sing, she belted it out with such startling clarity and perfect pitch, that the lead singer sounded like a grunting pig next to her. He didn't like that so much, but they eventually adjusted the levels so that she was only ghosting in the background as he growled out his lines. 

Max said, "The funny thing is, in that room, they're all playing grab-ass with her. But none of them know, Ali included, that she's already three times the musician they are." 

"I wouldn't be her manager if I didn't think she was going somewhere." 

Ali's band filtered in at the normal time. They looked crestfallen that the practice room was still occupied. I went out to meet them.

"Hi guys," I said. "We have some changes at the band. We'll discuss it when Ali's free."

Tamb (short for Tamberlain!) was Ali's guitarist. He and Raff, the new guitarist, were exchanging suspicious looks. Tamb said, "Whatever, dude. Who are these guys in our practice room? And why do they suck so bad? And who's the tits and ass in there with them? Why can't Ali dress like that, huh?"

Tamb knew Ali was my girlfriend, but he didn't know I was the new manager of the band. He said what he said just to annoy me -- that was his way. It was one of the reasons we were sacking him.

"Ah, the attitude," I said. Tamb glanced at me, possibly surprised at my dismissive tone.

"Are we getting bumped again?" asked Seth, the drummer. 

"No. These guys are just finishing up. We're not getting bumped anymore." 

"How did you do that?"

"The delicate art of negotiation. And, Ali is going to put in some hours here every day, free. We're going to shift the band into overdrive."

Tamb sneered. "What would you know about that?" 

Raff pointed suddenly. "Is that Ali in there?" 

They all turned. She was laughing, slapping high fives with all the scary musicians. Their drummer had her neck in the crook of his arm, and was dancing her around. 

"Is she starting a different band?" Seth sounded a little hurt.

"Of course not," I said. "She's just sitting in. They needed a real musician."

Tamb snorted at that. Ali saw us gathered in the lounge, and headed our way. The singer caught her with a hand on her cheek, and gave her a quick peck on the lips. The guitarist slapped her ass as she slipped through the door. 

"Those guys are so nice!" she said, laughing. "Hi everybody." 

"I've been telling them about the changes. You have to make the big announcement, hon."

Her band stared at her as she strutted over. I had to admit, she'd had the world's longest day. Standing in the window, shopping for clothes, impressing her roommate Harvey, the short shift at the diner, now laying tracks in for a band. Most of it had involved extremely positive feedback, and she was buoyant when other people would have been exhausted. Everybody was impressed -- she stood with her legs apart, one hip thrust forward, her hands behind her back. She was damp with perspiration, her hair askew, almost vibrating with energy. She'd never looked hotter to them, that was clear.

She said, "Oh, yeah. We have some changes. Tamb, you're out of the band. Raff is our new session guitarist for now. Tyler here is our new manager." 

Tamb's laugh was suddenly uncomfortable. "Your boyfriend is our new manager? I've seen that movie before. It's not gonna work."

"Not your problem anymore, Tamb," I said to him. To the others, I said: "You all heard Ali. You're her band. Tamb's out, Raff's in."

"This won't fly," said Tamb obstinately. "I put in too much time." 

"Raff's a better guitarist, and he follows instructions. Tamb, if you want, I'll ask Max to keep an eye out for openings for a lead guitarist." 

"Max? What did he ever do for us?"

I ignored him. "Here are the other changes in the band. We're practicing four nights a week, starting at eight, ending whenever. Practices won't be canceled anymore. You're each going to make $20 a practice session, unless we've negotiated something different. We're doing all new songs. The band is going to orient around Ali, here, and we're going to remake her as a sexy lead singer. What I say, goes, since I'm the manager. Any questions?"

The band was confused and silent. Tom, the basist, shrugged. "I was getting tired of Tamb anyway."

The others nodded. Tamb gave a disgusted sigh, turned on his heel and left. 

The grunge-techno band filed out, hands full of equipment. They all had good-byes to say to Ali. That was probably the most impressive thing -- Ali's band were not used to Ali getting any attention at all. Max passed by and gave her a cold bottle of spring water, fondly touseling her hair. 

"We have to build a new set in two weeks," I proclaimed. "I want us in a club, owning the stage, killing the audience, in 14 days. Who wants to be a big rock 'n roll star?"

"I do, for one," said Seth. 

"Then let's get on it."

* * * * *

"Baby?" 

"What, Ali?" 

She snuggled against me on the subway seat. I was taking her back to her apartment. Since I had to wake up early the next morning, to catch up at work, I'd be leaving her there for the night.

"How come you're not worried for me?" She shrugged. "I mean, I'm supposed to wear a towel around the apartment in front of Harvey. From nine o'clock on, I'm supposed to be in a half-shirt and panties. And walking on thes street. And in the subway today, with all those guys. Aren't you worried for me?" 

"Worried for your safety?"

"Yeah."

I gave her a smirk. "I think you can take care of yourself."

"That's sweet, but--"

"And I saw your card. In your wallet? Ali, you're a reservist in the fucking IDF. The Israeli defense force. That means you were in the army for two years, right? It explains how you dropped out of college at 20, during your sophmore year."

"You cheater! Even with dual citizenship, we have to report for service." 

I grinned at her. "Earlier today, I told you that you didn't even have to be smart. You do, though. At least a little bit. About some things. You have to herd men, and control the situation. If things are going bad, you have to control it."

"I can control Harvey," she said. "I can beat him at arm-wrestling."

"Anything you can't control, hide behind me. If I'm not there, leave."

She gave a delighted smile. "Tyler, you're worried!"

I shrugged uncomfortably. "Maybe a little. Thanks to you." And I was, then. Thinking about rapes and muggings. 

"I didn't mean anything. It's just that you seem to have such confidence in me. You don't hold back, you just say what you want. And you trust me to do it. I was wondering where it all came from."

Either she really believed that, or it was a charming way to say I was a compelling control freak who brooked no compromise. "You already have everything you need. To be a singer, to be a sex object, to be a performer. I already see it there, so I just ask for it. Trust doesn't enter into it."

And that was my charming way of saying she was a born follower. I let my eyes drift through the car. Men, standing and sitting, old and young. They were dissecting Ali through her cut-up t-shirt. They were eyeing paths down the curves of her chest into her decolletage. They were scanning her legs, watching her thighs flex as she shifted her weight. Yeah. Ali was a born entertainer. 



She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 03



Ali quickly settled into a routine. When she woke up, she had her coffee at the window -- whether at my place or hers (to Harvey's delight). She did long shifts at the diner, wearing her "Perky" nametag. After the diner, she went straight to the studio, and slaved away for Max, part receiptionist, part janitor, part gopher, part musician. Then, at night, she practiced. 

For my part, I was working overtime. Some days I didn't see her at all until I arrived at practice late. I wasn't short on cash. I was making extra money with the idea of plowing it back into Ali's band. So was she -- half her tip money was being used to pay off the band members each practice, the other half was piling up, waiting to be spent on clothes, hair-dressers, a photographer.

The schedule was killing our love life, I was feeling very antsy and sex-deprived. On Friday, her first day off all week, I thought it would be nice to take her out. I got to work and called her apartment. 

Harvey picked up.

"Hi Harv, Tyler here. How's Ali doing?" 

"She's doing fine, Tyler. She's having coffee, now. Doing her window thing." 

"How are you holding up, having a naked girl in your apartment?" 

He laughed. "I'm making do. It's a crazy situation, but I'm getting used to it."

"How long is she lasting in the window?" 

"Every morning, half an hour to forty-five minutes. She says she's actually getting bored with it, so we watch the morning news together." He paused. "I told her the next step in the exercise was to open the window. To reduce the glare. I hope that's okay."

My heart was thrumming. Call me twisted, but I thought that it was beyond hot how Harvey was coming on board. Originally, I'd planned for Ali to move in with me. Now, I was glad I'd kept her at Harvey's place. 

"That was a good idea," I told him. "Did she buy it?"

"Oh, yes," he laughed. "She's quite... dedicated. You could say." 

And with that, we established the parameters of our relationship. I didn't ask Harvey, "Did she do it?" I asked, "Did she buy it?" Implicitly recognizing that he was playing her. And by recognizing that to him, I was notifying him that I knew he was playing her. We were, basically, two men who had lucked onto a beautiful young woman, and she was gratifying us, and we were relating stories about her.

"Let me talk to her," I said. "Oh, and Harvey?"

"Yes?"

"Pinch her ass for me." My cock was pronging into my slacks. 

"Will do." 

I heard Harvey say, "This is from Tyler."

"Ooh!" Ali was laughing as she took the phone. "Thanks for that wake-up pinch, hon." 

"Harvey reports that you're standing naked in front of an open window." 

"Is that okay?" she asked. "It's like we discussed."

"It sounds like you're very dedicated." 

Her voice went hushed. "I felt very uncomfortable at first. At the beginning, I'd wake up as Harvey finished his shower. And he'd come sit on the couch, and we'd watch the morning news. And then I'd stand, strip, and go to the window. It was, like, a big production."

"How did you fix that?" I asked. 

"Well, the easiest answer is always the best: I just stopped wearing t-shirts at night. So no striptease in the morning. My panties are halfway off anyway. It's more comfy, so I'm also sleeping later. The TV wakes me up, with Harv on the couch. When I sit up, he gets me some coffee, and I just stumble over to the window."

"I can only imagine how hot you look. I should get Harvey to describe you every morning, since I can't be there." I could only imagine Harvey's wonderful new life. Waking up every morning, nestling into a couch next to a snoring panty-clad twenty-something, eyeing her as she stretched, grinned, and said good-morning.

"I can describe myself to you," she purred. 

"I dunno. I think I like the masculine viewpoint, when it comes to hearing how you look. Are people seeing you from the street?"

"A few regulars on the street. A few in the opposite buildings." 

"See? That's not enough detail. Put Harvey back on."

She laughed. "Harvey? Tyler wants to talk to you."

"Yes?" he asked.

"Harvey, she's not being forthcoming about her actor's exercises. Stand behind her, and tell me what she's seeing on the street."

He did so. I heard Ali say, "You're doublechecking my work?" 

Harvey said, "I can't see past her hair. It's all messed up." 

Ali laughed in the background. "Morning head!"

I said, "Jeez, Harvey. Be a problem-solver. Step in closer, put your hand around her stomach, squish her to the side, plant your chin on her shoulder."

"Well..." he hemmed. 

"She's not made of glass," I said.

The phone made a scraping sound, and I heard Ali giggle again. It sounded to me like he'd leapt on her. I could imagine it -- his big, soft body pressed against her from behind. His hand, twitching with nervousness, feeling the muscles of her belly dance as he changed her balance. Her ass in his lap. 

"Okay," he said. "We're seeing... wow. Five or six ne'er-do-wells clustered around the stoop of the opposite building, looking up. Talking to each other. Two men in the windows opposite. Everybody is trying to act casual, like they're not seeing what they're seeing. They don't want to scare her out of the window, I'm guessing. People passing on the street, not really looking up at her. She says it's becoming no big deal, anymore."

"Hmmm," I said. I tried to imagine the scene. It was difficult, being in the middle of cubicle land as I was. A corporate environment is not inducive to sexual imagination. "It sounds like she's ready for step two." 

"What's that?" Harvey asked.

"Some night next week, call some friends over. Or order up a pizza. Don't tell her what you're doing. You have to report to me what her reaction is. Does she scream and run for the bathroom? Does she coolly put on some clothes? Does she casually hang out, without doing anything? Let me know, okay?" 

He gave a little laugh. "Will do. My apartment will clearly become a popular destination with my over-the-hill married friends. She strips down to her panties by nine pm every night. Did you know that?" 

"I did," I said. "But Harvey, she can hear what you're saying."

"She doesn't understand anything, trust me. She's not listening." 

I nodded to myself. That sounded like Ali. 

Harvey continued. It sounded like he was reaching a comfort zone with me. "All my double entendres go unnoticed. She coasts in-and-out of the bathroom and my bedroom. Any modesty has disappeared -- out the window."

"Well," I said, "I have to admit, it's been going easier than I thought it would. This whole re-inventing Ali thing." It felt good to be able to talk to someone about it. "I guess I found her at a point where she was ready for a big life change." 

"Yes, quite," said Harvey. "You two seem to be very effective, together." 

I had a wicked thought. "Hey, Harvey, want a treat?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Give Ali the phone, and hang on to her." 

I heard the phone pass back to her. What kind of a sordid, manipulative, nasty fool was I? Probably the regular kind. 

"Hello again, honey," said Ali's voice. "Harvey is still looking over my shoulder. Should I try again, and tell you what I'm seeing?"

"No, baby," I said. My voice sounded husky, from what I was planning. Turned on, I guess. "Just do what I say. Keep the phone at your ear. I want you to give a good, long, morning stretch. Right? Your arms stretch up, you go onto your tippy toes. Are you doing it?"

"Yeeeah," she said, groaning.

"Feel your calves tighten. Clench your ass. Feel the muscles in your back stretch and separate. Twist your shoulders. Relax your ass, clench it, relax. Are you doing it?"

"Yeah, done. The guys on the street stopped pretending not to see me." 

"You're getting pretty comfortable with this, aren't you?" 

"Yeah. Oh!" She giggled suddenly. "Harvey just left. He ran to the bathroom." 

I had a big smile. 

She added, "Do you want to know something? I think he had his little cock against my butt. I think I felt it there, when I was clenching. Oh, jeez." She sounded worried. "How humiliating. Do you think I embarrassed him? I should go do something. Should I ask him if I made him uncomfortable?" 

"No, baby. If that's the case, I'm sure Harvey can handle it. As if any guy would mind."

"You and your dirty thoughts, Tyler," she admonished. "Are you sure I shouldn't go to the bathroom too? I can just walk in, if you want. Like normal."

She was too precious. I said, "No. But be warned: he'll probably try to tease you back. You know, try to embarrass you?"

"I cannot be teased," she announced. "He'll fail. I can't be embarrassed anymore -- it's part of my star training. But... what do you think he'll do?" 

"I dunno. You're spending most of your time in the apartment naked, right?"

"Mostly naked. I guess I am."

"He'll probably invite some friends over. Or order a pizza. Without you knowing. He'll probably expect you to scream in embarrassment, and run for the bathroom."

"Hmmf!" she said. "That's not going to happen."

"Uh-oh!" I laughed. She giggled along with me. I kept feeding her, saying, "He's messing with the wrong person. What are you going to do? Just hang out in your panties, like nothing's different? Act all normal? Watch him blush?"

"Um, yeah. That sounds good. That's what I'll do. He should know not to mess with me. I'll just frustrate his plans, and ass-clench him again when he doesn't expect it."

I didn't want to gloss over that ass-clenching thing. "If you're going to ass-clench him again, you're going to have to get him to stand behind you."

"That's easy," she said breezily. "I'll just tell him you want him to look over my shoulder every morning. So he can report to you again. That should do it. I'll butt-squeeze him until he wants to cry. That should get him back -- if he gets me back."

"You're so clever," I said admiringly.

"I'm learning from the best," she returned. 

"Honey, today's your day off. I want to take you out to dinner tonight. Dinner and a bar. We'll listen to some music, dance. What do you think?" 

"That sounds wonderful. I want to get shitfaced, after the week I had. Will you get me stupid drunk?" 

"I'll handle the drinks, if you handle the stupid," I told her. She laughed. "I want to take advantage of you."

"Any time, any where," she said. 

"I'll pick you up at seven tonight. Wear your smallest dress -- for me? Tell Harvey to pick something from the closet."

"Okay, I will. What should I do today?" 

I had already thought that out, in case she asked. "Get a good book or magazine. Put your panties on. Wrap a towel around you. Go up to the roof and sunbathe topless. You need some color, and we can't have tan lines on your tits." 

"Oh," she sounded disappointed. "Harvey's leaving for work soon. Once he's gone, I can't get back into the apartment." 

"Fuck," I said. "This won't do. You have to get a copy of the keys from him. If he doesn't have any extras in the apartment, grab his hand and walk out with him. Don't let him get away. Make him make a copy at the key place."

"Should I get dressed first?" she asked, in all seriousness.

"No. I mean, yeah. But after you ask, just throw on a dress. One of those lacey summery things? In front of him, so he knows you don't have any underwear on. I promise, he will turn to putty."

"If you're sure..." 

"I am sure," I said. "And don't forget the hand-holding thing. Don't let him get away. Be his best girl until you get those keys. Can you do that? After the keys, go to the roof and get a tan."

"I'm on it," she said. "I'll see you tonight."

We hung up, and I stared at the walls of my cubicle feeling quite demotivated to work. Don't get me wrong, I loved my life just then. But I wasn't loving this work thing. In the back of my mind, I was already thinking how wonderful it would be to manage Ali, 24/7, and get paid for the privilege.

* * * * *

That day, Ali finally got keys to the apartment. And she tanned -- the sun took to her skin beautifully, darkening her without baking her. And she reported that walking through the building wearing a towel and panties was 'a trip.' And that, since her building was lower than all the surrounding buildings, she counted eight faces watching her from the nearby windows. 

We had a great time on our date that night. Harvey had picked this tiny dress that neither stayed up on her shoulders, nor stayed down on her legs. She was feeling no pain after the first few Long Island Iced Teas. 

I set her loose on the dance floor, and watched her get pawed by NYU students. Amazingly, people complained -- the manager came to our table, and I fixed her up as he stared hungrily down at her. She wasn't noticing her own clothes, so I replaced straps, tugged down her skirt, closed her knees, and held her swaying body upright as he talked. He seemed to like seeing me fiddle with her as much as he liked seeing her. All men have a barbie fantasy.

I mentioned she was a singer in a band, and he mentioned he needed a band in a week. 

"But she has to keep her clothes on, on stage," he added. 

"Not too many clothes, hopefully," I said. 

"Fuck no," he grinned suddenly. "Personally, I don't mind. It helps business. And we're more tolerant of entertainers. But none of this two-hands-down-her-panties business, like on the dance floor. I'll get busted."

He turned away, and paused. "Singer, eh? It's amazing what the chicks do nowadays just to get attention."

I was not undrunk myself. It took me a minute to realize his meaning. He possibly thought that Ali was making a scene of herself just to get him to come over. Possibly, even, there had been no complaints. He had come over, just to ogle her, and learn what the 'real' story was. 

In reality, the story was that if you put Ali in not-there clothing, and told her it was for her career, she would wear it without another thought. And if you gave her drinks, she would be even more malleable. And if you told her to visit the dance floor with the mission of finding out what men found sexy -- and this girl Ali was mentally wired to comprehend every man she met as an authority, not to be disobeyed -- you had a formula for dance-floor fun.

I didn't want to change his mind about her. I said, "Well, it worked, didn't it?"

He shrugged and moved off.

I stood Ali up and pushed her ahead of me through the crowds. The straps came off her shoulder -- I was getting frustrated with those things -- but the cups over her chest didn't slip too much, even though the bustier had been fashioned to accomodate those unrealistically ample rocket-shaped bras from the 50's. The cups were roomy (good for sidelong views), but they were catching on her large assets as they slid down. Outside, the air seemed to clear her head.

"Do you want to dance some more?" 

"You say 'dance', but you don't dance," she slurred. "You say 'we dance,' but I'm the onliest one dancing. Ima hot slut. Thas what I'm learnin'. Like I didn' already know."

"Is that what the guys are telling you?" I started leading her down the street.

"Yep. I'm tellin' them, I'm gonna be a star. And they're sayin, you sure are!" she knocked her head with a fist, then grimaced and rubbed her head. "I'm no' smart, but I learn eventually. You get enough guys, all sayin' the same thing, and they start to make sense."

Ali was an earnest drunk. Her defenses, minimal at best in daily life, were completely erased by alcohol. "Ty," she said, looking up at me. "You know I'm not smart, right?"

"You're not?" 

"Ev'r since I was a little girl, I knew it. I was all, talky talky talk. An' everybody was like, shuddup and take yer dress off! An I was all, 'okay.' An' some guys, we wouldn' even see a movie! Some dates those were! They'd pick me up, we'd make out, and they'd drop me off! Not even a movie! An' I fell for it every time. Sometimes twice."

"That sounds like a normal childhood," I said. (It didn't, by the way.)

"That all changed when I came to New York. I was in college. No more sexy clothes for me! No more throwin' myself at guys. No more, fuckin', goin' to class in fuckin' bikini tops."

"That sounds sexy," I interjected.

"It was," she nodded. "But not anymore. I've changed. You'll see. No more sexy clothes for me!"

"You're falling out of your top," I told her.

"Aw, who fucken cares about that? But then... and then... I fuckin' fucked up my college, from no money! I fuck up everything? So not smart." She turned serious. "But I'm learnin'. Ima good waitress. I have a job at a music studio. I have a band."

"You sure do."

"I'm sorry I'm not smart," she moaned. "I want to be smarter, for you, Tyler. I'm sorry..." 

Her lips were quivering. For shit's sake, she was actually going to cry. 

"Ali, I'm gonna tell you something, and you have to believe it, okay?"

"Okay," she said. That was my favorite phrase of hers. The simple, conceding, 'okay.' I gave her an impulsive hug. Man, but we were sloshed. 

"You have to believe me," I said: "You're smart."

"Good," she nodded. Then she shook her head. "Not good. Ty, I don' wanna be too smart. Don't make me too smart, okay? I don't wanna think about this-n-that, this-n-that. I just wanna get dressed up by you, and get walked around. People talking for me, tellin' me what to do. Thas a nice life."

I continued. "Those guys at your high school didn't care about your brains, but that's 'cause you're built like the shit. You shouldn't feel bad just because they told you to shut up and take your clothes off. They only wanted you for the easy sex, after all. Not your mind."

"That's true," she said. "I never looked at it that way."

"You're good for more than just easy sex," I said.

"That's true, too!" she chirped. "Ima waitress!"

"And you can sing."

"Yeah!" 

I was cocked and ready to go again. "Let's hit another bar. I want to see you dancing with those guys. They think you're so dumb."

"I am," she said earnestly.

"Whatever," I said. "They think you're dumb, and they call you a slut. So what?"

"Yeah!" she said, offended. "So what? I'll show them! I'm gonna say, 'So what Ima dumb slut, whatsit to ya?'" 

"And they're still gonna wanna dance with you."

"Damn straight," she said. We turned into a bar that was blasting music. It was packed. "Those fucken losers. The nex' one who sticks his hand in my panties, I'm gonna tell him just what I am! A dumb slut waitress who won' say no."

"Also tell him you're drunk," I added.

"I will!"

* * * * *

Ali's fixation on being dumb and/or not smart took me by surprise. To tell the truth, I'd never suspected that her awareness extended that far. In one drunken confession, she'd cleared up the mystery of her frumpy clothes, her college problems, her generally defeatist and submissive attitude. And her apparently action-packed teen years certainly explained how capable she was in bed. 

Imagine that! I had the girl everybody took advantage of in high school. The mythical hot girl who didn't know she was hot. The transcendently beautiful girl with a defect in her personality that was so huge, so glaring, that it was common knowledge to everybody she knew. A girl who thought she was useless and dumb, who could sing like an angel and had the body of a porn star. A genetic marvel. And she was my girlfriend!

That night, she further surprised me. 

I'd stopped drinking at the second bar. I didn't want my libido to take over and start pimping her on streetcorners. I figured one of us should stay lucid.

So after I unfolded her from the taxi and walked her up to my apartment, I stripped her naked on the bed and started fucking her boneless body like a madman. 

She was sputtering on about something. Some party in college, where her 'date' had kept her in the car, and 'brought friends out to hang with her.' 




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 03



"Stop talking so much. Just shut up," I said, experimentally. 

She looked up at me, flushing suddenly. "That brings back memories," she giggled.

"It was just something I wanted to say."

"Thas okay, honey," she said. "Wanna know a secret?" 

"A secret? Sure." I was penetrating her with long, slow strokes. Not that she seemed to notice. 

"Ya wanna turn me on like a lightswitch? Just call me dumb. Call me stupid. Like, 'Shut up ya stupid bitch an' put my cock in yer mouth!'" She shouted that last part. "They had to shout," she explained, "because the parties were so loud."

I let that last part pass. "It turns you on to be called stupid?" 

She nodded, a smile on her lips. She was utterly without guile. "Thas my secret. I know it's dumb. But all my life, it's like, 'Dumbass! Here's a cock,' and 'Stupid! Here's a cock,' and 'Shut up, dammit! Here's a cock.' And, 'She's stupid, dude, go ahead an' stick yer cock in her.'"

"They said all that?" I marveled.

"An' more! But you gotta hear about my secret... I worked it out one day at a study group in college. Everybody was yellin' at me because I wasn't keepin' up. An', I was like, 'Sorry!' And they were all like, 'You stupid bitch we're all gonna fail 'cause you're so stupid!' An', I was like, getting turned on. I was like, cummin' when they were yellin' at me. That was weird." 

The understatement of the year. 

She had a satisfied smile on her lips. "I stayed with that study group to the end."

"You're amazing," I breathed.

I had a girl, trained by some sick, twisted personal history, into getting horney from being insulted. She had a strong fucking Pavlovian response to being demeaned. Could it get any better?

"Tell me," she said, her eyes lasering up at me. 

"Tell you?" 

"Don' ya wanna turn me on, baby?" her nails glided down my chest. "Don' ya wanna get me off? I can do some crazy shit to you."

I gathered myself. Viagra couldn't have made me more hard. 

"You stupid useless cunt," I told her. "You're too stupid to be used for anything but a cock-hole. If you were any dumber, I could pay to have you installed in a bus-station toilet, you're such a mindless cum-pig."

She froze. And I froze. My mind was backpedalling at a zillion miles an hour. She was going to kill me, wasn't she, now? I'd just stabbed this helpless little kitten through the heart. 

"Holy shit," she breathed. Her pussy was flooding with moisture. "You're like, a poet." 

* * * * *

The next practice, I told the band about the gig at the bar. I didn't tell them how we'd scored it -- the manager staring down at Ali, her helplessly drunk with her clothes askew.

They were suitably impressed. Unlike her other gigs, this was a pretty good bar. Lots of people. Lots of money, comparatively.

"It's in a week," I said, "so we're going to have to get a move on. Raff, I want you in the band. Will you join us? Officially?"

"Yeah," he said. "I know a good thing when I see it. I'm in."

And that was that.

He slapped high fives with Seth the drummer. Ali gave him a big kiss on the lips. 

That night, her "stage uniform" was a small little silk dress that buttoned up the front, and featured one strap over each shoulder tied with a bow. 

Our set (actually, one and a half sets, now) was pretty firm, even though all the songs were new. They weren't difficult songs -- no instrumental solos to fuck up, no bridges, no key changes -- and the toughest parts were the vocals. That was fine, because, believe it or not, Ali was the best musician among them. She never screwed up the vocals, ever. It was frankly amazing. Somehow in her confused life, she'd found one of the things where she had superlative talent.

When we changed the words, she always remembered. When we approved of a little vocal twist that she improvised, it stayed in the same place. She was a producer's dream. If I asked, every song we repeated would sound identical. The same couldn't be said of the other musicians, and so their parts were simple and repetitive, difficult to screw up. 

It also, unfortunately, gave them a lot of time to focus on Ali's work rather than their own.

We used the glass partition with the sound booth (Max lurking silently within, though he wasn't recording anything) as a reflective surface. We picked apart Ali's performance. 

"On the power chords, for the refrain, you should stand with your legs further apart," said Seth.

She tried it -- and it looked good. Like she was belting out the words. 

"Yeah, the rocking is good," said Andrew (the bassist). 

"I like how the strap falls when you do that," said Seth.

"I can't get it to fall every time," reported Ali, after the next run-through. 

"Loosen the strap," I said. "Just one, so it's always falling down your arm." 

"I'll always be pulling it up," said Ali. "Or should I?" 

"Unless you want to flash the audience," Seth sniggered. 

I said, "Ali, just work the pull-ups into your routine, for this dress. I want the clothes to seem like they're flying off you. Raff -- re-tie the strap on her left shoulder. So it's slightly looser than the other." Raff didn't need to be told twice. I wanted to do it myself, but I was sitting.

My whole thing was to give orders while sitting in a chair. That was so people would obey me, and I appeared to be more powerful. Good for obedience.

We evaluated the results. The strap slid much more readily off her shoulders. 

"I'm not getting a 'wow' from that," said Andrew. 

"Maybe I should undo some buttons at the top," said Ali. She plucked them open. The V of her decolletage widened the next time she belted the refrain, rocking. We could see down her chest to the undercurve of her breast.

"You should undo a few at the bottom too," said Andrew. "So it's even."

"Okay," she said. 

We watched closely as she bent at the waist and undid the buttons. Her dress ended halfway up her thighs, and the bottom-most buttons started about four inches above that. After the change, the skirt slit stopped at an overstressed button just below her sex. The next time she took a wide stance, the whole magnificent extant of her legs were visible.

"I like how the buttons pull apart when you twist," said Seth.

"I'll work that in," she said. 

I gave a little annoyed sigh. We were spending too much time getting Ali to strip for us during practice. The night before, we'd wasted 15 minutes as each of them took turns widening some tears in her t-shirt. Sure, that had been fun to watch, especially as Ali was raising her arms and twisting as she helped. And this button-by-button crap was important, sure, but it was something I could do three seconds before a gig. I wanted us to work on our complete stage presence, something more along the lines of a whole band feeling.

"I'm thinking about the audience," I said. They all stopped and listened. "The audience is going to take its queues from the band. About how to look at her. Ali is sexy -- but is she desperately sexy? Comfortably sexy? Casually sexy? The way you guys treat her is going to put the audience at ease." 

"How should we treat her?" asked Raff.

I tried to think of the best way to say it. "Like she's fucking you every night, but you're not dating."

"Huh," said Raff. "Like, be casual with her?"

"Exactly," I said. "Like you're casual with her. If you need to touch her, just reach out and touch her. If you want to say something to her, grab her and whisper in her ear. If she hugs you, like between songs, just be comfortable with her. Pat her ass as she goes by. But remember! You're not dating her -- she's not yours. So you still lust after her. Be casual with her, and be in lust with her. Is that clear?" 

"What will that make the audience think?" asked Andrew, in all seriousness. 

They all waited for my answer, as if I knew anything about audiences. 

I said, "It will make her seem casually sexy. Since you guys are so comfortable with her, the audience will be too. Since you guys lust after her, the audience will too. The audience won't be shy about looking at her, which is what we want. Ali isn't sexy, like a stripper up on a platform. She's sexy like your girlfriend's sister, who happens to be a stripper."

I turned to Ali. "Hon, you're going to have to start interacting with the band more. You can't ever notice that they're lusting after you. That will make the audience feel safe that you won't notice them. We're working on something very specific, here."

"What things should I do?" she asked. She was still breathing hard from the last song, and looked very fetching. Her strap was off her shoulder, one leg thrown out. Her chest heaved, and each breath caused the front of the dress to slide incrementally down her breast. 

"During the intros, like lean against Raff. Pretend you're giving him instructions, but you're all up against him, whispering in his ear. The audience will imagine you doing that to them. Between songs, talk to Andrew, and flap your dress like you're letting air in. Let the guys pull up your strap sometimes, or pull down your skirt if it gets too high. You must never notice, however, when they are touching you."

"So, we like, act like we own her," said Raff.

"And yet still want her," said Andrew.

"And I get nothing, as the drummer," moaned Seth. 

"We'll work something in," I said. "Maybe she can sit in your lap for the start of a song." 

"Like she has the hots for me!" he said, excited.

"She has the hots for nobody, while she's on stage. Remember that. You all have the hots for her. She doesn't notice. That's the schtick. Got it?" 

*Click.* "Listen to Tyler," said Max suddenly. He was using the microphone to speak into the room. "That's a working schtick. Every band needs one." 

"It's like, psychology!" said Ali all at once. "Like stripping naked to get rid of stage fright!"

"That's the idea," I said drily. "Now, do the whole set. From the top. No stops. Ali, say all the words inbetween the songs, like we agreed. I want you guys to look totally different, this time. Like you've been together for like, five years."

Ali nodded studiously as the band got ready. She replaced her strap, smoothed out the silk of her dress over her pneumatic body.

Their next time through, they scored a direct hit. The guys were staring at her as she shimmied around the microphone. They leaned into her as she passed. During an intro, Ali plastered herself against Andrew and pretended to give him in structions, her breasts bobbing against his arm as he plucked his bass. Her between-song words, heavily scripted, were growled with the right carnivorous flare. The V over her breast kept widening and narrowing as the strap fell and was replaced. Her taut thighs, beaded with sweat, slid in and out of the slit of her skirt.

"That's it. That's what we want." I applauded them when they were done. They all had goofy grins. "That's what we try to do for the next week. We should be ready. I think we're done.

* * * * *

Work clothes: Ali had her work outfits for waitressing the diner, carefully orchestrated by me. These were short-shorts, distressed jeans with torn asses, and hip huggers with chopped off beltlines, as well as various weak excuses for tops. I tweaked her waitressing wardrobe over several visits, looking for the most effective combinations. The lower clothes caught people's attention, but it was the tops -- half-shirts, muscle-shirts, torn shirts closed with safety pins, prissy button-ups missing buttons -- it was the tops that raked in the tips. Or it was her smile and her 'perky' demeanour, if you believed her.

Professional clothes: She also had her semi-professional outfits for working at the music studio. These were miniskirts, summer smocks, light dresses that swished up her ass when she walked past. Her tops were airy camisoles, demure white button-ups that would have shown her bra had she still owned any. 

During various visits, I saw that Max the manager was keeping her busy. Answering phones, sweeping the floor, setting up take-out dinners on the low coffee table in the lounge (getting ogled by the lusty musicians she was serving). She was also learning more about the control room console, and sitting in on several sessions with different bands. She was applying her perky attitude at the studio, and noticing some success with it. Max, and his clients, were even calling her Perky, and they could have only learned about the nickname from her. 

Band clothes: Then, during practice, Ali had her stage clothes. After some discussion, the band had democratically decided that she shouldn't wear tight clothes on stage. If we were emphasizing her sexiness, then the sexiest thing about a woman was the possibility of seeing her 'stuff.' And tight clothes didn't fit that bill -- women wore tight clothes when they wanted to pretend at being sexy. So: loose, flowing short dresses; strappy, low tops; short mini-skirts; ripped up jeans. We were going for a sex-grunge look, a sort of "I don't care what you see, it's all about the music" look. As for Ali during this discussion, she listened uncritically, taking notes on our suggestions. The next night, she started dressing the part.

All this clothing had to be carried around by Ali in her backpack. She got to be very adept at slipping away to the bathroom, or disappearing around a corner, and returning with a wholly different look and fashion. 

At the studio one night, she disappeared into the manager's office wearing a blouse and skirt, and returned wearing a muscle shirt and ultra-mini jeans skirt. I didn't even notice that she'd left -- she certainly hadn't shut the door. She was getting very brave and fast about the changes.

I tried to compliment her, but she just shrugged it off.

"That's nothing. All the clothes are so loose and small, I just flip them off and flip the next one on. It helps, not having to worry about a bra -- I never have to worry that my bra straps are going to show." 

"That's interesting," I said. "What about your underwear? Do you have to worry about that showing?"

"Yeah!" she nodded. Here was something she had an opinion about. "So much of my stuff, now, is off the hips. I always have to check to see if the straps are showing, above the belt line. How boring and stupid is that?"

This is what I'd hoped to hear. "Why don't you the same thing to your undies that you did with your bras?" 

"I told you, I don't wear any bras. We threw them out, remember?" 

"I mean, why don't you go without panties? Wouldn't that be easier?"

The paused for a second, her eyes growing large. "Shit! I didn't think of that!" 

"You should try it," I suggested. "It just might work."

"It just might!" 

We were in the music studio, waiting for her band to arrive. Max was fiddling around in the control booth, and a small jazz ensemble was breaking down their equipment in the sound stage. Ali was looking around, evaluating.

"Are you going to take them off right now?" I asked, suddenly turned on. "Out here?" 

"Well, yes. Why not?" she asked. "Do you think someone will complain?"

"No, honey, I don't think there will be any complaints." 

"If you're worried, just stand in front of me for a sec..."

I stepped up next to her, nominally blocking everybody's view, and before I could say anything she was reaching under her miniskirt and pulling down the panties. She held them up, and gave them a disgusted look. 

"So long to you!" She flipped them into the trash can. "I can't say I'll miss them."

I stood for a long, wordless moment. This was a very strange (though sexy) thing I'd seen, and I wanted to savor it. "Ali, you'll still have to wear underwear sometimes, on stage. Some of your outfits were picked to show your panties. Like the short dresses? The ripped jeans?"

"I know," she said. "I'll just have to remember." 

"You're good at that," I said, a tinge of sarcasm.

"Thanks!"

"I mean... this mini-skirt you're wearing now. We picked it because it's so short in front. People can look up it while you're singing."

"Oh. I see. Well, I'm not putting my panties back on now, they're in the trash."

She saw my lustful expression, interpreting it as doubt. She squeezed my shoulder. "Don't worry! We're not on stage! It's just the band, Tyler. Jeez. You think they'll care? Naw," she shrugged. "They'll understand if I'm out of uniform for one night. You watch. They won't care. I'll even tell them."

The skirt in question was a narrow band around her lap -- cut off and thready at the top, it hung far below her hips. Cut off and thready at the bottom, it didn't extend much below her ass -- and the buttons up the front featured an inverted V of missing fabric. The band had modified the skirt for use with light-colored panties because, at times, they winked beneath the skirt and contrasted nicely with her ever-tanner legs.

Tonight, if she sat, or crouched, or even walked -- her cunny would flash in and out of sight. She wasn't on show, but the glimpses, in aggregate, would leave none of the band members doubting what they were seeing. The most hilarious (and hot) thing of all was: Ali thought I was worried about her being "out of uniform."

"Okay," I sighed. "If you think it's okay. Maybe you should let the band know, so they can say if they mind. About being out of uniform."

For the past week, we had been so in her business that my request sounded, in fact, entirely rational. 

"It's just during practices," she said. "I'll ask them."

"And you should let Harvey know about the underwear decision," I said. "Since he helps you pick your outfits in the morning."

The more people she explained her underwear abstinence to, the more solid the decision would be in her mind. The less likely she would go back on it. I was a spoiled man: I had become too used to her beautiful breasts being just a fold of fabric away, just a glance down her front away. I was digging the whole no-underwear thing.

"I will," she nodded. "I wonder if I should throw them all away. Except for my stage panties, I mean."

"That's your call," I said, hugging her. She was a warm, muscular bundle in my arms. "But I think you should."

She leaned her cheek against my chest. "I like how you trust my judgment." 



She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 04



One morning, the phone rang before I left for work. It was Ali, sounding excited.

"I got him back!" 

"Who?" I asked, bleary. This was after my shower, but before my coffee. I couldn't figure out what she was talking about.

"Harvey! Remember? You said he'd try to trick me? He'd get some friends over, to see me shriek and run for the bathroom?"

"I kinda remember."

"Jeez!" she was exasperated. "You said he would try to embarrass me, in exchange for embarrassing him? When I clench my ass against him every morning? At the window?"

To tell the truth, Ali and I had so many things going that we were both forgetting crucial items. But I finally remembered. As a joke, I'd had Harvey stand behind Ali while she was doing her window thing. I'd told him to extend her "actor's exercise" by inviting friends or a pizza delivery over to surprise her. Also as part of the joke, I'd had her stretch voluptuously in his grip. I'd queued her to clench and unclench her ass against his lap. Then I'd warned Ali that he might try to get her back, by inviting people over, people who would see Ali. She all but challenged him to try to embarrass her.

I'd set all this in motion, and forgotten. "Tell me all about it."

"Well, you know I've been ass-clenching him every morning. To get him back for... to embarrass him for... well. I've been ass-clenching him for some reason, I forget what."

I felt a tender smile spread across my lips. She really was a doll. 

"So every morning, I wake up and he's there. Then eventually I get to the window. And he's got me from behind, hands around my waist, looking over my shoulder, and we're counting everybody who's looking up at me. I have a bunch of regulars now. By the way, I think the window thing is working -- I can feel my stage fright slowly disappearing."

"Good, good," I said drily.

"Anyways, as usual, yesterday morning, I'm stretching and ass-clenching my ass in his lap. He's in his boxers -- that's usual now, too, we're both getting pretty comfortable sharing the apartment -- and I can feel his dong through the cotton. I'm giggling to myself, 'cause he's getting a stiffie on my ass, and I'm clenching him like crazy. Are you with me so far?"

I was more than with her. I had my cock out and in my hand.

"I'm thinking, 'So he thinks he can embarrass me?' Even though he hasn't tried to yet. I don't know what I was thinking, maybe nothing. And I'm just embarrassing him an embarrassing him, and he's just standing there behind me taking it, breathing down my neck. And I know. I know that he's going to try to get me back that night."

"How embarrassed was he?" I asked. "Did he cum?" 

"He did!" she burst out laughing. "His cock was through the fly of his boxers at the end, and he came all over my ass-cheeks! He was all, 'Shit! Sorry! Shit!' And if you know Harvey, he doesn't swear. I was all, 'That's okay, Harvey. It happens to everybody.' But inside I was dying!"

"You sure got him," I said, breathing raggedly. 

"He didn't know what hit him! So the rest of the morning, until he left, I was walking around with his cum on my ass. And he was staring, but he was too embarrassed to point it out."

"He doesn't know who he's messing with," I said. "Are you going to forgive him? Or are you going to keep getting him back?"

"I'm not stopping now," she sang. "I'm an empowered woman. He can just curl up and die if he thinks I'll stop ass-clenching him now. That'll show him."

"Maybe," I said, and my voice cracked. "Ahem. Maybe next time, you can, erm, get his dong between your legs. So you can really clench it with your thighs. That would show him."

Man, I'm so transparent. I thought I'd overdone it, but she didn't notice.

"Yeah! Good idea! Let's see him try to get away then!" She laughed.

"Anyway, on with your story." I was quite hard and worked up, and I wanted to hear more. What a great girlfriend she was, to call me randomly like this to relate a fucking fantasy come true.

"Sorry. So -- last night, we were hanging out. Since I've thrown out all my panties, I'm mostly just naked from 9pm to 9am, like we agreed. Harvey was reading on the couch, all dressed up, and I was lying on the couch next to him flipping through the TV. And the doorbell rings suddenly. 

"Harvey gets this shifty expression on his face. He glances at me, sidelong, and asks, 'Are you expecting someone?' I shake my head, no. So he lifts my legs off his lap and goes to the door. Two old guys walk in -- his friends!

"I'm like laughing to myself. I'd so called it right. Here he was, trying to get me back. No way in hell was I going to let that happen. He said, 'Oh! I forgot I invited Sam and Alfonse over. They're friends from work!' 

"They come over, staring at me, waiting for me to go 'Eek! Men!' and run to the bathroom. I just stood up and shook their hands. To fuck with them, I called them 'Mr. Galbraith' and 'Mr. Nadi' all night. Harvey was 'Harv.'

"Harvey got them beers and they all sat down. His friends were on the couch on either side of me. And Harvey was on the lounge chair. We were all just talking along, but I was trying to figure out good ways to embarrass Harvey, right there! If he thought I was going to go 'Eek!', and be some kind of girl, he deserved all I could dish out."

Her voice grew a little more restrained. "Problem was, I couldn't think of much. I guess I needed your help then. I wanted, like, a cell phone. Or a spy gadget, so you could be whispering in my ear. I couldn't think of anything really, really embarrassing to do. And besides, they were keeping me busy answering questions."

"What were they asking?" I breathed. I could just imagine the scene in Harvey's apartment last night. If Ali had a mission, her mind engaged, there was no way she had any body shame. I could just imagine her sitting between Mr. Galbraith and Mr. Nadi, naively chatting away. 

"First they asked about the band, and if I had any publicity photos yet. I told them you were working on that. Then they said it must be hard to stay in shape. What was my workout plan? I told them about the stomach crunches, the squats, the push-ups, all that shit I do every day. They couldn't believe I did sixty crunches a day. They were feeling my muscles, and I noticed finally that Harvey was looking uncomfortable.

"So I was all, 'And feel this one! Strong, eh? And this one! And this one!'" She broke off in laughter. "You should've seen Harvey's face, as they felt all my muscles!"

"Very clever," I said. "What muscles did you show them?" 

"Oh, thigh, calf, arms. Um, stomach, back, ass. They even noticed my chest was ripped -- I didn't know that! I have muscles at the top of my tits; if I box my arms and tense my shoulders, you can actually see the muscles move. They said those were strong, too, from the push-ups."

"They felt your chest?"

"Yeah, my breast muscles. And then, of course, I had to demonstrate my stretches. Eventually the conversation got off me and my 'magnificent female specimen', as they put it. I just sort of curled up between them and let my eyes close. They were talking way over my head. I didn't understand a thing! It was all 'Caligula' this and 'polyamory' that.

"I might have fallen asleep, except that Mr. Galbraith, he put his hand on my thigh. At first I thought he was feeling my muscle again, but he left his hand there. Then I thought he wanted me to get up, or move -- I was leaned up against Mr. Nadi, with my legs curled against Mr. Galbraith. I thought he might be uncomfortable.

"They were still talking, his hand still moving. And then I realized -- Harvey's friend was copping a feel! Can you believe it?"

"I can," I said. "But I know how attractive you are."

"I finally perked up and listened to what they were saying. They were back on me again, how pretty I looked sleeping, and shit. My nipples all hard, and stuff like that. How simple I seemed. I was about to tell them I wasn't asleep, but then Harvey said, 'I'm really uncomfortable with your hand on her.'" She paused. "That's like saying you're embarassed, right?"

"Right."

"That's what I thought. So if Harvey was embarrassed, there's no way I'm going to pretend to wake up. I sort of nestle in to Mr. Nadi, and open my legs a little. Sure enough -- I really am smart sometimes -- before long, his fingers were tracing around my thigh. Before long, Mr. Galbraith had his fingers curling and uncurling against my snatch, and Mr. Nadi had a hand cupping my tit.

"So my eyes are closed like I'm sleeping. And I'm laughing inside, listening to how whiney and breathy Harvey's voice is, as he's trying to hold up his part of the conversation. The poor guy's friends, copping a feel off me right in front of him! I was, like, shivering from trying not to laugh. And they thought I was cumming -- like I'd cum from two old guys clawing all over my body! -- and they dug into me some more.

"Then Harvey told them, 'What I'm feeling now is not discomfort. I'm fucking jealous.' And I knew he wasn't embarrassed anymore. So I stretched, and pretended to wake up. They shifted all their hands a little and pretended to be all innocent.

"But I was still digging the idea of poor Harvey having to see his friends all over me. So we were all over each other until they left. Harvey's eyes were huge as I went into the hall with them. Mr. Nadi traced his fingers down my neck, and was fiddling with my nipple when I kissed him good-bye. Mr. Galbraith had his hand dug into my ass when I kissed him. They said they enjoyed their visit, and I said for them to come anytime. Harvey was groaning with embarrassment."

I gave a tight laugh. This had me more worked up than I could describe. "You are truly the revenge queen! I almost feel sorry for Harvey!"

She drank the compliments in. "Thanks! But I saved the best for last. I was on a roll! Back in the apartment, I was going to fall asleep on the couch. Harvey usually stays up later than me. Since I had him trapped under my legs anyway, I knew he couldn't get away.

"I told him that, for some reason, I was sort of turned on. He was blushing a dark red. Sweating. Like he was having a heart attack. But I wasn't going to let him off so easy. I said, 'Gosh! Ooh! I have to give myself some relief!' He was choking, but I didn't move my legs to let him go. I think he was so embarrassed he didn't even think of that -- he wasn't getting up, anyway. 

"I said, 'I'm sorry about this. You don't have to watch, if it makes you uncomfortable.' He was all, 'Please don't stop on my account.' So I jilled off, right there. I was studying his face, drinking in his expression. He was gulping air, not dragging his eyes away. I had a big stupid smile on my face -- I was owning him. I had my ass pressed up against his thigh, with my hands working my lips. I was doing it all. I was rocking back and forth, I couldn't help making little noises."

I knew her noises. "Mnn-mnn-mnn," when she was turned on. She usually wasn't aware she was making them. When we were in public, people thought she was humming to herself.

"Was he embarrassed by all that?" I asked. This was too good to be real.

"I don't know. He was all red, and breathing hard. I have the feeling he was. He put his hand on my knee. Does that count?"

"You should probably try it again."

"Until I get it right?" she asked. "I figure it's like acting. Like pretending to give a blow-job to the microphone."

"That's exactly how it is," I said.

* * * * *

One morning I called in late for work, and went over to Ali's neighborhood. 

I stayed up the street, away from her window, until I saw it open. From a block away, I still knew what I was seeing. There was Ali's torso, from her thighs to her neck, in the window. Her face was obscured by shadow. I watched as she casually lifted a mug of coffee and then set it down again.

The view was everything I'd thought it would be. Strange -- in the city morning, here was the unusual and arresting vision of a naked female body in a window. Sneaky -- I was watching, and she didn't seem to be aware of my attention; she was just looking out the window, after all, idly studying the street. Sexy -- she was stacked.

I finally stepped closer, realizing she probably wouldn't even notice me among her "regulars." There were about five of us ranged on the stoop opposite her building. Others would pause for a few minutes on their commute, looking up, sharing a few words with the others.

"How's the girl today?"

"She's just fine. She has a few hickies, you can see them."

"I can."

And, "Her old man make his appearance yet?"

"She has a husband?" I asked innocently.

"No," grinned one of the guys. He was in a business suit. "She has an actual old man. There he is!" 

We turned back. I saw Harvey's large hands sliding around her stomach and pulling her back against him. 

"Wow. Too weird," I said.

"Just watch."

Ali relaxed backwards against Harvey, throwing her head back. We saw her neck and her upturned chin. Harvey's grizzle mug, with a 5 o'clock shadow, appeared on her shoulder. He was nuzzling her, rubbing his cheek against her neck.

His hands described coarse circles over her tummy. From her hip-bone across, under her belly button, up her waist, over her rib-cage. His movement jostled her breasts. 

Then, as I watched, she seemed to arch up on her tippy-toes. Her thighs parted for a second, a glimpse of shiny, moist pink. I was watching Ali's new "ass-clench" technology. The cock between the legs thing, that she was so excited to try. Her thighs came back together, and I watched as the muscles on her legs pulsed. She was giving long, slow squeezes.

"Milk it, baby," said one of the guys. He was staring up unabashedly, his eyes wet. 

"Is he fucking her?" I asked.

"Not always," he said. "Sometimes he ends up inside her. But he usually shoots off all over her thighs and pussy. Then he's gone in a flash. She usually hangs out for another five minutes or so. Weirdest thing is, last week she was talking on the phone while it was going on."

I gave a little smile. 

As Ali's leg muscles flexed, the speed increased. Harvey's hands roamed all over her, not just her waist. One palm was rubbing urgently back and forth across the hard knots of her nipples, her breasts squashing back and forth. His other hand was pressed low on her stomach, his bottommost fingers curling and uncurling in the lips of her snatch.

Ali leaned forward, her forehead on the bottom edge of the raised window. We saw her face, her eyes slitted, her mouth an O. Her hands were planted on the window sill and she was leaning forward, grinding her ass into Harvey's lap. Her tits swung in rhythm below her. She was deep in concentration, working her to get him off, to ostensibly "embarrass" him. 

Though it was a second-story window, our view from the street was complete. I saw as Harvey ejaculated. His cum spurted from the V at the top of her legs. He must have been riding high, high up her thighs, in that little spot she had that was crowded with skin, warmth, and moisture. His cock must've been sliding in the moist cleft of her pussy. The folds over her sex were shiny with cum, little streaks of it slid down her legs. 

"There he goes," said one of the watchers, as Harvey disappeared from behind her.

After a moment, Ali straightened. She picked up her coffee mug again. The sexiest thing was the little smile on her lips. The second sexiest thing was the slick white moisture hanging from her nether lips. 

Ali would describe today's window escapade to me -- she always did. As I had expected, she was leaving out all the best details. I was getting the Ali version, filtered through her preconceptions and off-target notions of what was going on. (Her account of that morning went like, "There were six guys on the street watching, as I totally humiliated Harvey. It's like he can't help himself.")

I gave a sigh. 

"Show's not over," grunted one of the men. "She comes down and goes to work in the diner up the street. Her name is 'Perky.'" 

I was ambivalent. These guys' knowledge of Ali, and her routine, smacked of stalking. It also showed how hot she was. A true dream. One of those rare New York women that men will change their schedules just to ogle.

She finally stepped out of the building. She had her backpack on her back, her hair pulled up in a little pony tail. She looked like a college student going to class. But she was also wearing loose little cut-off jeans shorts, the back pockets missing. Her ass cheeks hung down below them, but they featured long horizontal rips over her ass so that the delectable flesh of her butt came into view with each step. She also had the fly unbuttoned and the waistline rolled down her hips -- one of Harvey's innovations. 

Her top was one of my favorites. A demure, thin pink muscle shirt that was cut to just above her belly button. What made it my favorite was the quarter-sized, thready hole on the side of one of her tits. The hole -- and the skin it disclosed -- was mesmerizing; it showed the girl just on the other side of the 4 milimeter thick fabric. When she walked, her whole chest jounced from side to side.

Her path took her right past us. I could've sworn she would see me. But as she passed, her only response to their whistles and calls was a smile and a wave. She didn't even look over at us. If she had, she surely would've seen me.

"I think I feel hungry," I said to the guys with me.

"She won't fuck you," one of them answered. "We've asked."

"All the same."

In the cafe, I passed as she was putting a plate in front of one of her regulars. 

"You're looking mighty fine today," he was saying. As she was leaning over, his eyes were down her front.

"Thanks, Hal," she said. "You're looking good today too."

"You sure you won't fuck me?" He asked, his voice low. I paused, intrigued. "I know you like me. You don't even complain when I grab your ass."

"I hardly think about it anymore," she said. 

I watched as his hand snuck around the table and he palmed the back of her thigh. His hand slid up and cupped the curve of her butt. Her shorts were short, but also loose. Only his thumb rested against the fabric. 

"Besides, just because a guy grabs your ass, it doesn't mean he wants to fuck you," she said knowledgeably. She straightened, and moved away, leaving his hand grabbing air. "I mean, everybody does it. Everybody can't want a piece of me."

Hal laughed ruefully, and then noticed me watching. "Oh, to be young and stupid again."

I smiled down at him. "I'm her boyfriend." 

He shrugged. He wasn't afraid -- though older, he was easily twice my size. In a fight, there wouldn't be much of a contest. "Didn't mean anything by it. She's just a waitress."

"Oh, I don't care," I told him. "A man would have to be crazy not to cop a feel off that ass."

He smiled in surprise. "She's a keeper, that's for sure."

"...Or her tits," I added casually. 

I let him stew on that as I found an empty table. 

I felt Ali before I saw her. When she came to my table, she brushed against my shoulder, a hot, soft presence. Then she leaned over from the hips, her legs straight and her ass projecting into the aisle. Her elbows on the table with her pad in front of her, I had a commanding view down her front. 

"Sooo..." she said. "What'll it be for ya, honey?"

She had the waitress thing down. Everything was calculated to get me turned on -- from the first body contact to the space-invading nearness of her flawless skin. And it didn't even look like she was trying. She was just naturally sexy, naturally available. A natural wet dream. I felt like she was an old friend. And she looked so delicious, spread out so familiarly, her back arched, that I couldn't help myself. 




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 04



As she turned her head to me, I leaned in and kissed her on the lips. A little tongue. My tongue darted past her lips, and pressed hers. Her tongue pressed back, her jaw automatically working against mine. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, and then open.

"Hey! That's not on the menu..." she saw me. "Tyler!"

She leaned in and gave me a bigger kiss. 

"What a surprise! What are you doing here?" She added, in a whisper, "Call me 'Perky', okay?"

"I just wanted to see the most beautiful girl in the world!" I slid my hands across the formica table top, where they innocently brushed against her down-hanging breasts. She knew what I was doing, and gave a wicked little smile as my fingers found her nipples. I pinched and massaged them into hardness.

"Now there's a compliment," she smiled, her teeth gleeming. "So much nicer than all these sex addicts."

I whispered, "Spread your legs a little more when you lean over. Go ahead."

"Okay," she said. Her feet went about six inches more apart. Leaned over like that, her ass was as high as her shoulders, the supple arch of her spine swaying like a bridge. The table next to us had three trucker types who were sending startled, hungry glances at her ass.

"I missed you," I said, my fingers playing with her nipples. I'm almost sure nobody noticed me doing it, especially with her ass in the air. "I didn't feel like going to work on time. I want to be your full-time manager. Someday."

"I was thinking about that too!" she said. "I mean, if we ever start making money. You should get a salary first. So you can quit your job -- if you want to."

"I do," I said. "It's so boring." As I said it, I realized it was true. Ali was spoiling me for a normal 9-5 existence.

"Good. I mean, all the guys in the band have their own jobs. And I'm taken care of. So any money can go to you. And you deserve a raise."

"You're the best," I said, kissing her again. She returned it lustily. "How did your window thing go this morning?"

"The usual," she shrugged. "I'll tell you later. I think I'm ready for phase two, if there is one. What's the next step in getting rid of stage fright?"

She was the sweetest. She had her ass two feet from a table full of truckers; she'd just been groped by a mountainous man named Hal; she'd just had an old guy spurt cum between her legs in front of an open window. She was wondering about how best to get rid of stage fright. 

"We'll start soon," I promised. "But it involves the streets of New York, and a photographer."

Her face lit up. She squealed with excitement. "You finally got a photographer? You are a kick-ass manager!" 

The problem of a photographer had loomed into something large in her mind. Expensive, difficult to attain. This was somewhat my fault, since I was taking it so seriously. For the kind of involved image-making I wanted, we would require not just a camera, but a good photographer and the photographer's ongoing effort to make gripping images. 

We needed Ali's face and body on posters, flyers, business cards. Head shots to distribute to bars and clubs. Body shots for promoters. Artsy shots for demo CDs. I, personally, also the kind of pictures that would come back to haunt an established young singer. And sell concert tickets.

"How much is it going to cost?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said. "I worked a deal. I found a guy who runs a website. He posts pictures of cute girls on the street in New York. Well, he wants more traffic, and we need pictures. So you're going to do some series. The pictures will belong to you, but he can put them on the website. It's all free!"

She was smiling hugely. "You make it sound too easy!"

"It won't be. I had to tell him you really needed his help." I hadn't been forced to tell him. I just threw that in to make the proposition more interesting for him. "You can't complain about anything."

"I do need his help. And when was the last time I complained about anything?"

"I can't remember," I kissed her again. "You're much too serious about this to complain, anyway."

"I sure am!" She looked thoughtful. "What would I complain about?"

This was the tough part. It involved ths sort of pictures the photographer wanted to take. "Let's just say this. If you're lucky, you might get arrested for indecent exposure."

"Oooh!" she said. "That would cause a buzz, right? Career-maker!"

I shook my head in awe. Her enthusiasm was infectious. Perhaps that was the reason for her gigantic income in tips at the diner. 

"The first shoot is this weekend," I told her. "I'll pick you up. He'll bring the clothes. Just don't wear anything tight -- he doesn't want strap-lines showing on your skin. It's an 'on the street' shoot. We'll find places for you to switch outfits."

"Okay," she said. "I'm excited about this. Finally we're getting pictures!"

"Me too. Now I have to go. Be a good little waitress." 

"I will."

I stood. In a jokey voice, I whispered, "Don't be too hard on the men if they grab your ass. They can't help it. You're to die for."

"More compliments! You're in a good mood today." She gave a sweet smile. "I hardly notice the ass-stuff anymore."

"In that case, don't be too hard on them if they grab your tits," I joked. I patted the side of her breast. Her nipples were achingly hard, pointing through the fabric at the ceiling. She had the attention of every red-blooded man nearby.

"Tyler!" she giggled, shying away. "I already told you. Being nice gets the tips, the other stuff doesn't matter. People like me. I'll bet you there's no change at all in the tips."

"I accept that bet," I said. "I want a full report later." 

"You'll see," she said. "I won't do anything when people grab my chest. In fact, I'll make it easy for them. There will be no change in what I earn."

"Then you can do it just for fun," I smirked.

Ali finally turned away and dropped her order pad on the table with the truckers. She leaned over into them, her high ass sticking out. With the truckers watching, I brushed past her towards the exit, letting one hand trail over her ass. She really didn't notice. 

I left her to her work, and went to my own place of employment. My boring, clean, de-sexed workplace. How I was hating it.

* * * * *

For the next gig, Ali wore the choker, boots, ripped jeans, and a distressed muscle-shirt. 

The band went up first, tuned, launched the first song. I held her tightly off to the side, to keep her from running up too early. My arms were crossed over her chest, with my fists pressing into the pillows of her breasts. With my thumb and forefinger, I was surreptitiously pinching her nipples, teasing them to stiffness. I don't think anybody noticed; Ali certainly didn't. She was too nervous and engrossed in the start of the performance.

We were reaching her queue. I whispered in her ear, "You're a star."

Then I released her. She jumped onstage quickly, and started singing. No talking, no hemming and hawing, no explanations. Just her going on stage and performing. Right away, it seemed like she owned the stage.

It was a small, hot bar on a hot New York night. The lights were bright. She was sweating almost immediately. Perspiration glittered on her face, neck, arms and chest. She was also still nervous and largely pale -- a glorious blush rose from her breasts, climbing her neck. Her nipples were hard, dark knots beneath the white fabric. They cast their own shadows; you could see them from the side.

Her voice, however, was rock-solid. She leaned into the mike, and growled: "I got me an itch." Bam! Wah-wah -- the guitar exploded into a deeply distorted riff. "I got me an itch, fuck."

We'd switched from sweet pop-style melodies to harder, grungier, more angsty stuff. The words didn't matter -- just her delivery of them. The message was not the lyrics, it was the messenger.

"I got a twitch, got me an itch / I need a switch."

So it wasn't Milton. But the audience was hushed, staring at her. I remembered the cat-calls and jeers from her earlier gigs, and nodded to myself. This was much better.

She was still plucking at her clothing. She didn't really move with the music yet, so during her downtime she often just stood there, staring into the smoke-obscured audience. I'd warned her not to touch her jeans, and so, according to my nefarious intentions, she futzed exclusively with her top. Her fingers were wrapped in the fabric, pulling it up over her stomach, tightening it over her chest. The more it moved, the more sweat it picked up.

Over the next two songs, we watched as her shirt faded into transparency. Her persona was firm. Here, obviously, was a woman who didn't care about anything except the music. Here was a committed artist who went onstage wearing grungy (but ultimately sexy) clothes, who didn't care about her (sexy) appearance. She could barely be kept from delivering her music.

When she did speak between songs, it was restrained -- and scripted. "Look at all the beautiful people out there. Mmmm!" Her tone was not friendly, but people cheered back. "I'm supposed to ask for some groupies for the band." More cheers. "But I have to say to a few of the ladies: I think I dig your boyfriends." Big cheers.

They launched the next song, Make Me Happy. The band members -- not Raff, but the older ones, from before -- wore baffled and pleased expressions. They weren't used to positive regard from Ali's audiences. Call me cynical, but I was mostly pleased because this would make it easier for me to tell them what to do.

Also new were the people clustered around the stage. The stage was small, and only two feet tall. I'd told her to stick close to the edge. It gave the band more room to jump around, and it made her seem like she was giving herself to the audience more. So she was often only two feet away from a cluster of men and women, who were eye-level with her tits. 

People were reaching out to touch her jeans. As the set continued, some of the hands just rested on her calves and boots. The audience was indeed picking up on the vibe that she was there for them. And when she bent at the waist, to belt out a refrain, they jostled for the commanding view down her front. Ali, concentrating on "projecting to the back of the room," ignored all this.

I liked Ali's top -- who wouldn't? It was tight over the chest and stomach, but with little stress-holes in the seams, like old underwear. 

But I was most proud of the jeans. I'd bought them used, and had spent way too much time making them more used with scissors and a wire-haired brush. They were now faded and abused. One of the ass-pockets was missing, leaving a darker square. There were thread-lined holes in the back, at the bottom of her ass, as well as over her knees. Everywhere it was tight, it was threadbare and rife with little holes. I'd cut out both of the front pockets, so the pocket holes were patches of skin on either side of the fly. I'd taken a pair of pliers to the fly, pulling off the zipper lock so she could no longer zip up. There was the button closing the fly at the waistline, but the fly itself yawned like a sideways mouth when she moved. For the observant, she was wearing little flower-print panties, lined with lace -- a jarring and girly change from the rest of her look.

By the end of the set, she had the mike back in the stand. She was twisting the bottom of her shirt, wringing out a stream of sweat. This was a little improvisation from her -- I'd only told her make an issue of the sweat if she perspired. Get people to notice it -- so they'd know she was working hard onstage for them.

But as she twisted the cloth, the droplets fell, glinting the light. Of course it stretched the straps over her shoulders even more. Hands were extended to catch the sweat. She noticed, finally, and gave a surprised, low laugh. It was so sexy I could've died. She bent at the waist to peer over her chest at the small forest of hands on her calves. 

"You want my pants, huh?" she asked. "What about the shirt?" She held the hem out to them, causing it to slide up her belly.

The crowd was making a lot of noise. Hands reached up towards her. She gave them her arm, clasping hands, slapping high-fives, people's fingers crawling up her forearm. 

"Fuck it's hot in here," she said. "Right?" She flipped the hem of her shirt, a manipulative smile coming to her lips as the crowd yelled. She left the hem of the shirt bunched over her ribs. She swiped her hand across her belly, and flicked the sweat at the crowd. They didn't seem to mind.

The swearing was my invention, the shirt-flip-up was all her. 

Someone yelled something to her. She sneered down at the man. "If I take it off, everybody has to take it off."

Big cheers.

"You want it off?" She plucked at the strap of her tank-top. "Really? Really? Would you mind? Will it make you respect me? I'll do anything for you to respect me."

She was, amazingly, uncharacteristically, having fun playing the audience. It was fun to watch. After everything, I hadn't really expected any showmanship from her. Her band was watching her with big, shit-eating grins. 

"I'm just kidding," Ali said, the mike at her mouth. "I only strip during rehearsals. Ha. I save it all for my boys."

As she walked the edge of the stage, her free hand playing with the crowd's hands, she gave the names of the band members. "And me, I'm Ali Katz. No joke. Keep an eye out for us in the local bars." 

They launched into their last song, the raunch set-closer. It was called 'Naked In A Window'. I'm proud to say I wrote it. It didn't last long in their repetoir, mostly because I'm no musician, but you can still find bootlegs of it online. People still find it shocking. I'd only meant it to help build her stage persona, and so for a while it was the most valuable song she had. I'd cribbed the lyrics from a porn story I'd read once.

Three days in the city,
I feel like a girl who is letting go.
I'm in the window, naked in the window.
Everybody who ever wanted to be inside me
Since I got breasts, since I got my chest
Everybody who ever looked at me:
All ya'll, I'm gonna fuck you,
Gonna suck you, gonna luck you.
You're inside of me
But I'm all around you.
I'm gonna own you.
Or something like that.

Ali shouted, "Thank you!" 

She jumped off stage, and tried to head towards me. No luck. She was surrounded, everybody talking to her at once. I motioned for her to stay there, have fun. She deserved adulation. Words couldn't express how relieved and proud I was. For all she'd sucked as a performer before, it was really something to see her do a solid set. She'd aced it. Her and the band. The audience had believed it. My little Ali. 

I went to the bar and ordered two shots and a tall dark beer. I felt I'd earned that. The manager came up beside me, and waved away my money. 

"When is Ali coming back to us?" he asked.

"What is Ali earning tonight?" I returned. I wasn't being a businessman, I'd really forgotten.

"Not much," he confessed. "We'll double it next time around."

Too easy. "If you double it tonight, we can pick some dates right now."

He paused, considering. I didn't know the business. I didn't know if post-show negotiations were common -- I suspected they weren't. After all, he'd promised some money, and received his service. But, in his mind, he was weighing future income against present expense.

"We can do that," he said. "But you have to be flexible on a slow night. Or if she tanks the next one."

"Sounds like we're both gamblers," I said. We shook hands on it. As he peeled bills from his wad of door receipts, he named dates and I wrote them down on a napkin. Truth be told, our schedule was very open at that point. 

After settling with the manager and finishing my drinks, I returned to the stage. The band was breaking down the equipment even as the next band was setting up. Ali was nowhere to be found.

"She's not helping," said Raff without malice. "I think she's still working the crowd."

I found Ali still still surrounded in a corner of the bar. Someone had bought her a beer, which she was sipping. Her admirers were all guys -- I would've been surprised if they hadn't been. They were all still talking at the same time.

I came up behind her and slid my hand around her waist, displacing a few hands. She had her beer at her lips, and a small smile. Her other hand was being held, and the arm had no less than three hands on it. 

I kissed her cheek, "You were wonderful."

She didn't answer, but only leaned back against me. With my chin on her shoulder, I had her eye-view of the other guys. Hungry, jangled expressions, eyes that danced all over her, from her face to her chest. Her shirt was still pulled high on her stomach, with one strap of the tank-top sliding down her arm. 

"You were so hot up there," one guy said. 

"Thank you," she answered.

The words came fast, from every direction. "You're such a babe."

"I love your slutty attitude."

"Thank you," she said.

"You have a rack. You were built for see-through shirts."

"I just want to grab your tits right now."

"Thank you," she said again.

I doubted she was even hearing what they were saying. 

"Do you really strip for your band?" 

"Do you assfuck?" 

She giggled, and took a sip of beer. "Thank you."

"You could be a porn star." 

"Thank you. I had a lot of fun."

We had to get going. The sweat from Ali's shirt was soaking through to my chest. Her high ass, pressed against my dong, was making things even harder for me. 

In a clear voice, I announced, "Sorry guys. We have to get going. Keep an eye out for us next week."

"Shit, don't take her away!" one guy squawked.

Just to fuck with them, I moved my hands to Ali's chest. I grabbed her by her tits, and pulled her backwards out of the clump. Her nipples were two firey points in the palms of my hands. Ali passed her half-drunk beer to one of the guys, and permitted me to walk her out of the bar.

Outside, the guys were loading the van. I was too horny to care about them. I turned her around and pressed her against the van. The sounds of the street hummed in my ears -- the cars, the clatter of heels on the pavement as people passed by. 

My hands clawed at her tits -- I'd wanted to do that all night, since I saw her take the stage. My mouth was on hers, pressed hard on her lips. She returned my tonguing with heavy, groaning lust. Her mouth was extremely wet. 

I heard the van door close, and noticed that the band had gathered around us. I pulled back, strings of saliva snapping between our mouths. I forced my hands to drop from her chest. 

We stood there for a moment before I spoke, watching her. Her mouth was open, her tongue over her bottom teeth. Her eyes were glazed, she was breathing heavily through her mouth. Her chest, beneath the distended and very mussed shirt, heaved at us, the dark brown circles of her aureoles looked brown and not pink in the streetlights. 

I gave them their cut of the money. 

"Good pay," said Raff.

"You think that's good? You think we're selling her for enough money?" I paused. "Well I don't. And neither did the manager."

I gave them their bonus. Everybody had twice the cash they expected.

"Guys, we're selling dreams," I said. "We're selling sex. Look at her. We're selling Ali. Every night on stage, we're selling her to the crowd." 

We looked at her. She was licking her lips, making small "Mnn-mnn-mnn" sounds. 

"We made money tonight because she was up there, shaking her tits and ass, and singing her heart out." I looked at them, and they were solemnly looking at Ali. They were taking it seriously. The success of the gig, and the adoring crowd -- it had been a quasi-religious experience for them. They were primed for a sermon. "Does anybody really believe this is not her band?"




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 04



Heads were shook. I took Raff's hand, and pressed it against Ali's tit. "You're selling her tits. You're selling her ass. Her mouth. Her pussy. Everybody, grab her tits."

Hesitantly, hands raised. Ali watched the hands draw closer, still breathing hard, with her own hands at her side. She didn't shy away, and they got a feel.

"We now have five more play-dates," I concluded. "Every night we're on stage, I want you to love her. You have to own her. You have to worship her. Ali. She's yours, and you're selling her to the crowd. They have to know her value. Remember how her tits feel. She needs you, but it's all about her."

Their little musician minds were awed. "Yeah." 

I reached out and stroked her cheek. They watched as my fingertips glided down her cheek, to her chest. I was too far in heat to have any restraint. My fingers fiddled with her nipple as I spoke: "Didn't she do a great job? Wasn't she wonderful?"

"Yeah," said Tom, the drummer. "You were great tonight."

"Thanks, guys. You were great too."

"Group hug," I announced. We closed in on her, hands wrapping everywhere. She giggled suddenly, and we all felt her body vibrate. "Okay. I'm gonna take Ali home now, and fuck the shit out of her."

"You and what army?" she laughed.

"See you at practice tomorrow."



She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 05



That weekend, I took Ali to Central Park to meet the photographer. His name was Alexi, and he ran a special-interest website that featured candid "girl on the street" shots of pretty women he found in New York. He had wanted to bump up his traffic and get some real photo galleries, to make his website less hobby-ish.

He was a tall, unassuming guy about Ali's age. He shook her hand, eyeing her up and down. That morning, she was in a formless mu-mu, nothing tight or strappy that would leave "imprints on the skin" as he put it. Still, it was exceedingly short, coming to just below her ass, and it featured a low-cut square over her breasts. It was a warm, windy day in New York, and the fabric billowed away from her legs as she moved.

"You're just right," Alexi told her.

"Thanks! You know, we have a name in common? My real name is Alexis."

"That's cool," he said.

I said, "Okay, guys. The theme for Ali's early career is this: Owned by the world. The music, the singer, belongs to the world. She must seem accessible, open, without any boundaries. Her songs are about how she's giving everything. Her attitude is that she doesn't give a fuck about anything but the music. At the same time, she has to be interestingly sexy, so people care who the hell she is."

"That goes with my theme pretty well," said Alexi.

"What's that?" Ali asked.

"Getting naked in public."

She laughed suddenly. "Well, if there's one thing I can do it's that."

I said, "We need a few different sets today. Next weekend, we'll do more. The deal is for ten themed galleries."

"I'm sort of nervous," Ali confessed suddenly.

"We'll take it slow." Alexi passed me a canvas bag. I noted that it was full of clothes. 

"I mean," she continued. "You're a real, honest-to-gosh photographer. What if I mess up?"

Alexi stared at her for a long moment. I was smiling and nodding behind her head. I'd told him that Ali didn't think like other girls. "I have forty rolls of film. If you mess up, we'll keep shooting until you get it right."

"Just tell me what to do," she said.

"Put on the first outfit. The cut-off t-shirt, the shorts. This is for the 'frolic in the park' gallery."

I started to look around for a place for Ali to change. A bathroom, something. Ali simply pulled the two pieces of clothing from the bag on my arm, and turned her back on us. We watched as she pulled the shorts up her legs, and then tossed off the mu-mu. Her breasts appeared, curving around her ribcage, as she shrugged into the t-shirt.

It was a Saturday morning in Central Park -- the place wasn't unpopulated. Still, there was nobody nearby, and she'd only been topless for a moment. (Also, women are allowed to go topless in New York.) I shrugged at Alexi, who smiled back at me. 

Ali turned to us, holding her arms out. "Good enough?"

"Wow," I said. "Good enough!"

"Yeah," added Alexi.

The jeans shorts were low and loose on her, missing buttons on the fly. They hung off her hips, highlighting her tight little belly and her rounded ass. 

The t-shirt was the best. It was a half-shirt, cut short, to a few inches below her chest. The best thing about it was a vertical cut, running from the bottom up between her breasts. From the front, the shirt hung naturally, and the vertical cut was an upside-down U, pulled open by the size of her breasts. From the side, you could see the bottom curves of her breasts. The wind was moving the fabric of her shirt.

"Keep that position," said Alexi. He raised his camera and quickly snapped a few shots. "No, it's okay to smile. Shift to the right. We need some shadows on your stomach, and to see up the shirt."

She did as requested. 

(These sets appeared online the next day. Ali and I visited the website together, me on the chair and her naked in my lap, marveling at how good she looked in the photos. Well, I did the marveling, she had other things on her mind. She giggled every time we loaded the large-size version of the thumbnails, saying she looked silly. Half the time, she was groaning with embarassment, pointing out the people in the background checking her out. The other half of the time, she was, fantastically, turned on. She made her "Mnn-mnn-mnn" noise, curling and uncurling her toes against my feet, her little hands clawing at my thighs. 

The website said: "This is my friend Ali Katz. Yeah -- dumb name, but she's a sweetie. She's an up-and-coming singer in a New York band. We were hanging out in the park one day, and she said it would be okay if I snapped some pictures of her. As you can see, she has no clue she's a hottie. She said she had fun pretending to be a model. The first 20 pictures are free, but for the last 40 from this series, you must pay to be a member.")

We strolled along the walkway in the park, moving towards the more crowded sections. Alexi stopped her frequently, to pose next to statues and fences. Shortly, he had her walking ahead of us, or behind us, as he snapped pictures of her. She strolled along by herself, with either an uncritical open expression on her face or a vapid half-smile, not seeming to notice the heads turning as she passed. 

She looked natural, like a normal hot young woman, dressed down to enjoy the sun. Not like she was posing for some voyeur porn site. Still, as her shorts rolled with each step, and her thighs flexed, she was mesmerizing. Her breasts lifted the half-shirt away from her torso. The slit up the shirt revealed the delicious curves under her chest. What I liked best, however, was how the muscles in her stomach rolled with each move, the cuts flexing sequentially as they narrowed down her waist. 

(The website said: "I was totally happy about Ali's outfit. And so was everybody else. As you can tell from the pictures, she had a few admirers who stuck close to her. She didn't notice -- I guess pretty young women are used to the attention.")

After we told her to act more naturally, she started to enjoy herself. She squatted to pet a puppy dog, to the delight of the man walking it. The puppy stood on its hind legs to lick her chin, and Alexi snapped away as the bottoms of her breasts emerged from the bottom of her shirt. Her shorts were cut high, and there was only a thin strap of fabric between her legs -- the muscle down each inner thigh flexed as she kept her balance, and the sun shown on the delicate, shaved skin next to her sex.

(The website said: "Whenever she bent over, the back of her shorts slid down her ass, showing the top of her crack to anybody who looked. And she didn't seem to know how short her shirt was.")

She stopped to watch a street band playing salsa music, clapping her hands over her head and wiggling her hips. She bought an ice cream from a vendor. She delved to the front of the crowd watching the roller-bladers dancing in loops around a boom-box. 

Alexi kept his camera busy, and nobody really noticed. At any given location in New York, there are photographers taking pictures of street scenes and street life. We blended in with the others picture takers. I noticed a few taking snaps of Ali. I'd been seeing that more often, especially since I'd changed her wardrobe. When she noticed, once, I told her they were papparazzi.

In the crowd by a fountain, Alexi motioned her into the water. She took off her clogs and held them in hand as she stepped over the edge, wading into the water. It was her and a few kids splashing around, with a sun-dazed crowd of onlookers sitting nearby. 

She stepped to the middle of the fountain, reaching up to touch the statue in the middle. Her body, stretched and taut, soaked up the sun. She put her hand into the streams of water, splashing it around, speckling her shirt. Alexi kept shooting. 

Later, she sat on the edge of the fountain to dry off. Her knees were gathered in her arms, her ankles crossed. She had a dreamy expression, her cheek on her knee. Beneath her chin, her breasts hanged out below the bottom of her shirt. 

"This is good," I breathed.

"Yeah," said Alexi. From forty feet away, he mimed pulling her legs up. She noticed, and slid her legs up, hugging her knees and straightening her back. Now her breasts hanged out more, the shirt bunched on her chest. He kept her like that as people passed by, trying for reaction shots, he told me. She had no clue: looking down from above, she seemed covered. From the side, Alexi and I, as well as her admiring audience, could see the dark point of a nipple pressing against her thigh. The nipple was hard, cold from the water, and to the world she seemed like a normal young woman, carelessly and unknowingly on display. 

When he got enough pictures of people passing and scoping her, he pointed over to an empty park bench. Ali joined us as he was changing his film. 

"Time to switch outfits," he said. 

"That was all?" she was surprised. "What about the whole being sexy thing?"

"You were," I said. "You just have no clue how sexy you are, do you?"

"I guess I don't," she said. "Because the whole time, I was waiting for the work to begin. If it's all as easy as walking through a park, I feel like I'm taking advantage of you."

"This time, change in the bathroom. It's too crowded here." I was pulling out her next outfit -- it was a baggy, durable pair of overalls, cut into a miniskirt high on the leg, and a sports bra. 

When Ali came out of the bathroom by the merry-go-round, my heart was in my throat. I swear -- women have it so easy. They get away with so much. 

The sports bra was little more than a thin white bandeau across her breasts, with the straps cut off. When the sun hit her from above, a little square of light filtered past the bottom of the bra down below her sternum: the bottom edge of the bra was physically pushed away from her ribcage by her breasts. There was cleavage from the bottom of her chest.

Not that this was too obvious. She was partially covered by the other piece of clothing -- the overalls, which were clearly sized for a big man, not a petite woman. 

The straps of the overalls dangled loosely over her shoulders, attached to a bib in front that nominally covered her stomach. The overalls left her sides completely bare to her hips -- and the buttons on the hips were missing, leaving two vertical slits down to her thighs. When she stepped, the slits yawned apart, showing (in brief glimpses, from the side) the exact area her torso attached to her legs. 

The pant legs had used to be long -- but they were cut off at the crotch. Ali was effectively wearing an "overalls skirt" that ended at the top of her thighs, but it was so baggy and open that it hardly qualified as a covering at all. The wind didn't move the fabric, which was too heavy, but when Ali moved, it bulged out stiffly and shifted wholly over her body. It was like she was wearing a wooden barrel, but with a few critical planks missing on each side.

(For the next set, the website said: "I'd had such fun taking pictures of Ali in the park, that I practically begged for another photo shoot. She wondered why anybody would follow her with a camera as she did her errands. She thought I was crazy, but said okay. You'll see why I was so anxious to for another photo session.")

She came up to us and struck a pose. Legs out, pulling the "skirt" part tight. One hip forward. Arms out, and her shoulders twisted. Alexi and I ogled the clear line of flesh down her side, from her sports bra to her upper thigh. 

"I didn't think this would be so comfortable," she said. Behind her, a group of guys passing by turned their heads. 

I had expected the outfit to be frumpy, formless. But if anything, the baggy overalls made her look fit and sporty. It was as if she'd emerged into the street for supplies, after a morning of painting her apartment. 

"Let's go a few blocks into the city," said Alexi. "The idea is, you're window shopping. At the end, we'll stop you at a bodega so you can buy something."

"Fine, but I don't have any money on me," she warned.

That gave me a flash of inspiration. I took a wad of 5s and 1s from my pocket, and gingerly shoved them into her bra. The edge of the wad peeked above her left breast, next to her armpit. It looked charming.

"Perfect," said Alexi. "A woman who puts money there is a woman who knows her outfit is too shabby to have pockets. That's a woman who chooses to keep her money in her underwear."

Ali looked confusedly from me to Alexi, and then shrugged. "You want me to walk ahead of you again?"

"Yeah, why not," said Alexi, winding up his camera.

"Should I look casual again? Or just walk?"

He laughed at her. "Just walk casually. If you can manage."

"I'll see," she said seriously. 

She turned away and we let her get about fifty feet in front of us. Alexi and I trailed along behind her, ignoring the rest of the world. We even ignored the other beautiful women who had dressed down for a hot day in the park. We just followed, snickering like two schoolboys, making observations about Ali, with Alexi intermittently snapping pictures.

The sports bra narrowed to a 3-inch band in back, and clearly wasn't offering Ali much support. Her breasts shifted (we could see even from behind) as she walked, and every half-block or so she had to pull it higher on her chest. 

The straps of the overalls crossed behind her back -- like the suspenders she'd started her new life with -- and fastened to the overalls at the beltline over her ass. The overalls had been constructed for a much larger man, so the beltline was low enough for us to see the dimples at the top of her buttocks. With each step, they indented on the side of the leg she pushed off from.

Moreover, the overalls were cut shorter in back than in front. It was ingenious, and I complimented Alexi on that.

He said, "From your description of her, I had a general idea of her height and proportions. You said she was built like Angelina Jolie. But I didn't have measurements, so all the clothes are loose. Too loose, sometimes, it looks like. But I hate tight clothing anyway."

"Me too."

"So every time I took the scissors to a piece of clothing, I was freaking out. Is this too much? Is this not enough? It was a new experience for me."

"For me too," I agreed, thinking of how I'd gone over Ali's wardrobe. By the time I was done with something, small holes were larger, and thin fabric had holes. Seams were split. Cuts were frayed. Buttons and snaps were wrenched off. Straps were of uneven length. Tight stretches were tighter, loose stretches were looser. Of course, it helped having Ali there as an actual model.

"I think all men want a barbie doll girl they can pose. Forget about fucking. Testosterone makes you want to play dress-up."

"That's my theory too."

Unless Ali specifically checked the length of her hem, she would think that the back was as long as the front (not that the front was very long). But in back, the cut curved up at about 10 degrees, which worked out to be quite high on her thighs. From the rear, you could see the gap between her thighs narrowing quickly as the eyes traced up, narrowing to almost nothing before the hem interrupted the natural flow up her legs. 

It was the kind of error a woman could make while making cut-offs, but not so erroneous that she would toss out all her work. A woman would say to herself, "I'll just have to remember that I cut it a little too short in back." And then she'd forget.

As Ali moved out of the park and into the open sun and wind of the city streets, the uneven hem created all sorts of interesting suggestive shadows, but the shadows were never dark enough to be impenetrable. To the dedicated watcher -- and she passed by more than a few -- the height of her skirt was a maddening challenge.

Alexi had reaction shots galore as Ali walked down the street, or waited at intersections. Men spun on their heels, slowed their paces. All heads turned towards her. Nearby conversations stopped when she readjusted her sports bra. 

When we were close to her, the camera helped explain things to the public. She had a sort of fashion model reality field running for her. If you have a camera-man, a staff, then everything about a showy outfit is excused. Excused, but still enjoyed.

Later, Alexi moved us across the street so we could shoot her from the side with his telephoto lense. The pictures are magnificent -- Ali in perfect focus, with the half-blurred forms of people all around her, their white smudged faces staring at her. The gap left by the slits down the sides of the overalls made it possible for Alexi to shoot into her clothes. Into the opening, around her stomach, sometimes out the other side. 

I mention all the people watching because I like that sort of stuff. But Ali looked mostly like a normal young woman, out running an errand before she went home to wax her floors. Most of the people passing by didn't even notice her. Ali herself seemed bored by the whole procedure. 

But what showed up in the pictures was another story entirely. A selective interpretation of events, the specific reality that, for some of the lucky men who noticed, she was a wet dream in action. 

With Ali distant from us, the three of us fell into a form of nonverbal communication. Alexi had thought his method through quite thoroughly. He had me standing beside him. He told me what pose to take, and I (with no little embarassment) would casually change positions. Thirty to forty feet away, Ali mimicked my poses, exaggerating everything I did.

- In front of a subway exit: arms up, hands fluffing her hair -- she presented a stunning profile to the streams of people climbing the stairs. 

- At the edge of the sidewalk: a modest squat and twist, to fiddle with her clogs -- her overalls gaped and left her whole upper body open in the sunlight. 

- At an intersection -- legs spread, hand idly rubbing her stomach under the overalls, as a businessman stared with an expression of pained desire from five feet away. 

- Waiting for a telephone booth while unknowingly surrounded by a clan of street kids: lifting her sports bra higher (her breasts peaking out underneath) and then flapping it to let the air in, her firm breasts barely moving as she fiddled with her top.

Finally, at a deli, Ali bought us all apples, paying with the cash tucked in her bra. We caught the counter-guy's reaction, as well as some side-long glances from the man beside her in line. He was staring down the slit in her overalls, staring at her stomach, and how it curved down, down, and disappeared under and between her legs. He was getting an unobstructed view of little Ali's lower torso, and he only didn't see her sex because he was above her, and her vagina was below her. The guy beside her couldn't help himself -- he reached over to her.

I was heavily turned on by all this. "We have to get some more guys touching her."

Alexi gave me a greedy grin. "That's what I was thinking too. But it's not covered in our agreement."

"Forget the agreement. As long as we get our pictures, let your imagination run wild."

"You should know, I have a wild imagination," he said, and then gestured her over. 

The third and last photo shoot of that day was conceptual. We jumped the subway downtown to Washington Square Park. Alexi's office had a clear view overlooking the park -- he had a real job, it turned out. The website was supporting itself but not him. Any office with a park view meant that any red-blooded male would spend a portion of each day staring down at the co-eds enjoying NYU's only outdoor space. NYU wasn't a campus, just a collection of buildings, and the park is what passes for a grassy area. This explained how Alexi got his idea for his website.

In the office, Ali turned her back on us and changed, not seeming to notice how we both stared at her in dead silence. 




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 05



She was chattering on about how, if she was prettier, she thought she'd like to be a model -- it seemed easy. If you can put up with whistles on the street, and endure street kids yelling at you to take it off, and deal with funky old men "grabbing your stomach and not letting go as you buy apples at the deli," why, then you had it made. 

We were watching her with in horny, slavering silence, indifferent to anything about her except how built she was, and how easy she seemed.

Let no one tell you different -- the body is an attractor for men, but so is the mind. A simple mind -- and Ali could be quite dim -- makes that body seem so much more attainable. Dumbness as an aphrodisiac -- by Ali's affect on Alexi, indeed on all the men she came across, it was clear that naivete and simplicity were huge turn-ons. On the other hand, a woman with a sharp mind makes men go ga-ga. So the question isn't settled yet.

"What do you think?" Ali said, when she was done talking.

I had no clue how to respond. 

Alexi ignored her. "Here's where you start the hard work. Take my cell phone, and get your pretty ass down to the park. Wait for instructions."

"Okay," she said. 

Alexi set up his tripod and a big lense for his camera. I had the use of his telescope. We were safe in the sky. We had two comfortable chairs by his big windows, cokes from the machine down the hall, and a pretty girl in the park. We were in heaven.

We watched as she entered the park and made her way to the fountain in the middle. Unlike the fountain in Central Park, this one was made for sitting. It had upwards of 60 people sprawled around the stepped circumference, all soaking up the sun and getting sprayed with water when the wind shifted.

(For this set, the website said: "I took Ali to a bar to thank her for letting me take her pictures. She still had no idea why I (or a million other men on the street) found her so interesting. She was like, 'Whatever.' She ordered a beer, but I talked her into a few Screwdrivers. She was easy to convince -- you'll believe me now when I tell you she's dumb. Any dumber, and she wouldn't have a pulse. Plus, she was half-drunk and feeling no pain, and I thought I might want to fuck her. She is that dumb -- even I could talk circles around her. 

"Then she mentioned she was going to hit the park and relax and get some sun. I figured I could fuck her any time, and I should let some other guy have a chance. Plus, I had work to do. Since I have a view of the park, I checked on her from my office, and found she was primed for a third photo shoot. I don't know who she was talking to on the phone."

Later, when she and I surfed the website together, she read that. She said, "Why did he write I was dumb? What was it I said? When did he figure it out?" I merely grinned at her -- I'd told Alexi to put that in. To turn her on. It worked.)

I called Ali on the phone. We watched her jump, and look around. Then she saw the phone in her hand and fumbled with it.

"We didn't tell her how to work the phone," groaned Alexi. 

She finally answered. "Hello? Alexi's phone? He's not here right now. I'm supposed to be doing a photo shoot, and, like, they'll be calling me to tell me what to take off. So I can't talk long."

"Ali, Ali, it's me. Tyler."

"Hi Tyler! How did you get this number?"

"Alexi gave me the number," I said. Alexi was rocking with laughter. "Are you ready? How do you feel?" 

"Bored with a capital B. What a waste of a day. Just walking around. We could've been fucking."

When she said that last word, I saw several heads jerk towards her. "You don't have to shout with cell phones, honey."

"Sorry."

"Here's what you do first."

We had her go to the fountain, and find an open spot to perch on. She was wearing her clogs, a tiny pair of loose jogging shorts, panties, and a muscle shirt. The shirt was white, tight, and displayed the curves and details of her chest with heart-stopping clarity. 

She was sitting sideways on the low wall. I told her what to do, and said I'd call back. 

Alexi and I watched, him clicking his camera, as she fingered her top. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, her whole body was covered minimally, maximizing the sunlight flowing onto her. People were stepping over her to get to the fountain, or standing nearby to watch the fountain. The fountain was a tight clump of humanity.

Seeming to reach a decision, Ali pulled one strap off her shoulder, and then the other. Not far down her arms. She put her head back and closed her eyes, soaking in the sun. She gathered a little crowd all her own, in that pose. She was all muscle, all soft skin. 

But wait -- she wasn't satisfied. She gingerly took hold of one strap, and pulled her arm out through it. Then repeat on the other side. She had made her tank-top into a tube-top. It was easily tight enough to stay up all day, but her fiddling had pulled the neckline down her chest. She was 1/3 out of the fabric, with her back arched and her head back, and her eyes closed. 

If you were a man, and you saw her like that, offered to the world in a sea of humanity, you would've paused. You would've decided to be late for your child's school recital. It was worth it.

She pulled up the bottom of her shorts, and rolled down the elastic waistline, ignorant of all the eyes taking her in. She settled more, her body stretched, so much skin. In a way, she was ludicrously sexy -- how could she not know how she looked? How hot she appeared? But then, shifting frames of reference, she was merely a young woman trying to get some sun, unaware of how slobbery and depraved men could be.

I gave her a call. 

"Tuck the straps into your top, so they don't hang down so much," I told her.

"Tell her to move," said Alexi. "I see an opening closer to the water, just to her right."

"Did you hear that?"

"Yes," she said. 

I hung up.

We watched her slide off the edge and navigate through the tightly packed bodies to the open spot. She took the seat, saying something to the guys next to her (or answering something they said). As she talked, she folded the straps inside her top, so it looked even more like a tube-top. Then she leaned back, and tried to get comfortable. The steps were pebbly, but worn smooth on the edges by years of foot-traffic and water. Soon, she was sprawled out again.

Alexi and I watched the water drift her way. It rose up in a sharp plume, and then the air picked it apart, letting it come down as a fine mist. She was soon covered in a fine sheen of droplets, which made her shiney from our remote vantage point. It also dampened her t-shirt. 

The guy who had vacated Ali's spot returned -- the other guys around her were his friends. He said something that made her laugh, and then squeezed in beside her. She slid over accommodatingly.

(The website said: "Of course, our Ali was soon hemmed in on all sides by hot-blooded American manhood. All of them found some excuse to talk to her. I wonder why.")

Alexi waited until she looked relaxed and calm, before he told me to call again. "I think it's time."

I redialled the phone, and watched as she picked up. 

"Hello? Alexi's phone?"

"It's me," I said.

"Tyler?"

"Yeah, me, Tyler. What the heck are all those guys saying to you?"

She threw her head back and laughed. "You can see everything, can't you? Mostly just about the weather. Am I a student or not. Do I have a boyfriend."

"Next guy who asks, you don't have a boyfriend, okay?" I said.

"But, I consider you my boyfriend," she said slowly. "Right?" 

"Of course, honey! I wouldn't give you up for a million dollars! But if the guy thinks you're unattached, and you're very friendly, maybe he'll reach out and touch you. Alexi needs some shots of guys touching you."

"Oh! Well, okay. That's always easy."

"Alexi told me to tell you to take off your shorts." I waited a moment, and when she didn't say anything, I said, "Is that okay? You have panties on."

"Why not? It's like a swimsuit, after all."

Not exactly, I thought, but I didn't correct her. "Okay. Have fun. Oh -- and pull down your top a little more. And pull it up over your stomach. Remember, you also have to get a tan."

"Oh! Right!"

She hung up. 

Alexi and I watched, breathless, as she raised her butt off the step. Steepled on her shoulders and feet, she hooked her thumbs into the rolled waistband of her little running shorts. As she pulled them down her legs, the guys around her stopped and turned, their mouths open. We couldn't see precisely where they were looking, because they all had sunglasses, but we could guess.

Her shorts were over her knees, and she leaned forward and threaded her feet out of them. She spread them under her ass, and then settled back down. She was, after that, the hottest woman soaking up the sun at the fountain. There were a few others that were close, but none of them matched her physique, or outfit. The eyes of the crowd were on her -- she was hooking people from as far away as the footpath opposite the fountain. They would look, then do a double-take, and then drift slowly closer to Ali's place at the fountain. From above, we could see how she distorted, like gravity, the general flow of students, teachers, and the public.

Alexi was giddy with pleasure. "She's so fucking right for this job."

The band over her chest was wrinkled at the top and bottom, where she had pulled it down and up. But it was tight over the tips of her breasts. The panties were small -- shaped for hip-huggers, and consequently low off her hips. Two little straps, and a triangle of white cotton over the mound of her sex.

She had barely gotten comfortable again when one of the guys started talking to her. This time, the conversation went longer. Later, Ali told me what the man said:

"You look comfy."

Ali gave him her friendliest smile. "Thanks! Oh -- I don't have a boyfriend. And, I'm friendly."

"Really! Say... aren't you worried about the prevalence of skin cancer? From the sun?" He apparently was some sort of medical student. And that was his line. (How pathetic.)

She shook her head. "I've heard that Prevalence is not so bad. I'm not worried." 

He'd merely stared at her, not saying anything to that.

Just to keep the conversation going, Ali said, "And I forgot my suntan lotion. You don't have any, do you?" 

This prompted a quick search by all the guys around her. It was hilarious. 

(The website said: "Ali apparently asked this poor schmuck for a rub-down. Look at him scramble!")

The guy finally turned back to her, holding a tube of something. He said, "Zinc oxyphalophrene, with some aloe-based skin nutritive and soya cream. Is that okay?"

"Will it turn me blue?" Ali asked, her brow furrowed. "I'm kidding. I kid, because I'm friendly." 

"It's perfectly safe," he reassured her. Ali later told me he'd started speaking slowly, as if to a child -- the dummy! "I'm friendly, too." 

"You are? That's so cool -- it's such a nice change to find friendly people in New York. Everybody's usually in such a hurry."

He didn't have anything to say to that, either.

She leaned back, "You can start on my legs, if you want." 

"Huh? Oh. Oh!" He sat up over her, looking down. Soon the zinc whatever-the-hell was spread in his palms, and his palms were resting on Ali's toned thigh.

(I later complimented her on her good idea -- getting him to put lotion on her. She looked surprised, and then bashful. "To be honest, I never thought of putting it on myself. I mean, it was his lotion.")

Alexi was crooning to himself, snapping away and changing rolls quickly. I had the telescope pressed against my eye, watching this strange, lanky guy get familiar with Ali's shapes and curves. 

He worked his way down her legs to her ankles, and then back up. He was quite liberal with the lotion. As he moved back to her knees, she parted her legs a little. "Get the insides," she said.

His hand made small round motions up her inner thighs, to roughly half an inch below her panties. Then he nervously skirted the straps, lining each side, and put a hand full-on her stomach. Ali is tight. When you rub her skin, it doesn't move. I didn't have a good enough view through the telescope, but I knew what the medical student was feeling (if not the names of the muscles). His fingers would be rippling over her abs as he rubbed back and forth, then thrumming over her ribcage.

"Mmmm," said Ali. "It feels like a massage. Do you know about the muscles and bones, in women?"

"In men and women," he said. He added quickly, "And that's because I'm going to be a doctor. Not because I massage men."

He drizzled a little lotion on the hollow of her neck. When she didn't move, except to lean her head back, he gingerly massaged the lotion up the steep curves of her breasts. 

She said, "I always thought I'd end up marrying a doctor. My parents said I'd be good for that. I always wanted to be a trophy wife, because it sounds so important. You know, be a plaything. My parents were always pressuring me to be more."

(When I complimented her on her teasing, she again shook her head. "I always did want to be a trophy. The best of the best. How romantic!")

"I think you have what it takes," said the medical student. He was finally done with her, and was just devouring her with his eyes from above.

"Really? You're just saying that. How would you know?" He raised her head.

"I just gave you a physical exam," he smiled. 

From our vantage high above, we could see how her breasts pushed away her cotton tube-top. It was narrow enough that a wedge of sunlight showed through the bottom. When she was lying with her head back, someone behind her could look down between her breasts to her stomach. 

The water was also having its way with the cotton of her clothes. Each spray made it a little stickier, a little more translucent. The medical student was locked on to her like a lamprey eel. 

"Is it all physical, then?" she inquired. "Or is it other stuff, too?" 

"Oh, there's lots of stuff about being a good trophy wife. The physical aspects are just one of them."

"Give me a fer'instance," she prompted. She was up on her elbows, her breasts jutting up at him.

"The hair is important, too. And kissing. And an open mind."

"Is that the 'plaything' part?" she asked. "So, how do you know if I'd be a good plaything? We haven't even kissed. And I think my hair is just fine."

I couldn't help myself at that point. All I knew at the time was that he was so close to her. I called her cell.

"Nooo!" moaned Alexi. "You're driving them apart!" 

Ali picked up the phone and put a finger to the med student's lips, to keep him from answering her. Charmed, he just sat there.

"Hello? Alexi's phone?" she said. 

"You can stop saying that," I told her. "It's me -- Tyler."

"Hi!" she said brightly.

"You're so close to him. Why aren't you kissing him already?" 

"Do you think I should? Do you think that's appropriate?"

"Sure it is. He just groped your whole body. He wants it. Who are you to not give it to him?"

"I'm nobody, I guess. I'm just some girl," she said. "Oh! You mean, for the photos?" 

"Um, yeah. For the photos. You could get into a crazy make-out session or something. Really play it up." I was shivering with excitement. "Think of the band. Your manager needs you, now."

"If you put it that way, then sure," she said. 

"If it helps, he probably thinks you're stupid by now," I said. Alexi looked at me in alarm, but I waved him off.

"You don't have to flatter me," she said. "I'll do it."

We clicked off. 

She turned back to her student. "You were going to kiss me?"

"I guess I was," said the guy.

He leaned in, eyes open, and pressed his lips against hers. She parted her lips for him, and worked his tongue into her mouth. He got the clue, and soon had her in a deep, engaged French kiss.

Alexi was past excitement. "Do you see what she's doing?" 

"I do," I said. I half wished I could whip my pud out and work it. But not with Alexi there. 

"She's amazing," he enthused. "She just sticks her hand into the stream, and pulls out a fish. We tell her which fish. We tell her how to tickle it. She does it. She's like a superhero for lust."

The crowd noticed Ali's make-out session too. Some people were glancing over more often, while others were outright staring. Ali's knees were swinging open and shut as she pressed her lips up against her med student. Her clothes were half-transparent, her legs glossy with lotion and beaded with water. She was long, curvy, full of muscles. What was not to watch?

After about five minutes of this (with his hand going to her stomach, rubbing back and forth over the flexing muscles of her abdomen) he pulled back. "I've been wanting to ask you," he said, "I mean... erm... I've been thinking. That is to say. Can I touch your breasts?" 

She shrugged. "Why not? That is -- if it's part of this make-out session. If so, then it's fine."

"Yes. Touching your breasts is part of this make-out session," he breathed, and then dipped his head down to kiss her some more. His hand delicately traced up her torso, and then slipped into the opening between her breasts. Unable to help himself in public, seemingly against his will, he quickly clamped his hand over her left breast, under the fabric. 

Her nipples, already tight from the water, and visible by telescope, became harder under his palms. He shifted back and forth between them, his mouth on hers. When he pinched, she lifted her knees together, showing her ass across the fountain, and raised her chest to his hand. She kissed back harder, her whole torso flexing, the more he worked her breasts. 

(I told her that had been a good idea, since it got him to work on her chest more. She'd said, "That's just how my body is.")

Alexi caught the whole, wild, public make-out session on film. 

Then the student was leaning over her, whispering in her ear. His eyes were darting around, finally noticing that they were making a scene of themselves. She was nodding and shrugging at what he said. 

Suddenly, I saw Ali grab for her phone -- and I hadn't called her. She told me what happened later.

She picked up the phone, and sat up, away from her guy. She whispered, "Hello? Alexi's phone... Never mind. I won't say that again. This is Ali, by the way. I think I might have to fuck this guy."

"I must have the wrong number," said a masculine voice on the other side.

"If you want to talk to Alexi," Ali whispered, "you might have to wait until I fuck someone."

"I'll be sure to remember that," said the stranger's voice. "Can it be me?" 

"Maybe, but not this time," she whispered, and hung up.

I picked up the phone and called her again. 

When she answered, she said, "I don't know who's calling. I'm totally confused about who this might be."

"It's me, Tyler," I said.

"Oh, you. Well, I just got invited to 'take this somewhere more private.' But that's not the plan, is it?"

"Not today," I said. "You'll have to tell him good-bye. Give him some dates when you'll be singing. So he's not let down too hard."

"Okay. He's gonna be sad -- I'm the one that got away," she giggled.

"Tell him it's a work emergency," I said.

She clapped the phone to her breast and turned to him. "It's a work emergency. I can't fuck you because of that."

"I'm dying here," said the student.

"I think he's sick," she told me. "I'm like his last fling or something."

"Then give him your email address," I said.

Alexi was trying to get my attention. I told Ali to hang on.

"What?" I asked him.

"I have an idea," Alexi said solemnly. "You might not like to hear it. She's your girlfriend."




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 05



"That doesn't matter," I said. "Just tell me your idea."

Alexi spread his hands. "Just hear me out: She fucks him. She leaves the park, hand in hand, with him. That would be great for the website. He probably has a dorm nearby, so it's just a short while. Half an hour later, she's back here at the door. We get pictures of her, innocently showing off her hickies."

I gave an exasperated sigh. "Hello, Ali?"

"Tyler?" she asked.

"Okay, change in plans. You do go fuck him somewhere. If it's close. You have half an hour."

"For the photos, right?" she said. "Did Alexi say I should?"

"In fact, he did," I said drily. 

"Okay, then," she said. 

"Wait! There's more. When you come back, you should have a few hickies. On your body, all over -- neck, breast, stomach. Can you do that?"

"Shh-yeah," she said. "That's easy. You could do it."

"That wouldn't be the same. Also, you should wash off that suntan lotion, in the fountain. So it doesn't, um, get your clothes dirty."

"You're right!" she exclaimed. "I didn't think of that."

"See you in half an hour," I said. "No more."

I hung up for the last time. I'd just pimped Ali to some stranger, all so that Alexi could get some pictures of her leaving the park holding his hand. I felt, strangely, okay with that.

Ali said something to her man, and he -- I'm not kidding -- actually clapped his hands. As he gathered his stuff, Ali stood up and stretched. That was a monumental vision in itself, her ass flexing and her breasts straining against the fabric of her top. Not for the first time, I noticed other photographers on ground level taking Ali's picture.

To the collective awe of the onlookers, Ali stepped daintily into the water. She seemed unaware of the massed people suddenly staring at her every move. 

She minced through the water, closer to the spray. There was no way she was going to wash up with dirty ground water. She was soon covered in water, her top and panties plastered against her. She studiously wiped at the lotion on her skin, directing a jet of the fountain at her body with one hand, rubbing with the other. The jet speared her chest, her stomach, her legs. Water ran in thick rivulets down her calves.

"I'd pay money to see this," noted Alexi from beside me. He was still clicking away with his camera. 

"The funny thing is," I told him, "if you asked her to go get wet and preen, to show off to everybody, she'd be all self-conscious. But you tell her to clean up, and she's happy as a clam to get soaked."

"She's going to fuck some guy," he pointed out. "How is she explaining that?"

"She thinks it's for the photos," I said. "She hasn't realized that we can't take pictures of her fucking the guy. Or that models don't fuck strangers. Or that we don't need photos of her fucking anyone." I trailed off -- the list of what Ali doesn't realize is sometimes too long to enumerate.

"Yet," Alexi added, a wicked grin on his lips. "I'm going to make her into the Internet's biggest porn star."

"You're just power-tripping on her," I said. "I know the feeling. But believe it or not, this is the first time she's fucking someone else while we're dating."

"I bet it won't be the last," said Alexi. "Just think of it this way: if you're not there, it didn't happen."

"I'll try," I said. 

I watched, feeling both jealous and turned on, as Ali returned to the med student. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, he was so excited with her. 

Still not noticing her audience, Ali slid her shorts back up her legs. She threaded her arms through the arm-holes of her muscle shirt, a deed which almost un-topped her. 

Finally, she took his hand, and led him out of the circle of the fountain. The crowd watched her go with her catch. The med-student's friends, frozen in awe, let them depart in silence -- and then slapped high fives all around.

Twenty minutes later, Ali arrived at the office. She walked in, smelling of lotion and sweat. Her shirt was still damp, and somewhat transparent.

I was standing and had her in my arms in a second. "How was it, honey?"

She laughed. "It was very fast, for some reason. I fucked him for, like, five minutes and then he came. The rest of the time, he wanted to take pictures."

"He did?" asked Alexi. "What kind of camera did he have?"

"See," she explained. "I told him I wanted no less than five hickies. And he was all, 'Sure, but only if I can take some pictures of you.'"

"Did he take them?" I asked. 

"Yes. Of course. I've been in pictures all day, what are a few more? Except, for those I was naked for real," she narrowed her eyes accusingly at Alexi. "Not just walking around. He said he wanted them for his friends."

"Did you tell him where the band would be performing?" 

She smiled at me, and tapped her head. "I sure did. I never forget a thing!"

Alexi had his camera pointed at her. "Show us the hickies. Try to be a little shy about it. We're almost done."

Ali started twisting and pointing, waiting for the camera to click on each one. She pulled her top to the side, pulled her shorts down. Little love-bites were scattered all over her body. Quite a few more than five.

(The website said: "Ali stopped by later. I asked her what was so funny. She said she'd been picked up at the park, and the guy had given her hickies all over the place after he'd fucked her. Of course I asked to see, and Ali, being the friend she is, showed me each of them. We were on a hunt across her body. She has no shame whatsoever. What a great performer she must be! I asked her if she'd return to the park and get picked up again by another guy, and she said maybe. The hardest part, for her, is finding someone who lives nearby. She's a born entertainer."

Later, when she and I reviewed the site together, she had a puzzled frown. "Where are the ones where I'm fucking that guy?" she asked. "Didn't they turn out?")

* * * * *



She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 06



(Emphasized words are in /slashes/.)

* * * * *

Club Trash: Emergency conference

Ali had a gig at Club Trash. It was exclusive, highly lucrative -- $2000 for the band, and that was their "unproven first-timer" rate. 

While the band unloaded the van, I took Ali by the hand and dragged her through the backstage area doing my manager stuff. I had to find our dressing room, where we could stow our gear before going onstage, locate who was going to pay us.

Ali was along because I'd found that things went smoother with security staff and organizers if Ali was there to smile and preen. I could get through crowds more quickly if I was pushing her ahead of me -- men made way for her, and if they didn't, they quickly forgave her for mashing up against them. Her band didn't mind when she didn't help -- she was the lead, after all, and she always screwed things up, and she didn't have any of her own equipment besides.

The back of the club was full of serious-looking counter-culture types, all of them moving quickly. The manager was a youngish guy with a pierced lip and a goatee. He was wearing a black t-shirt, and had all sorts of leather bracelets on. Though he looked young, I knew he was no pushover.

As soon as he saw us, he called, "Your gig is cancelled." 

"Shit!" cried Ali.

"It's not cancelled," I said to her quickly. "Tell me, fast: How much is this worth to you? What will you do to keep the gig?"

She looked down at herself, and then up to me. Her eyes were on mine -- they were soft, and apologetic, as in, "I'm sorry I have to say this, Tyler." She said, softly, "Anything."

I started guiding her closer to the manager. "Anything, as in you'll take a paycut? Or anything, as in you'll suck off a bouncer?"

"Anything and everything," she said. "I still love you. But I really want this gig. It's all we've talked about..."

She broke off as we came up to the manager. She stared at him in fright, and sort of sank back against me for support.

"Why is the gig cancelled?" I asked him, "And what can we do to fix that?"

"Fix it? I just fixed it. We can't use you. Get out of here."

I shook my head. "You already have a band cancellation. I saw it on the blackboard -- Bush-League has a line through it. You have a hole in your line-up, and an existing arrangement with Ali Katz. I'm cool with you cancelling, but you owe us a chance to make it work."

He wasn't watching me, but he was listening, I could tell. He was a busy man, I would've understood if he simply turned away without answering. But Ali had him locked in. He only had eyes for Ali, his gaze traveling up and down the distressed neglige she was wearing as a stage outfit. With her punked up hair, choker, dark lipstick, and heavy eyeshadow, she looked like an undead bride. 

I grabbed her shoulder, doing it messily and dislodging a strap. I shook her amiably, squeezing her shoulder. His eyes drifted down to her decolletage, and the inviting curves of chest under the loose lace. I felt like a pimp.

I said, "Ali's been looking forward to this all week. You're not going to break her heart."

He shrugged, finally peeling his eyes off her. "Look, no one's saying this chick doesn't have tits and ass. But my crowd out there is expecting debauchery on stage, man. Bush-League cancelled because their strippers got too drunk to dance. See what I'm saying? It's not about the music. People wanna get insane, dude, they're looking at the stage and wanna see fuck-ass insane shit. I caught Ali's act at a bar this week. Her angsty folksy shit won't fly with the crowd tonight. Her thing is too soft."

"I'll tell the band to ramp it up," I said. "Everything we have can go up-tempo, get loud and wild."

"Even if I believed that, she's not about the sex."

I shook my head, honestly shocked. "She's /all/ about the sex. You saw her perform at a bar, right? Not at a club? Well, dude, they got rules at bars. She's not going to cut loose at a bar. Frankly, you don't know what she can do." 

He seemed to waver. He looked at her again. Ali had a downcast expression, her face down and her eyes on his, awaiting judgement. His eyes traveled down her torso, and she obligingly uncrossed her arms, to give him an unimpeded view.

Then he hardened. "No, dude. I like you guys, I'll have you back. But you're not performing tonight."

I let go of Ali and grabbed his arm, walking him away from her.

He spoke before I could. "She's not into it. What's your name? Tyler? She's not into it, Tyler. Any performer would be raising hell right now. But look at her. She's a mental five-year-old. I'm not going to get the magic I need from her tonight."

We looked at her. She stood, alone and separated, hands at her side, plucking at her skirt. Her strap was still down. As the backstage crew passed her, all big and imposing with their leather and weird make-up, they stared at her chest, her coltishly crossing-uncrossing legs. She seemed to be sunken into herself. Alone, she wouldn't have lasted five minutes in there before someone convinced her into a back room.

I could see the manager had a point. But I didn't have to admit that to /him/. I shook my head confidently. "That's what she's about. That's her whole thing. She's a giver. She isn't me-me-me. She goes onstage, finds the level with the audience, and gives them what they want. I /know/ she can do this. Don't worry about her."

He shrugged. "/You/ know she can do it. But my career is built off what /I/ know. What's my insurance against putting up a wall-flower like that? Nice tits, nice legs. Good voice, I have to admit. But music doesn't matter. She has to want it."

"She wants it," I said. My pulse was pounding -- was I really going to say what I was going to say? "Tell you what. If she screws up on stage -- and she won't -- she'll make it up to you. She wants it that bad. She'll dance on the bar naked. She'll serve shots off her chest. If she had money, she'd pay you, but she doesn't. What else can a hot girl do? She'll suck you off."

I had become a pimp. I didn't like that. But he took it in stride -- maybe this sort of thing wasn't so uncommon. "Not me," he said, "I have a girlfriend. But she can do that bar stuff you said. And the shots."

He shook his head. But I sensed that we had him.

I gestured Ali over, and she walked up meekly to stand next to me. 

The manager turned to her. "We're putting you on right now." Before she could smile or say anything, he grabbed her neglige, clenching the fabric between her breasts. Pulling her close, he said, "You fuck up out there, and you're going to pay. You're going to work my club naked for the rest of the night. You got that? Dumb-ass drunken New Jersey boys are going to be grabbing your snatch for the next eight hours. If you fuck up. Do you understand the terms of this agreement?"

"Fine by me," she said. I marveled at how even her voice was. The manager seemed quite unhinged and dangerous. "But I won't fuck up."

She held his eyes until he let go of her top. She was half uncovered, but she didn't move. Finally he nodded and turned away, screaming at his staff about the change in line-up.

"I'm gonna fuck it up," she said to me. I started leading her back to the band.

"You'll do fine," I said. I didn't actually believe that myself. I'd been so intent on saving the gig, I hadn't thought about being able to deliver. "Still, if you mess up, I'll have fun watching you pay the price."

"Running around naked. You're a pervert. I'm so afraid. He was so mean to me."

"Welcome to the music biz," I said. "His ass is on the line. He didn't have to take this risk, he could've bounced us. So he puts your ass on the line." 

I gathered the band around us. They sensed something was wrong from Ali's distraught frown. 

"Gentlemen, we're going on first. But there are other changes..." I trailed off. I had too many changes to tell them. They'd never remember it all. I had the chilling fear that we would tank the gig.

"What changes?" asked Raff. 

We were all in a circular huddle... a new tradition I'd instituted. Everybody but everybody was staring down Ali's front. She still hadn't replaced her strap, and the other had slid down to match it. Her top was staying up by sheer static cling.

"They don't want a folksy set. They want it dirtier, more distorted, heavy bass, heavy guitar. We're doing all the same songs. Just speed them up some. Make them more raw. Can you do that?"

"Heck yeah," said Raff. "I've been dying for some adrenalin."

I said, "Raff, you're going to do some filler solos. Nothing fancy -- just long. Watch Ali for the changes. Another change: all of you are going to have a personality tonight. I want you to stay gelled, stay centered around the girl here, but you all have to project some charisma. Take yourselves seriously. Mega seriously."

"Can do," said Andrew. 

"Who has the best stomach? Andrew? Take off your shirt. No shirt for you tonight."

"You bet." He peeled it off and tossed it in his case.

"They want debauchery out there. We're going to be peddling Ali's ass every second she's on stage. They want us fucking crazy on stage? We can do it. Get yourselves pumped up. We're starting with 'Drink Sweat Juice.' The rest of the set is the same."

They looked doubtful. That song was our softest, slowest piece. "Sure it's lame. Just pump it up some. Don't worry. I have a plan."

They put their fists into the center of the huddle. "Hup!"

We broke, and they started swiftly moving their gear onto the stage. The stage was just around the corner. We could hear the music blasting off the dance floor. I guided Ali off to the side. She was shaking, she was so nervous. 

I'd also never seen her look sexier. 

I ran a finger over her lips. Her breath was warm and shakey. I smeared the lipstick to the side, giving it a messy blow-job look. I ran my hands over her sides, to confirm that she /was/ wearing panties. Since they were hanging bonelessly, I took her hands and put them on my waist. Then, since I couldn't help myself, I let my own hands rest on her breasts. They filled my palms, overflowed my fingers. Her nipples slowly grew hard as I squeezed them.

My petting seemed to calm her. I'd wanted to replace her anxiety with something else, anything else. We were getting stares from the back-stage staff, but who cared?

I said softly, "I'll be right in front of the stage. Look to me for hints."

She nodded wordlessly. 

"We're going to change the words you say. You're going to be a fucking pagan sex goddess out there. For the next thirty minutes, you don't belong to me. You don't belong to yourself. You belong to everybody else. Do you hear me?"

She nodded again.

"Look at it this way," I said. "If you fuck up, you're going to be naked for eight hours anyway. What can you loose if you give it your all?"

"Okay," she said. Her voice cracked.

"But if you /do/ fuck up, I'm gonna call Alexi to come take pictures."

That made her smile. I leaned in and told her how to run the set. Performing is what she was /made/ for; I knew she'd remember everything I told her.

* * * * *
Ali Performs at Club Trash

I found a spot at the front of the stage as the house music dropped in volume. Raff, Andrew and Seth had their instruments and were starting the first song. They were serious-looking, intent, consummate musicians. In their zone, ignoring me. Raff had the distortion cranked on his guitar, Andrew's bass seemed to vibrate the stage.

The venue was a huge, tiered affair of massive volume, filled with fog and criss-crossing laser-lights. There had to be over a thousand people scattered through the club. I was soon pressed up against the stage by the heavy crowd on the dance floor. 

They started 'Drink Sweat Juice'. Even though they'd sped the song up, it still sounded slow after the house music. The change was arresting -- like an anthem. I hadn't expected that.

Ali strode onto the stage. She was five feet off the ground, her ankles were level with the audience's eyes. We all got a good look at her clogs, and her legs. She didn't look at the audience -- she strode to the mike, opened her mouth, and blasted. 

	In the first place
	Here's what I feel
	I'm stretched like lace 
	Pinned like a bug, you
	Tell me to kneel
	So what else can I do

Mostly nonsense words, wrapped rhyme. The song was a showcase for her vocal chords. After the beat-heavy, muttered vocals of the house music, she was new and different. The audience pressed up on the stage, all eyes. The problem was that they were quiet.

The fast version of 'Drink Sweat Juice' lasted three minutes. By the end of it, Ali had made her point: she could sing. But the audience was fidgety. 

"Enough of that flaky shit music, yeah?" Ali growled. 

The audience hooted back at her. 

"What?" She eyed the guys in the front row. "You think my dress is short enough?" She grabbed the hem and swished it back and forth. 

More cheers. 

"Think it should come off?" She had a wicked smile. "It's /soooo/ hot in here. Maybe I'll be cooler if I just. Take. This. Dress. Off. Will that make you like me? Fuckin' losers. Will that make me fit in? Cocksuckers."

She waved a hand, and the screaming, dripping power chords of 'Half Cooked' started. 

"Let's get some juice on, huh?" she screamed. "Lets get the fuckin' show /started/!"

	Mo...ther... fuck!
	Built like the shit!
	Ho-ho. Take it.

This was another of my masterpieces. Raff and Andrew throbbed to the beat. Ali ripped the microphone off the stand and let the stand fall behind her. Her legs were spread, the whole band was banging from the waist in synch. 

The crowd was rocking right along with them. You get enough people, primed on dancing, stoked on alcohol, and a heavy beat is all they need. Ali Katz had an honest-to-gosh mosh pit in front of her.

I was screaming with laughter, shaking my head. This was a goddamned band! I knew all their secrets, all of Ali's weaknesses. I'd seen them practice. They were all half-formed, insecure personalities, but they owned that stage. Watching them, I could forget everything I knew about them, and see them as just a band. 

	Call me a whore!
	Built like the shit!
	Uh-oh. Make it!

Blam! Blam blam blam blam blam blam. Steady, thumpy wall of sound distortion. Ali was screaming like a banshee, her straps off her shoulders, tits half out of the neglige. Her legs were split, her dress forced up her legs. The bottom of her panties were in full view, and it didn't matter.

	Under-booked, over-looked
	But I'm half cooked
	In the right place, 
	Shit-faced, so
	I won't tell you no.

I felt a little ashamed, even. Who was I to think I could manage this group? Manage this singer? Who was I, to spend half my time getting off on Ali, putting her in horrible situations, manipulating her trust and watching her naively float through life on the wake of libido she created? 

Ali was at the edge of the stage, in the forest of the crowd's extended arms, slapping hands and heads. Her legs were wrapped in hands, up to just over her knees. When she shook her head, a heavy spray of sweat flew off her, glinting in the lights. The audience themselves were drenched in sweat. It was, what, 8 minutes into a 30 minute set? The crowd was moving!

The song died, and Ali was looking down at the people below her. She had to bend to see past her breasts. 

"I've never seen such a debauched crowd," she said. "You get off on insults."

I laughed out loud. I'd told her she had to be debauched -- and then told her what it meant. The audience was screaming and smiling. 

"Don't worry," she sneered. "I still want you. All of you."

More cheers.

Andrew came up behind her, and wrapped a hand around her waist. He lifted her one-handed out of the hands, and she kicked her legs in the air, her ass showing. He dragged her back a few feet, she was mashed against his sweaty chest. Her breasts were distorted, where his hand had slid up her ribcage, carrying the neglige with it.

She didn't get out of his grip. Her legs were splayed in front of her, her panties uncovered up to the straps on her hips, her shoulder-straps now hooked around her elbows. 

"Don't mind Andy," she said. "He wants to save me for Mister Right." 

'Mister Right' started. It was, like most of her ovuere now, a song about getting treated badly by a guy, and liking it. Andrew had to let her go so he could play, and she strode back to the audience. There were guys in the front with both arms up, as if in supplication. As she passed they grabbed at her legs, her calves, the bottom hem of her dress. The line of lace at the bottom, never fully attached, now hung off one leg.

She pulled one strap up, but the other had broken in the back, and now hung down her front, pulling the cup down. 

	I love it when you lie
	I love it when you share me
	I wanna die, I want you back
	On your terms, cause... you got the knack.

The song ended strong, with people going crazy. 

They launched right into 'Sad Sack' and 'Lesser Sad Sack', and then a cover of Aerosmith's 'All Night Long.' 

A group of guys had the fabric of Ali's neglige in their fists. Half of them were pulling, the other half were just holding on, like the other harmless audience members who reached up to touch her legs as she passed. I watched as the fabric was pulled tight over her curves, the single remaining strap cutting cruelly into her shoulder. Ali didn't seem to notice, she kept singing, grabbing hands, and urging the audience on. She finally sank to her knees in front of the guys, I suppose to save the dress, but that put more of her within reach. 

From my location over to the side, Ali was covered in hands from her waist down. Her skirt was pulled forward, so her ass was uncovered. Rather than fighting with the guys causing trouble, she was singing to them, charming all but the most reckless to take it easy. 

Raff and Andrew sent urgent glances my way, but I shook my head. /Don't get involved./ Ali would handle the assault on her dress, or she wouldn't -- it was a win-win situation either way.

The club manager had finally gotten a clue, and sent out a line of bouncers to front the stage. By the time the bouncers had pushed the group away from the edge, the lace border of her neglige was gone, shortening it by several inches. There was a big tear up one side, to her hip, which disclosed that the strap of her underwear was down one thigh.

"Oh, no!" Ali sneered, standing. She backed up against Raff, who put a protective arm around her, fore-arm against her chest. "Those rotten boys wanted me naked!"

The crowd screamed. 

Ali glanced at me just then, like I'd told her. I'd told her to look to me for queues, if she needed it. She hadn't. I'd also told her to look to me for queues right before 'Naked In A Window'. It was the third to last song in the set.

When she glanced, I mimed taking my shirt off. I was /almost/ sure it was the right decision. My pulse was pounding in my ears. This was so over the top, it would either work or it would flop. 

Her eyes widened, and I nodded. 

"Those rotten boys wanted to pull off my dress!" she said. She finally turned away from me. She shook off Raff's hand. "But it doesn't matter what they want, does it?" The crowd yelled, one solid noise. "What matters is what I want."

She crossed her arms across her body and grabbed her dress. The audience was going apeshit. There was a general rush for the stage. I was pressed against the edge, and then wedged along closer to her with my feet off the floor. The bouncers formed a tight knot in front of Ali's position. 

With one swift move, she pulled the dress up over her head, and tossed it to the side. Andrew picked it up and draped it over the head of his bass.

I was only ten feet away from her. She looked magnificent. Her whole body was clad in a thin sheen of sweat that glittered in the lights. The fog machines were sending cottony billows across the stage. Her panties were pulled down on one side, pulled up on the other. Her tight little twat was half-visible through the soaked cotton. 




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 06



She kicked off her clogs, and stepped forward. "Three, four!"

'Naked In A Window' sounded good, sped up and distorted. The music rolled into the crowd, galvinizing them into a frenzy. Ali was built like the shit. She had the ass, abs, legs, tits, arms for jumping around the stage almost fully naked. Her little feet were grabbed, held in the air, as she belted the lines balanced on one foot. Any time she came close to the edge of the stage, it was like an invitation for the guys to try to swarm her. The bouncers followed her back and forth on the ground level. 

She came near, and almost laughed when she saw me. I was pinned against the stage, feet kicking the air with the edge of the stage in my gut, almost gagging from lack of air. 

She risked the hands to step close to me. If anything, this increased the pressure behind me. With one foot on either side of my head, she crouched down and sang a few lines just for me.

	All ya'll, I'm gonna fuck you,
	Gonna suck you, gonna luck you.

She closed her knees over my ears (the sound all went dead) and twisted her body. Her sweaty thighs on my cheeks, my head was pulled back and forth, as she mimed riding my face. Of course the audience didn't know me from Adam. To them, I was just a lucky guy. I had a view up her thighs to her overworked underwear, which now hanged half an inch away from her sex. 

When she stood again, she dislodged the wall of hands that had been on her thighs. 

This was the end of the verse. She pointed at Raff and shouted, "Solo!" 

As he lept in with a pretty decent effort, Ali dropped the microphone. 

She clapped her hands and spread them wide, and then, stiff-bodied, fell backwards into the audience. 

Crap. 

The look on the bouncers' faces was near panic. They started swimming through the bodies to get to her. Ali was carried quickly past me on a sea of hands. I had a chance to be amazed by humanity -- a rare occurrence any time. 90% of the hands just passed her along, helping her glide along like a pat of butter on a hot skillet. She tumbled smoothly, face up, face down, sitting up, ass up. I wanted to thank all those people for reaffirming my faith, I wanted to buy them a drink. How cool was that, that a hormone-driven mosher would simply help a naked woman slide over the crowd? They were better people than me.

The remaining 10% of the audience had their hands on her tits. She couldn't close her legs because there were never fewer than three hands driving against her cunt. Her panties were quickly pulled off her ass, but not far down her legs, because other hands were pushing them back up and to the side. 

I even saw when someone had two fingers in her mouth, her lips closed over them and her eyes closed. Some stranger had his fingers in her mouth, he was feeling her wet little tongue, her warm soft lips, the suction she applied as her cheeks hollowed. Then she was past, the fingers sliding out. 

A bouncer caught her leg, and then grabbed her thigh. Another caught her other thigh. He had his nose buried in her snatch -- her panties were at her knees. They carried her bodily back to the stage, Ali reaching out in both directions to touch everybody's outstretched hands. Somehow, since she wasn't body surfing anymore, that made it okay to touch her. It looked like a crowd-groping scene from Mardi Gras, hands on her tits, hands covering her from her waist down like some grotesque skirt.

The bouncers tossed her unceremoniously back up next to Andrew. She was a small wad of flesh, with her ass towards us. The delicate folds of her pussy seemed engorged, widened. As she got to her knees, the hands were back, pawing at her ass, splitting her legs. She lost her balance for a second and fell forward. She was on her knees with her ass in a forest of hands. 

Then she crawled forward, grabbed the microphone, and stood. She finished the last verse while pulling up her underwear. It was nowhere near its original shape and firmness, so it slid down her thighs of its own volition. She had to plant her feet far apart to hold it up. 

Ali completed the set topless, striding back and forth on the stage and sometimes pulling her underwear up when they dropped off her ass. Believe it or not, nudity was not that risque at New York nightclubs. I would not have signaled her to take the dress off if I didn't know that it happened in normal life. On public access cable, I'd watched a Webster Hall concert where the lead singer, a thin, small-breasted hispanic woman who sang some gothy stuff, did her /whole/ set in just a pair of bikini panties. So Ali wasn't breaking new ground, being naked. Perhaps she broke new ground by bodysurfing the hands, or by stepping forward all the time and letting everybody who could reach her cop a feel.

At the end of the last song, she pulled her neglige off Andrew's bass, and slid it over her head. As the dress came down, her panties finally slid to her knees. She let them fall, and then kicked them into the crowd. The tear up the side of the dress reached her rib-cage, so when she turned or took a step, one hip was completely uncovered and smooth. 

She thanked the crowd as she got back into her clogs. The audience was cheering and clapping in a frenzy. The set was a success, categorically. There was no way the manager could call Ali Katz and Band a failure. When she left the stage, the crowd was still going wild.

* * * * *
Post-show

When I made it back stage (showing my pass to security), Ali was leaning against the open door to the exit. The band, all smiles and energy, was tossing their equipment into the van. After dropping their loads at the van, the band members came back through the door and impulsively hugged and kissed Ali, several times each, before they went for the next load. 

They were flushed with victory, so when Ali got kissed, she was /kissed/, mouth open and tongues working. It was like they'd liberated Paris, and Ali was the French girl. Their hands were on her neck, shoulder and stomach. The less she reacted, the more their hands drifted. Raff frenched her with his hand pulling aside the torn side of her skirt, and his palm against her cunt. 

I went up to deliver my own kiss, and damn the shocked and lusty looks of the people backstage. Ali smiled at me, and gave over her mouth as I drove in, jaws working. She tasted sweet, she smelled sweaty and smokey. I couldn't help but let my hands roam -- she was just leaning against the door jamb, arms at her side, exhausted. I cupped her breasts, felt her hard nipples, let my hands fall down her flanks, squeezed her ass under her dress. 

I backed off to let Seth in. He unselfconsciously kissed her right in front of me. Music and success aside, we all had a full load of libido from watching her on stage. And this kissing business was only getting us more worked up. 

I let them have their fun with her, and went to find the manager. He looked just as harried and overworked as before, but he shoved a thick wad of money into my hand. 

"I was wrong, and you were right. Okay?"

"No biggie," I said.

"We'll have her back, of course. Just give my office a call, to arrange dates." He gave a wicked grin, "And there's an extra thousand if you can get her to do a whole set completely naked. With that crowd-teasing stuff. That was too hot. Almost came in my pants. She has, like, no self-respect. I like that."

We glanced back at her. One strap of her neglige was broken, and the skirt part was shortened and torn due to the missing lace. Her clothes couldn't be called clothes by the normal definition. Andrew was pressed up against her, his bare chest causing her breasts to bulge out. He was whispering in her ear, and his fingers were working in her crotch. 

"Me too," I said. 

I went back to the van, where Ali was now collapsed against the side with the band encircling her. It reminded me of the first set we did, and the post-band show where all the band members grabbed her tits and promised to sell her dearly. 

"Ali says she's never been more turned on," reported Andrew. "I don't think this night should end right now."

"I think this night should last forever," she sighed. Ali's eyes were glassy, her lips moist and parted as she breathed heavily. She was still caught up on the stage, the noise, the adulation. I was surprised she could say anything, much less form a complete sentence. 

I surveyed her, feeling flushed with pride. A good commander knows when to reward the troops. "What, Ali? You're in the mood for something freaky? Are you really still turned on?"

"Oh, yeah," she said, then giggled. "I'm never coming down from this high."

I glanced at the band members. They could probably return to the club and find some easy groupies, especially after that performance. Perhaps they knew that, perhaps they didn't. They all had eyes only for Ali. I made a decision deep inside myself. 

I said, "Well, then, let's take her to a bar and get her drunk. Then we can go to my place, and fuck the shit out of her."

"Yeah," said Seth, with deep satisfaction. "That's the only way to finish /this/ night."

"I am sooo gonna cum on her face," said Raff, shaking his head. 

The guys piled into the front of the van, and I took her to the back of the van. She sat in my lap, and we were pressed against the equipment. The van started, and I had her all to myself, at least for the moment. 

I said, "In the future, I want you in the club after the set, working the crowd. But tonight, we'll make an allowance."

"Okay," she said. I had her top down and her skirt up. My hands were roaming restlessly over her, I didn't know where to leave them. In my mind, I was feeling the fingerprints of all the other hands that had been on her that night. She was, like, public property. 

"Are you okay, fucking these guys?" 

"Yeah," she said. "It sounds like high school all over again." 

"After tonight," I warned, "it's going be a whole new dynamic with them. They're going to want it any time, all the time. A blowjob at every practice. They're going to call you up late at night for a quick fuck. They're not going to respect you."

"Are you trying to turn me on?"

"No," I said. "I'm just telling you what you're in for. Once we cross this line, there's no going back."

"Tyler, hon," she said, turning her head to look up at me, "after tonight, I know you're the real thing. You're going to make me a /star/. You don't have to ask for my trust anymore." 

Whatever. 

She continued, "This is why I want to be a singer. The music, the noise, the crowds, the cheers, the pretty outfits. You tell me what you want, and I'll do it."

Her open trust made me almost cringe. She was offering me a blank check -- she always /had/ offered me everything. Sure, I was making her a success, but I was also making her into something for my own specific, very peculiar fantasies. 

"I'm such a perv," I groaned.

She laid a hand lightly on my cheek. "You're not a perv. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. You think I can't handle it? After all I've shown you? When I say I'll do what you want, I mean it. /Anything./ And it doesn't have to be music related. I /like/ doing what you want. It's fun. It's a turn-on. Even that boring photography stuff. Do you understand?"

She held my gaze until I nodded. 

"Okay," I said. I was shocked to hear how I sounded when I said it -- I sounded like Ali. For once, for the first time, /I/ was surrendering to /her/ the same way she surrendered to me. I didn't have to worry. I didn't have to feel guilt. I didn't have to question what I wanted -- I could just ask, and she'd be there. 

"Tell me to do something," she said intensely. "Tell me what you want to do. I'll do it. You'll see. You don't ever have to hold back."

I was feeling open and unguarded. "Fuck strangers," I mumbled. "Go to a porn shop and suck off anonymous cocks through a hole in the wall. Pick up guys in the park and let them play with you. Let strange men treat you like shit. Humiliate you."

"Okay," she said. "Sucking cock and lying on my back aren't new to me."

"And you have to let Harvey fuck you. That would be so hot. At the window, squeeze him into you. Let him ride your ass as you look out into the street. And also, suck him off once a day. In the mornings when you wake up and he's there. Just ease into it. Every day. Don't go to his bedroom, make him come to you. So he can't help it."

"Okay," she said. "For you, it'll happen."

"And tonight..."

"What?" she prompted gently. "Tell me, honey."

I said, "I've never fucked a girl in a men's bathroom."

"Then you will," she said simply. "You want me? Or do you want me to find another girl for you?"

"You, sweetie, of course," I giggled. 

"And then later, can we still bring the guys back to your place?" she sounded... hopeful?

"You're gonna be up all night."

"I think I deserve a reward," she said, smiling. 

"You do. You were amazing out there tonight. That crowd-surfing stuff was incredible."

She laughed. "I didn't expect everybody to be so grabby! It was sick fun, sliding over the crowd like that. Now I know why everybody does it. I'm gonna do it again."

"The Trash Club wants you back," I said. "The manager promised more money if you'd do a whole set naked. He's pervy too."

"Naked! What does he think I am?" she snorted, only half offended. "Dumb and easy?"

"Yeah, he does."

"I'll show /him/!" she said. "He thinks I won't stage-dive naked, he has another thing coming."

She was too cute for words. I just hugged her tightly and buried my face in her neck. She spent the whole ride recounting the set, song by song. I listened to her, feeling calm inside, her voice sounded deep with my ear pressed against her throat. When the van stopped and the rear door opened, we looked up and saw the expectant, lust-filled faces of the band. My quiet time with her was over. 

I was looking forward to tonight. I was also looking forward to tomorrow, when I'd have her to myself for the whole day. How did that happen? When did this stupid, simple girl, who could barely hold up her half of a conversation, become my whole world?

"Ali's our group girlfriend," said Seth, grinning broadly. "For tonight at least," he added for my benefit.

"I want to feel her up in front of the bartender," Andrew said. "Show everybody who owns her."

"Okay," said Ali. She held out her arms and allowed herself to be assisted off my lap. Raff soon had her in a full-body clinch, kissing her deeply. 

"Maybe we can whore her out for free drinks," said Andrew. 

Andrew was nasty in a way I could agree with. 

"Sky's the limit," I said.

"Just tell me what to do," said Ali.

And the night started. 

* * * * *
Snippet from the night

Ali had no personal space all night. There was always a hand on her waist, always a hand on her hip near the torn neglige, the fingers curling under the fabric. She was turning her head from Seth to Andrew to Raff to me, dealing and receiving earnest, eye-opened kisses. We were making quite a scene, with this 4-on-1 foreplay. 

Us guys were drinking quickly, but Ali was busy and got drunk more slowly. At one point, I remember Ali lying on the top of the bar, having shots drunk off her stomach (her dress pulled to her chin) by some college guys. 

Then she had me by my hand. She had a soft smile as she led me through the bar to the bathroom. Ignoring the other guys in there, she bravely dragged me through the doors, and waited by the urinal as I drained my bladder. 

"Let me get you hard," she said, reaching out. 

"Is there enough room?" I asked. She was backed against the wall between two urinals. I'd imagined us doing it in a stall, but who was I to complain?

I remember her tearing the slit up the side of the neglige even higher, so the inverted V opened across her thighs as she stood with her legs spread. I don't remember what the other guys in the bathroom were saying, but I remember trying to answer, something agreeing that she was hot, or inviting them to try her out.

I remember her glancing back and forth as men used the urinals to either side of us. And, when she did that, there was a hand on her breast -- not my own. 

"You're such a dumb, easy slut," I told her.

Her breath caught, a flush spread from her chest up her neck. That had turned her on. "I am," she told the other guys.

"You're so stupid, you'd probably fuck all these guys, if they asked you."

"I would," she said, loudly.

"I should leave you in here," I said. "You'd probably just stay and fuck everybody who walked in, wouldn't you?"

"Yes..." she groaned. "If they wanted me."

Unable to restrain herself, she pulled my cock between her legs. She levered me into the vastly wet confine of her pussy. 

I pumped my cock mindlessly into her, leaning back so I could see her body surging against the tiled wall. Yeah, there were other hands on her, even then. I remember being mesmerized by how her left breast rolled in place as I moved her torso -- it was locked by strangers' fingers on her nipple. 

Her mouth was open, she was making her "Mnn-mnn-mnn" sounds. Some fingers were in her mouth, and she was sucking them. Her lips were wrapped around the fingers, her cheeks were hollowed by the suction she was providing. There were lots of people in the room -- looking down, I could see several pairs of shoes and legs close around us. 

I spurted into her. She gave a long sigh when she felt herself fill up. 

I stood back and closed my fly. She looked at the watchers, and then back at me, questioningly. She wanted to know what I wanted. To tell the sordid truth, I wanted to leave her in there all night. Instead, I took her hand and led her back into the bar.

By the end of the night, we were too wasted to drive. We left the van parked in the street (a calculated risk) and took an insane cab-ride to my place. Ali was lying across our laps in the back seat, with poor Seth up front with the driver. I remember Raff tossing her neglige out the window. 

We carried her legs-first into my apartment building and up the stairs. I was barely sentient enough to open the door. Ali took a guy in each hand, and, her eyes closed, pulled them to the bed. 

I dozed, woke up, fucked her, dozed. We all did. If there was nobody on her, we slid on top and then slid off. She was slick with sweat. She was the only one who didn't get much sleep. I think she stopped enjoying herself halfway through the night, but she kept taking us, she just layed in the pile of bodies with her legs spread. The boys wanted to bring some people up off the street to fuck her, and she didn't say no. But we were too disorganized to make that happen. 

The next morning, by 11am, we were alone together again. I was snuggled against her, and she was stroking my head, staring at the ceiling without expression. Used condoms were stuck all over her body.



She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 07



After practice one day, Ali mentioned that her boss at the diner had made a pass at her. I remembered his name -- Subram. A big, fat, angry Indian guy who controlled the diner through fear and the volume of his voice.

"What did he do?"

She shrugged. "He kind of cornered me by the bathrooms. He stopped me with a big hand on my chest." She placed her palm flat against my sternum. "He said I'm now his best waitress. He wants me to work nights, where more people can come in and see me. He said the tips would be outrageous. I can believe that. It's a lot more crowded at night."

"But you can't work at night!" I said.

"That's what I told him! But he said, 'So what? You need a job more than a hobby.' I told him I could make it worth his while."

"You did?" I asked, agog.

She smiled proudly. "I knew you'd be pleased. He wanted to fuck me for it. But I'm learning to negotiate -- fromyou! I was all, 'Why fuck me once, when I can suck you off every day?'"

"How is sucking better than fucking?" I asked, lost.

She crinkled her nose. "Ew! Like I want tofuck Subram! How hot wouldthat be?Not! I just want my day shifts -- I don't want to be intimate with him."

"So sucking isn't intimate?"

She misunderstood the thrust of my question. She gave me a loving hug, "When it's with the right guy it is. When it's not with the right guy, it's just a game. It's like, jerking a guy off -- but into your mouth. See?"

I didn't see, but I shrugged. Who was I to complain? "So you're sucking off Subram every day, then?"

"That's the plan.And Harvey, like you said. I haven't forgotten. And I'm fucking him in the morning. He still thinks it's part of the actor's exercise."

"Is there anybody else I should know about?"

She pursed her lips in thought. "No. Not really. Maybe Mr. Nadi and Mr. Galbraith soon." Her tone of voice was completely natural, as if she was talking about food. "I've been thinking of adding blow-jobs to the studio job. When I work there, after the diner? A lot of the guys seem to expect it, and Max says he's trying to make the place more upscale. After all, Iam anexecutive assistant."

Ali certainly was planning to be free with herself. She'd had a long, active day, and now the city was wrapped in twilight. The streetlights were on, but the sky was still half-bright. My favorite time of day. She looked so delicious walking next to me -- face flushed, skin bursting with health, a salty, tangy smell of sweat attached to her. I wrapped my hand around her ass, just to feel it sway as she stepped. If anybody could handle a bunch of cock and come out of it looking and acting like a sweetheart, it would be Ali. I was amazed at how naturally and unquestioningly she was taking to it.

"I think you should. At the studio. Start sucking people off." 

She nodded. "I agree. It's just -- how do youstart?" 

"If they seem to expect it, just offer. After a while, everybody will know you give blow-jobs, and they'll just tell you to do it."

"That sounds reasonable."

I said, "Have you blown Max yet?" 

"Oh!" she paused. "I didn't think of that. I guess I should."

I was going to be the guy with the girlfriend whose mouth everybody had shot a load into. How lucky was that?

"Yeah," I said. 

"Yeah," she said.

* * * * *

I called Ali at her apartment. Harvey picked up, and after a few moments he put Ali on.

"Sorry, Ty..." she said, then gave a sharp intake of breath. "Um. Harvey has some friends over, Mr. Galbraith and Mr. Nadi."

"Are you fucking them?" I asked immediately.

"Well, if you want to be crass about it... I guess I sort of am. In a weird way."

"Tell me about it later, okay?"

"I will, of course." 

"I'll let you get back to it. I just wanted to tell you that we have another photo shoot."

"Darn," she said. She'd found the first photo shoot to be completely boring -- all walking, no modeling. As far as she was concerned. The photos had turned into a sore point with her, and before they had been so important.

"No, it'll be fun this time, I promise." I said. "We'll be doing a set with the band, you know, posed with instruments and stuff. Then we'll be doing a glamor set of you. Then, for Alexi, we'll be taking you to a porn shop."

"Okay. But it better be fun," she grumped.

"You'll be naked a lot," I said.

"I better be," she said.

That made me smile. "I'll let you go, now."

"I love you."

There it was. We hadn't used that word before. I was struck slightly dumb, I guess I'd expected there to be candles and roses, or something. As I later found out, she had a fully clothed Mr. Nadi behind her with his fly unzipped and his cock out, as she stood naked in the window. She was demonstrating how she 'teased' Harvey every morning. Mr. Galbraith would be next, followed by Harvey himself. Yeah, those poor saps, getting taken advantage of. And what a time to tell me she loved me.

"I love you too, Ali," I said. 

"I know," she said, her voice soft. "Oh! I've been invited out with these old guys for drinks tomorrow night. I know we don't have anything planned, so I said okay."

I could imagine that outing. I said, "That's fine by me. Have fun! Is it a fancy place? Harvey will know what you should wear."

"Mnnnmnnn...." she trailed off. She was breathing deeply into the phone. "Okay, I'll have Harvey pick something. Mmmmn! Bye."

* * * * * From Ali's point of view

When Harvey walked out of the shower, a towel around his waist, I was at the closet looking for an outfit for that night.

I told him, "I need you to pick something out. I've never been to a fancy bar before."

"I'd love to," he said. He stepped up next to me, his arms brushing my breasts. I didn't step back -- at some point, Tyler had told me to always stand close to him. Or maybe that was something I'd thought of.

He brought out a light little summer dress. A mere four weeks ago, I'd've thought it was illegal. Now, to me, it merely looked innocent and girly. 

He held it up and smoothed it over my body, considering. "You couldn't wear a bra with this. And it might be a little too short for underwear." 

He looked at me intently, as if there was a joke for me to catch. My sense of humor is weak sometimes. 

I said, "That's okay. I don't really wear my underthings anymore."

"That's good," he said. 

"That dress is a good choice," I told him, taking the hanger out of his hand. "Very cute. You don't think it'stoo cute, do you? Is it elegant enough? A girl likes to feel sexy, sometimes."

"I think it's perfect. You'll look very elegant." He was watching me closely, still. I knew that look, when I got it from someone. 

"What? What am I missing?" 

He cleared his throat. "I hate to ask, but it's going to be a long night. Do you think? Do you think you might...?" He stopped, frustrated (I hope not with me). He glanced down at his towel. "Could you go down on me before we leave?"

"Oh!" I said. "I'm sorry! Of course I can."

I felt bad for not thinking of that myself. Lately, I'd stopped trying to embarrass Harvey every chance I got. I was looking at him more like a lost old man, or at least, someone I should protect and take care of.

I dropped to my knees and undid his towel. His cock sprang out, level to the floor. Taking his hips in my hands, I glanced up at him, over his round stomach, and then took his member in my mouth. He seemed to be pleased with me.

Later, we hit the street, enjoying the weather since the bar was in walking distance. I was asking him all about his friends, who we were going to meet. He said they were all from his work, some investement group. The gathering was nothing special -- they met about once a month to get shit-faced.

"One thing," he added. He seemed uncomfortable with what he was about to say. "I guess they think you're my live in... my... erm, concubine. Goombata."

"I don't know what that is," I said. "But is it okay if I tell them I'm a singer, too?"

"Sure, hon," he said. "I think they'll be very interested to learn about your, um, sets."

I smiled at that. "Hon." Being on a date with Harvey was different from going out with Tyler. Tyler was all energy and talk-talk-talk, always planning, always changing the subject before I could say something. Tyler was always telling me to do things, challenging me, making me work to be better.

With Harvey, we had relaxed conversations. We walked slowly, with Harvey holding me close in the crook of his arm. Whenever he noticed people watching, he pulled me nearer, like he was showing off. I felt relaxed, I felt interesting. In fact, all his friends found me interesting.That was a nice change from Tyler, and all his business talk with other people over my head.

"Don't worry about the wind, Ali," he said to me.

"What's wrong with the wind?" I asked.

"I mean, it's picking up your dress. But we'll be inside shortly."

I glanced down at my dress. I have large breasts -- I've had them most of my life, and I'm totally used to them. As a result, I usually just look down my front, between them, to check my dress. Tyler likes that -- he says it's cute, the way I put my chin to my neck and stare down. For me, it's just easier than bending over to look past them. They're really not so large, as they are pointy -- jutting outward. If they drooped a little bit, I'd be able to see my shoes.

I'd felt the wind swishing the dress over my ass, but I didn't see anything wrong. Men can be so fussy sometimes.

We entered the bar. It didn't look so fancy to me, it was just another pub, with a long wooden bar-top on one side, and tables and a dart board in the back. I whispered to Harvey that I might be able to get him free drinks. I wasn't sure how that worked, but sometimes bartenders would keep me supplied all night, waving off all but the tips.

So we stopped at the bar first. He got a mixed drink, and I ordered a draught beer. I saw Nadi with a group of men near the rear, and waved. Galbraith was there, too.

"Why don't you go say hi," suggested Harvey. "I'll bring the drinks when they're ready."

Remembering to look elegant, I strode through the bar and up to Harvey's friends. A few of them stepped aside, as if to let me through, but I stopped. 

"Hello, Mr. Nadi! Hello, Mr. Galbraith!" I said sweetly.

"My dear!" said Nadi. He took both my hands and held my arms out. "Don't you look simply delicious?" 

I felt myself blushing. 

"Doesn't she, guys?" he said. The other men agreed. Nadi leaned down and gave me a warm kiss on the lips, and then passed my hands to Galbraith.

Galbraith said, "That's a lovely dress."

"Thank you," I said, happy to get the conversation off me and onto the dress. "Harvey picked it out for me. I was worried it was too cute."

"Not at all," he said. "I just wonder, how the hell it stays up!" 

"Oh, yeah," I giggled. "I cut the straps off. They didn't seem to do anything."

"And your legs!" said Nadi, leaning over sideways. "I love those chunky, elevated clogs you always wear. They bring out your firm muscle tone."

Galbraith still had my hands, and he lifted them over my head and gave me a twirl. 

"Thank you!" I blushed again. They certainly knew how to compliment a girl.

Galbraith kissed me in greeting, like Nadi. Then he introduced me to the other men. There were four of them, and I promptly forgot their names. 

Here's a strange thing I did. I wasn't thinking -- Nadi and Galbraith had kissed me, and so, I kissed the next man they introduced. As soon as I pressed my lips against his, and parted his teeth with my tongue, I realized that perhaps I shouldn't've done that. I kept the kiss short, just a few seconds. I mean, the first two men were my friends. The rest were new acquaintances. 

Rather than look stupid, I kissed the next man too, and the next, until I'd greeted them all. 

Harvey came up behind me, passing my beer over my shoulder. The condensation dripped onto my breast -- I wouldn't have felt it, except it was cold. However, all the men's eyes were on it right away. I noticed that alltheir drinks were wrapped in napkins. How low-class of me, to order a beer, and then drip it all over myself like trailer trash! I resolved that, from then on, I would stick to Scotch. I didn't know what Scotch tasted like, but I was reasonably sure it came with a napkin.

I retreated to Harvey, and casually wiped at the droplet on my chest with my hand, spreading it so it would dry more quickly. They kept sneaking glances at the water until it dried. 

"The girl tells us you dressed her tonight," said Nadi. "I have to compliment your taste in dresses."

"Thank you, sir," said Harvey. "I think Ali does all the hard work, though."

"On, no!" I said. I turned to the other men. "It's not easy to find things to wear, not with my wardrobe. It has to be just right -- not too long, not too tight. Sometimes Harvey has me try on outfits three or four times, until we find something good."

"The gathered bust," said Galbraith, tracing the curve with his hand. "Is great. And then it just flows loosely down, sifting over her torso, and stops. How becoming, on such a girl. And how it takes up with that crocheted band right below her hips -- it weights the dress down, but drives you to try to look through the holes. And how it all stops at the top of her legs -- ingenious."

"Wow," I laughed. "You noticed all that?"

"Give me another kiss, Ali," said Galbraith. "You make me feel young and gallant again."

How could I resist! I stepped forward away from Harvey and tilted my head up. I knew from greeting him with kisses in the past that he liked my lips to be a little parted. His moustache always tickled my nose.

"You must get a lot of attention from the young men," said another man. I called him Smokey in my mind, since he always had a cigar.

"Get attention?" I asked, blankly. "How?" 

Nadi laughed. "You have to keep it simple, Tom. You'll do better to talk about her, but not too her."

I thought about that... talkabout me? Oh, they meant the compliments. 

Smokey exhaled a plume of smoke. "Ali? Ali! Are you able to sit down in that dress?"

"That's okay," I told them. "I can talk."

"Whuh?" said Smokey.

"You can talkabout me, orto me -- it doesn't matter either way. It's fine."

"Ali, that was about three minutes ago."

"Still," I persisted (I liked logical arguments, but I liked winning them more), "Ican talk."

"I'm sure you can," said Galbraith smoothly. "But why should you? Tonight isyour night."

That made me blush even more. I was reminded somehow of High School... what was it? Oh, yeah: "Shut up and take your clothes off. No talking." It was a dark little thought that I pinched off. This wasnothing like High School, and these men were nothing like that selfish jerks I'd dated. Still, I felt a little tingle of excitement -- wouldn't it be weird, to find those patterns repeated throughout society, like? To be able to find elements of horney teen-age guys, in these refined men?

While I'd been thinking, I found that I'd finished my beer, and, in fact, that we had moved through the bar and sat at a table. How long had I been thinking!? Sometimes I zone out like that, just dropping into a world of imagination. And then, I wake up and I've missed my subway stop, or a make-out session has just gone too far.

When I came to, Harvey was across from me, and Nadi and Galbraith were on either side. Though it was a big booth, there were eight of us, and I was squeezed tightly. My shoulders were raised, and I could feel the bustier of my dress grabbing at my chest to keep from sliding down. Nadi had one of my hands in his lap, and was fondly running his fingers over my knuckles.

"What were we talking about?" I said. I noticed I had a drink in front of me, and reached for it with my free hand.

"We were discussing your skin," said Harvey gently. "How clear it is. Is it very soft?" 

I shrugged. "As soft as anybody's, I assume." I said that with a worldly air. 

Truth be told, I was quite amazed with myself. Here I was, surrounded by a select group of dignified men, them with their cigars and napkin drinks. I felt like a high-society princess, or a CEO, or maybe even a trophy wife!

"You may test," I said haughtily. I held out my arm over the table. Four or five hands immediately gripped my arm. Then the grips relaxed, and their fingers were running lightly up and down my arm. I shivered. 

"What about your legs?" asked Nadi. "If that's alright?"

I lifted a leg and braced the knee against the table. Galbraith and Nadi both put a hand out. Since they were closest and nobody else could feel, they gave the report. 

"Soft as a feather," said Nadi.

Galbraith's finger was under my knee. "Softer, even."

All the men were sort of leaning over towards me. Uncomfortable as I was, talking about myself (I'm a modest person), I was glad they didn't find my conversation boring. We stayed on the general topic of skin for a while, with me telling them what lotions I used to soften it, and how I applied the lotion. They told me they were on a quest -- to find the softest part of a woman, and compare it with a man's.

"How soft is the skin in of your mouth?" asked Harvey suddenly. I thought that was a weird question, coming from him. After all, I had just used my mouth on him before we came!

Still, I felt around with my tongue. The men were watching me with interest. "A lot softer, I guess. But wet, too."

"Ah," said Nadi, leaning back. "We should feelthat then."

I was leaning forward towards Smokey, my mouth open, when Galbraith stopped me with a hand on my chest. 

"It's not fair," he said. "Here we are, using our rough old hands. To properly make this test, we men should findour softest skin too."

"That sounds intelligent," I said. I took a sip of my drink. If this was scotch, Iliked it.

"What's the softest skin on a man, Ali?" asked Smokey, with an interested air.

"The manhood," I said, astutely.

"Then that's how we shall test it!" said Galbraith, slapping the table. We all laughed. "It might seem a little strange, but we're all friends here. Who is first?"

I beamed at them. Tyler would be so proud -- I was holding my own at a table of powerful, interesting men!

"I'll be first," volunteered Smokey.

"However," said Nadi, "we can't make the test here. It would look too... funny. We should find a private place. The bathroom!" He was running his hand along my shoulders. I didn't want to mention it, but when he played with my neck, it sent shivers down my spine!

"Shall we?" Smokey asked gallantly. He held a hand out to me, and I giggled at this chivalry. 

I took Smokey's hand and we threaded ourselves out of the booth. As I lead Smokey away, their conversation started up again.

"And so the fun begins," said Galbraith. There were chuckles around the table. 

"That was easy," said Nadi.

"Were we clear enough?" asked Harvey.

"If he can't get in her mouth now, he's a complete loss."

I led Smokey to the bathroom in back, giving a sort of sly grin to all the surprised guys who looked up at us. How often do you see a young woman leading an older man around by the hand? If they only knew the kooky test we were going to perform, they would have laughed!

We went into the bathroom and locked the door -- it was not a multi-urinal setup. It was small, the size of a closet. I was reminded how, just a week ago, I'd led Tyler into the bathroom at some bar (I didn't remember the bar's name). That was after that awesome Club Trash set. Man, what a great set! And afterwards, the guys got smashed, but I was too pumped up to feel the alcohol. What a crazy night!

What stayed with me from that night was my realization of how easy it was to get Tyler excited. All this time, I'd been worrying that I wasn't interesting enough, or challenging enough for him. And so I'd sort of "shut down" inside, and just followed his directions, hoping to make him happy. And then I'd finally cracked him open, I'd finally gotten him to confess what turned him on. And it was so easy! 




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 07



I could remember the bathroom in that other bar, the dim, guttering light. The eight or so men pressed around us, reaching past Tyler to get at me. Tyler was so turned on by all that, and I was amused! I mean, girlsknow how to be naked. We strip down to bikinis at the beach, we take showers, we get felt up in the subways, we stand in windows so people on the street can see us. How was being naked in that bathroom atall different from, say, being naked on a stage? But Tyler was so turned on by it, he was out of his mind. I'd made a pact with myself never to tell him how easy it was -- I wanted him to think I was just as turned on as he was.

Unlike Tyler, Smokey didn't just throw me against the wall. He guided me to the stool of the toilet -- it looked grimey, so I lifted my dress before sitting down. We were all business, not talking much, until he pulled out his cock. 

"Shall we test?" I asked, laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

"Yeah," he grunted. "For maybe ten minutes or so?" 

So we were going to be thorough, huh? I closed my mouth over his cock, and let him move around in my mouth, feeling the skin of my cheek. I ran my tongue across the shaft, noticing his whole-body tremor as I tickled his soft skin. 

I pulled back suddenly. "You know what this reminds me of?" I asked him.

"What?" he said. He sort of stepped forward, pressing his cock against my lips again. I rubbed the soft skin of my lips up and down his length.

"It reminds me of giving ablow-job!" I whispered, and then giggled. 

He sort of stared at me, lost, for a moment. Had it been so long for him that he didn't know what oral sex was anymore? Then he nodded. "That's a great idea! That would be a great way to... test. You're so clever! But you don't have to give me areal blow-job. Just a pretend one -- you know, go through the motions?"

"Okay," I said. I was glad to have something to do while he felt my mouth with his cock. It made me feel like I was contributing. 

Even though I was just pretending, I went through all my normal tricks. I kept my eyes on his face, so I could read his queues. He kept getting harder and harder, and I would work him further and further down my throat. I kept the suction hard, so the sides of his cock could feel the sides of my cheek even when his cock-head was past my swallow-point. We covered a lot of ground -- he felt every part of my mouth with his cock. We were a team! 

And, though I was pretending, he still shot off. I felt his ass clench in my hands, and I couldhear his stomach gurgle as it tightened. My nose was buried in his pubic hair, and my forehead was cushioned against his big gut.Uh-oh, I thought. I knew he'd lost control, and it could be potentially embarrassing for him. I didn't pull off, however, since I was worried about getting cum on his pants. I know guys hate that. He pumped into my mouth with long, uneven strokes, biting his lips. After another 20 seconds or so, he shot a big load in my mouth.

I kept him between my lips until he started getting soft, and then leaned back and took a big gulp of air. He was standing above me, just staring down at my mouth. I realized he was looking at the pool of cum. I quickly swallowed it. 

"Good blow. You took it all," he said brusquely. He said it mechanically, like he didn't really care, but I knew he did. I just kind of knew, somehow, that a guy like him doesn't have to apologize often. So I didn't take it personally.

"Our little secret," I said. I replaced his cock in his pants and zipped him up. 

He left as I went to the mirror to check myself. I looked okay -- a little cum around my lips, but I licked it off. None the worse for wear from our accident.

I navigated through the bar alone, and went back to the table. The men were looking up at me expectantly. I had their attention -- I'd never felt so included in my life! 

I said, "Who's next?"

It started becoming hilarious. Every man I took to the bathroom --every man -- ended up shooting his wad. Even though I was just going through the motions, not really working hard. Really, I was just demonstrating what a blow-job would feel like. Maybe, as men get older, it gets easier for them to cum, and they lose control. Or maybe I was as good as Tyler said, that I was (ha-ha) the "supreme cocksucker of the world," like he always told everybody. Regardless, after the first three, I just stopped being surprised when they pumped my mouth full of cum. 

And another side effect was that, after the visits to the bathroom, they all started treating me like an old friend. They'd leave their hands on my thigh, or around my waist. They'd lean in for kisses, or wrap their hands around my breasts as they stood behind me. All the casual contact reminded me again just how touch-oriented men are with their women friends. It reminded me a little of High School, when I would hang out behind the building with the clique I was trying to get into. Except, the guys in the clique never really talked to me. They were still physically affectionate, but they never answered when I said something. They only mentioned me when they asked who wanted me next.

After I'd taken everybody to the bathroom, we all sat around with a sort of lazy, satisfied air.

"Tell me, Ali. Do you have any girlfriends?" Smokey asked. All the men laughed.

I shook my head, serious. "I only have male friends. All the girls I know are too snooty. I never got along with them. I felt like they were judging me. Guys, however -- Iknew they were judging me. So I guess I'm like a tom-boy or something."

"No, gorgeous," said Galbraith, stroking my leg, "you're not a tomboy."

They had stopped talking about me and my skin, and had started talking about what they could get me to do. Could I pick up a guy in the bar in under 5 minutes? Could I convince a guy on the street to give me $5 somehow? Could I get free drinks from the bartender? Galbraith explained it wasn't about the money, since they all had money. They just wanted to see me do some crazy stuff.

"Geez," I said. "What do you talk about when youdon't have a woman here?"

"Nothing that would interest you," said Nadi. "Hardly anything that interests me."

I perked up, sensing a compliment. Ilove compliments! Both giving and receiving. "Does that mean I'm making things interesting?"

"You certainly are," said Harvey.

"I hardly did anything!" I said, amazed. "Does that mean I'm invited to the next get-together?"

They passed marveling smiles around the table at each other. 

Galbraith said, "Ahem, yes, dear. Of course you're invited." He looked stern suddenly, "If you keep things interesting."

"You mean, like the crazy stuff you were just talking about?"

"Yes," he said. "Does anybody have any ideas for next time?"

"Next time," said Harvey, nervously speaking into the silence, "you should wear something really, really sexy."

"Okay," I said. "This is a fancy sort of bar. I can get away with a lot."

"Like something completely inappropriate. That falls off you. Or see-through. Can you do that?"

"Sure I can!" I said brightly. I knew Harvey would help choose the outfit. He probably already had something in mind.

Smokey blew a plume of smoke. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I think we should make that bathroom trip a tradition. Do it every time."

I gave him a sly smile. I knew his secret -- that he'd shot off in my mouth. I said, "Sure. If you can handle it."

The ideas came quickly, faster than I could agree to.

"I'd like to see if Ali is a good flirt. How she flirts with a guy."

"You want to get really crazy, we can have her make out with someone at the next table. We'll tell her she can't say the word 'no' or 'stop', and we'll see how far it goes."

"We could pretend like we don't know her, but tell her to pick up one of the guys we bring from work. Like Bart, from the mail room!"

"Bart! Ew! That would be hilarious!"

"And she can't say 'no' to him!"

They all laughed. I sat, swelling with pride. How often does a girl get to be the life of the party? Even though they were thinking up all these outrageous things to do, I thought I could handle it. I would show them! 

And (in the back of my mind), I was once again reminded of high school. I felt a small flush of excitement, and my sex became wet. I was reminded of how, sometimes, my dates would talk to their friends like I wasn't there. I would be like a secret listener, and eavesdropper, unnoticed, as they thought up things to tell me to do. 

Sometimes I'd be shifted from date to date in the same night. Sometimes to three or four different dates, if I wasn't on curfew. They called it "lending." And each time I changed cars, or was dropped off at someone's house by my last date, I would be thinking, "Now theyhave to be nice to me." But it was never enough, not that I stopped trying. I'm an optimist!

And, looking at it one way, this optimism eventually paid off. I have a boyfriend, Tyler, who is just simply wonderful. I have my boss under control at work, and mad tips from my steady repeat customers. I have a place to live. I have a photographer who wants to follow me everywhere and give me free photos. I have a band, a close relationship with all my musicians, and anexecutive job at a music studio. Heck -- I have a good career! (How did that happen!?) And I had stage-dived for the first time in my life, recently. And I got it all just by being positive.

I paused in my review, and answered a question from Galbraith: "Yeah, I'd suck him off. I don't care if he's creepy."

If only those boys from high school could see me now!



She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 08



* * * * *

Ali's point of view: Her new "lifestyle."

There are some formative things in my life. Memories or occurrences that I keep with me, that I set my course by. I use my feelings to figure out what to do next. 

For example -- how bad I felt in High School about letting the boys use me like trash. For a while, I had no friends at all, nobody who talked to me. And the fewer people who talked to me, the less social I was in every sense. It got so I barely knew how to have a conversation. I couldn't speak to living, breathing people. (If someone spoke to me at a party, I'd go all tongue-tied. I'd lean into his hands, brushing against him, not answering, until he got the hint and latched on. From then on it was easy -- just follow where he wanted me to go. I was called "Party Favor" to my face.) The worst was when I overheard two guys talking about me in the hall:

Guy one: "Alley-Trash (their nickname for me) fucked Jim last night at the mall. He said he didn't even take her to the movies. Just fucked her, and kicked her out of the car."

That was true. I'd had to walk home, four blocks, from the mall. It was rude, and I'd made myself promise to say something to him about it on our next date.

Guy two: "The thing is, Angela knew about Jim's date. The girls were talking, and they were all, 'I don't care if a guy fucks Ali. It doesn't mean anything.'"

Guy one: "Yeah! I'm gonna tell Betty I'll take her out to dinner, if she lets me fuck Alley-Trash. See what she says about that."

And that's how I learned how low I'd sunk. The girls didn't even consider it cheating when their boyfriends took me on dates! It was like I wasn't a girl.

I felt pretty crummy inside. But that crumminess made me more aware of things, when the pattern repeated at summer camp. I was, like, the only girl instructor at the camp. Somehow (I guess they talked to each other), after the first few nights the counselors were visiting my tent at night, or walking in when I was showering. There were some days I didn't even get out of the tent to do work. I felt like I didn't deserve the paychecks the manager dropped on my bed, when we were done. 

But because of High School, I was ready for the crummy feeling, and it didn't feel so bad. And when I got back to school for the next year, I was feeling even less bad. Nowadays, when I should be feeling crummy, I barely have an opinion about it either way. I ask myself, "What's the big whup?" Why shouldI feel bad, if a guy who never took the time to learn about me treats me bad? I'd feel worse if the guy knew me, and then treated me badly.

Then, in college, I learned to not take things so personally. In my study groups, everybody was so mean to me because I was always behind. But they never un-invited me. One of the girls told me: "Just because you're so beautiful, it doesn't mean you don't have to work. The guys will never kick you out, but I think it's unfair how you don't pull your weight. You never pay attention." 

See, it turns out, most of the people thought I was coasting off the others, because they thought I was using my looks. But I was working hard. So I learned forgiveness when people were mean to me. 

Overall, I think being giving and forgiving has helped me. I have $15,000 in the bank, earnings from my waitressing and band work. And Max said he'd start paying me at the studio. Meanwhile, I have zero costs -- I don't have to pay for clothes, food at the diner, apartment. I never pay for drinks. I don't read and I don't see movies, but I'm busy all day. I do my exercises in the morning, I have two jobs to go to, and band stuff at night. 

And now it's time for me to make someone else happy. 

Tyler. 

Ever since he confessed his turn-ons to me, I've been trying to think of things I could do to please him. He'd said, "Fuck strangers. Go to a porn shop and suck off anonymous cocks through a hole in the wall. Pick up guys in the park and let them play with you. Let strange men treat you like shit. Humiliate you."

But what did that mean? Let men treat me like shit? Some men, here and there? Or all of them? I knew that relationships reach slow points, and begin coasting without either the boy or girl doing any work. I didn't want Tyler to get bored with me. I didn't want to be predictable, same old Ali. I wanted to project a whole lifestyle that kept him juiced and interested. 

I worked on ideas, even when he wasn't around. If Tyler was always thinking about the band, how to make it better and get gigs, then I could always think about ways to humiliate myself for him.

I asked Harvey what I could do. 

"Can you repeat that?" he asked.

"I need ideas," I said again. "I need some ideas about how to humiliate myself. You know, for Tyler."

"You mean sexually?" 

"In general, I guess." I shrugged. "He said it was one of his turn-ons. I want to make him happy."

Harvey swigged his beer. He was staring at me with that strange intent look he sometimes gets. 

He said, "You could take some pictures of yourself, and put them on the Internet for him."

I giggled. "We've already done that." And I told him the URL he could visit. He asked if he could tell his friends about it, and I said why not? As I understood it, the Internet was a public computer thingy. There's no reason they shouldn't be able to load the website.

Soon he was being his normal, logical intelligent self. I didn't follow some of what he said, but I knew that, eventually, he would get down to practical advice. 

"What humiliates women is the removal of pride. Pride is self-worth. When a woman feels worthless, she has no pride. Things that make women feel worthless are called 'humiliating'. Are you with me so far?"

I nodded. I didn't have to understand.

"Self-worth is what makes a woman feel special. Proud women have values, standards. They care what people think about them. They want to be treated well. They want to succeed. They don't waste their time with nobodies. Are you with me?"

"You're saying I should do the opposite of all that?" 

"Well, yeah," he said. "To be generally humiliated, you should do this stuff: Wear slutty clothes. Act more slutty. Don't draw any lines about what kind of men you let touch you. In fact, everything you do should make men feel comfortable touching you. And using you. Let them talk about you in a nasty way. Anything which embarasses you -- encourage it."

I had a little pad of paper on the coffee table. I wrote: "Dress more slutty. Everybody touches me. Get embarassed."

I looked at him, an idea in my head. "I have a t-shirt that says, 'Sex Kitten.' Is that good?"

He nodded. "Yes, Ali. You can even take a magic marker and write on some of your other t-shirts. A big, simple message, like 'EASY', or 'TRY ME'. And, you could take a pen and decorate an old pair of jeans -- write little messages on them. So people can read them."

"That sounds fun!" I laughed. 

Over the next hour, Harvey and I worked out a surprise date for Tyler. I called Tyler at work, and told him to go to a certain out-door cafe. I told him he'd see me, but he had to pretend that he didn't know me. He should follow me wherever I went. I was shaking with excitement -- Tyler would be so happy!

"What's this about, honey?" he asked.

"I can't tell you," I said, being secretive. "Let's just say, I want you to watch me humiliate myself."

"Umm-okay," he said, sounding confused. "I'll look, um, forward to it?"

When we hung up, I asked Harvey why he was helping me. He shrugged, unzipping his fly and pulling me down to his cock. He said, "I feel like I owe it to Tyler to help you out." I thought that was sweet.



* * * * *

Ali's POV: Tyler's Surprise

I was wearing my clunky old combat boots, a white button-up shirt (Harvey's) and a beat-up pair of jeans full of holes. The jeans had two big holes over my knees, and one up my thigh. My ass was hanging out a big hole in the back. The front pockets were ripped out, so there were two horizontal slits of skin showing on both sides of the fly, below the beltline. The shirt was a heavy cotton thing, with split seams, that Harvey wore to do housework. I'd pulled off most of the buttons, and had tied it up to show my stomach. 

Harvey said I looked cute and attractive, but totally broke. That was what I was going for.

I went to 14th Street at Union Station. There, I saw Tyler already seated at a table at an outdoor cafe. I almost waved to him, before remembering the whole point of me being there. 

Instead, I walked up to him and paused, turning around full circle. He liked those jeans -- they were his favorites, he said. He always joked how, eventually, the tear in the ass would get so big that he'd be able to fuck me without taking them off. Now he saw (I hope) that I'd widened the tear a little, just for him.

I walked away from him, glancing over my shoulder. I had his attention, all right. Across the small plaza, I turned back to face him, and sat on the pavement. There were a lot of people passing by. I didn't sit cross-legged -- Harvey had suggested I sit with my legs parted, a little bent, so people could see the tears in the jeans better. 

On the ground between my legs, I put out a dirty styrofoam cup and tossed some change in. Then I took out a little cardboard sign from my backpack. I held it up so Tyler could read it.

SPARE CHANGE?

Tired of being prostatute 6months

Disease freee and off drugs

I'm nice!

An incredulous smile passed over his features. Even though we were thirty feet apart, I felt like we were still communicating. He sat back, sipping his coffee, and watched. His eyes lowered to my crotch, where the ass-tear was showing under my split legs -- I knew from practicing in front of a mirror that he could see the skin of both thighs, separated by the hot-pink mound of my panties. 

People were passing by. Some (usually men) slowed, to read the sign. Their faces held surprise, distaste, pity, lust. Lots of them looked down my shirt -- it was open to below my breasts, and looked like something I'd just thrown on that morning. If they were passing close to me, they could look down my top. If they were passing a little further away, they could see my panties. That was part of the humiliation thing, Harvey said.

I didn't get much change. New York police get rid of panhandlers pretty quickly, and everybody is out of the habit of giving. But when a pair of cops appeared, they just passed by me, looking me up and down. I gave them my best "I'm nice!" smile.

One old man did stop and talk to me. He seemed normal, until he squatted by me and put his hand on my knee. He was telling me something about his old wife, who had died. The thing to do with weirdos is ignore them. I didn't answer as he squeezed my knee, and stroked my hair. 

One man, passing by, noticed us. "Five bucks if you do him right here," he told me, just to be nasty.

"Yes, pretty girl," said the old man eagerly. "What you think? He pay you."

I shrugged, feeling pretty cheap. (It was working!) The man passed on, leaving me with the old guy. He had pulled the collar of my shirt more open, and his hand was making tentative circles on my chest, each time reaching a little further in. Harvey had told me to let men touch me, so I just sat there, and tried to get passers-by to read my sign. Then the cops arrived again. The old man stood and walked quickly away. 

One of the policemen sidled up to me. A young guy, twenty-something. He was looking down my shirt as he said, "We can't keep all the perverts off of you."

"I know this isn't legal," I said. "But I won't be here for long."

"We're going to pass by again in fifteen minutes," he told me. "You can't be here."

"Okay," I said. He was still staring at my tits. One of the things about being humiliated is to be embarassed. I wasn't embarassed by some guy looking at me -- women are used to that. So I thought quickly and tried to ask something embarassing. "Is it true there's no law about being topless in New York? Think it will help me get some change?"

"No law against it," he said, a small grin on his lips. "You'll make better tips if you work in a strip club."

I shook my head. "Strip clubs need a home address and phone number. Right now, I'm just sleeping wherever."

"Well," he said, as he finally turned away, "if you're around at the end of my shift, you can sleep with me." 

I gave him a big smile. "Thanks! That's sweet!"

"We protect and serve," he laughed. 

With Tyler watching, I put the sign back into my backpack. I emptied the change into my hand -- I'd made $2.00! I stood, stooped and got my cup, and wandered slowly into the park. 

After a few minutes, I glanced back and saw Tyler behind me. He'd paid his bill and was now following at about 20 feet. 

The park wasn't very big, under a block -- and it was mostly just a bunch of paths lined with benches.

One of the benches was surrounded by a bunch of teen-age boys. People in New York are terrified of groups of young boys. They seem to get out of hand so easily. Women cross the street to go around them. Men walk faster.

These boys were talking loudly, laughing with each other, as I walked up. They stopped almost as one and turned to look at me. Their eyes traced up my jeans, penetrating all the holes, and came to rest on my shirt. It was still pulled sideways from the old man.

"Hi, guys," I said. I had a little quaver in my voice.

"Puta," spat one of them. "I saw your sign back there. A whore is a whore, man."

"I'm cleaning up my act," I said. "Can you help me out with some change?" I held out my hand. Whew! If I wanted to be humiliated, this was certainly working. I felt lower than low, I hoped Tyler was watching.

"Suck my cock for this?" He held up a shiney quarter. The other guys sniggered at me.

"Not anymore," I said, with my best friendly voice. "See, I'm trying to stop. Will you just give it to me? I really need some change."

"You're a pretty girl," he observed. "Why you a whore?"

"My boyfriend wanted me to," I said. Harvey and I had rehearsed my story, so it would come out smoothly if anybody asked. "First it was just his friends. Then it was guys we met. Then, when he owed money, he sent me over to fuck people. They started coming on their own, and paying. When he kicked me out, all I had was that talent. That is my history."

The teen-ager considered this. "You were my girlfriend, I guess I'd do the same thing."

"I know," I shrugged. "But I was a good girlfriend."

"No doubt. You make more than spare change for him, huh?"

I shook my head. "A lot of them were freebies." 

He and his friends laughed at me. "So what if I wanna fuck you, but not as a whore? What about as a hot chick? Will you fuck me now?"

I considered. I hadn't planned for this question. "I guess so. How old are you?" 

He sighed and shook his head. "Don't bother, puta. A whore is a whore."

He tossed the quarter onto the pavement at my feet. I said thanks, and stooped to get pick it up. When I straightened, he had a different look on his face. 

"Bye, then," I said.

"Wait!" someone said. It wasn't the nasty kid again, but one of the others. "Here." 

He tossed a nickle and some dimes onto the ground. 

I dropped to my knee, leaning forward to pick them up. Before I was done, another few pieces of change scattered on the ground.

I wondered why they wouldn't just hand me the fucking stuff. Then I wondered why they didn't just throw it all at once. I crawled around on my hands and knees, picking up pennies, nickles and dimes as I found them. Then I'd hear some more tinkles behind me, as more change hit the pavement, and I'd have to spin around.

I caught a glimpse of Tyler, sitting on a nearby park bench. He was laughing with his hand over his mouth, watching me scrabble around. I guess it was pretty funny.

"Man!" said the first boy, the nasty one. "You sure need money!"

"I do," I breathed. "Thank you for all this change."

He pulled out a single dollar bill, and unrolled it in front of my eyes. "What would you do for this?"

"Can you spare it?" I asked, holding a hand out. 

"I can spare it, if you can work for it," he said. There was an evil smile on his face. "Crawl towards me. Like a doggie."

I'd been doing that anyway, when I saw the dollar. How weird is that -- I had lots of money in a bank account, but after just half an hour of begging, that dollar looked like a lottery win! 

"Can you all see down her shirt?" the teen asked. His friends all said yes. "Some of the best tits, man. Puta! Can I feel your tits?"

I shook my head. "You might be too young."

"I can see them, and I'm young. Why aren't you covering them up?" 

I gave a little shrug, "They're just tits."

I was still on all fours, holding myself up with my palms planted against the ground. I noticed people passing by slowly, or even stopping, to watch me earn my dollar. Tyler told me later that they were mostly just watching my ass stick out of my jeans.

"I give you this dollar," said the teen-ager. "But you have to let me spit on you. Spit on you, puta, because I spit on whores."

"You can spit on me anyways," I pointed out, helpfully.

"I know. But you have to keep your mouth open. Each try is a dollar. Heh?"

I thought about that. "I could make a lot of money!" I exclaimed.

He looked surprised, then a little disgusted. "That's the spirit. Open your mouth like a good girl."

I couldn't stop thinking about that dollar. I opened my mouth right away, showing him my little tongue.

His lips pursed, and then he shot out a stream of spit between his two front teeth. It hit my cheek, close to my mouth, but not in. As it ran down my face, I could feel its hotness on the edge of my lips. 

"That's one," he said. He pulled out another dollar.

Another guy had a dollar of his own. They spat almost in unison, hitting me on the temple and neck. I kept my mouth open, turning to the other guys. Slowly, shyly, they were digging in their pockets. Their eyes were riveted on my face, and down my shirt.

One of the bystanders behind me gave a revolted snort. "Woman, get off your knees! This is fucking horrible."

I flashed a smile over my shoulder. "No! It's okay! It's better than whoring. I've already made three dollars!"

I hoped Tyler was digging this as much as I was. Altogether, most of the teen-agers tried it, a few of them twice. Only two wads of spit landed in my mouth, which they instructed me to swallow. I probably could have kept them there all day, but then, they were young. They didn't have much money.

Some of them took a turn without paying, but by the time they walked away, I had made twelve dollars. Not counting the change I still had in my hand.

I stood, wiping my face on my sleeve. When I turned, most of the watchers were moving on, excepting the man who had told me to get off my knees. He had a strange expression of concentration on his face, like me when I'm figuring out a bill at the diner. Except he wasn't sticking out his tongue.

"Woman, I'll give you five dollars to open your shirt for me."

"Five!" I rocked back, stunned. That was five spits worth.

"This offer won't last," he said, stepping up to me. He was a tall man, black, in an expensive overcoat. He had a hungry expression on his face. "Five."

"I don't know. My shirt?" I plucked at it.

"Four dollars, now."

"Oh, no!"

Before I could say anything else, he said, "Three."

"But you said five!" I said.

"I don't have all day. Now it's two." 

I gripped my shirt and tore it open. I made it just before he said "one." I heard the last few buttons pop off the shirt and skitter away on the pavement. He stepped closer, staring at my chest. I don't know why men care about breasts so much... and if he'd been at Club Trash during my last set, he would have seen a lot more.




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 08



"It's five again," he grinned, showing bright white teeth. "If you let me touch them."

"Yes!" I said, before he could lower the number.

His hands lept to my breasts. They were soft, but big and strong, and he had me cupped in his palms while his thumbs rolled over my nipples. I remembered again that we were in public, in broad daylight. We didn't look obvious, but if you looked twice, you'd see what was going on. It was a testament to my actor's exercises at the window every morning that I wasn't nervous or self-conscious at all. I let him feel me up until he stopped (after glancing around suddenly). Then he grabbed the top of my panties, which were sticking out above my jeans, and pulled them away from my tummy. With his other hand, he stuck a five dollar bill deep into my underwear. His knuckles made an electric tingle against my clit.

And then he just turned and walked away, without saying another thing!

"Thank you!" I called out to him.

Tyler grasped me from behind, and kissed the top of my head.

I spun in his arms, smiling. "Did you see all that?"

"Fuck yeah, I did," he laughed. He shook his head. "How the hell did you think this up?"

"Well, Harvey helped," I confessed. I was so pleased with myself, I could hardly keep still. My hands ran over his cheeks, over his broad shoulders. "It's all part of the new me. My new 'humiliation' lifestyle. Do you like it? It's all for you."

He looked serious all of a sudden. "Not just for me," he said. "I want you to be happy. You must only do what makes you happy."

"I'm happy," I said. I couldn't get that dumb smile off my face. "I'm happy making you happy. See my smile?"

"When we get back to my place, you're going to take a shower."

"Okay," I said. "I probably need one." 

"And then I'm gonna fuck the shit out of you."

"Yeah," I said. I felt pretty wicked inside just then. I could still feel the man's hands on my tits, like ghost fingers. Or maybe it was Tyler, now, feeling me up. He had a habit of putting his hands on my breasts, whenever he wanted, no matter where we were. I didn't want to break eye contact to check.

"And then I'm going to dress you in something barely legal, and take you out to get drunk," he continued.

"Oh, yeah," I said. 

"And get strange men to play with you." He looked at me hungrily.

"By then I'll hardly notice," I said. "You'll watch, right?"

"Why?"

I snorted. "What's the point of letting strangers use me, if you can't see?"

He gave me a look that made me feel yummy inside. Sort of admiring, proud, and happy all rolled into one. "You're wonderful. But you must not worry what I 'see.' I'm always with you, baby. That means you can always let strangers use you. It's not what I see, it's what I know. Deal?"

"Deal!" We shook hands.

Tyler tied up my shirt -- just one turn twist of the fabric, he said, because he wanted it loose as we walked. And if it flew open, I was supposed to take my time tying it.

I couldn't stop talking as we walked. I told him all about my decision, and why I made it. I confessed that I wasn't sure what humiliation really felt like, but I would probably know it when I felt it. 

I told him all about what I planned to do. Some of my new ideas. These are promises that I made to Tyler as we walked back to his apartment.

-Always forget to cross my legs when wearing a skirt.

-Always have some part of my body rubbing against someone in the subway.

-Always try to mention that it's easy to get me into bed.

-Always try to get my skirt caught in my backpack when I pull it up, and leave it there.

-Get a temporary tattoo that reads, "Gloryhole Girl" on my arm (for Tyler).

-Show him my home-made t-shirt that has "C*m bucket" in big black letters.

-Always do what he wants, and suggest more.

"See?" I said. "You're going to be hard for me twenty-four hours a day."

"I can barely believe this," said Tyler softly, almost to himself. He had a grin fixed on his face, but he seemed sort of intense.

"Believe it," I said back to him.



She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 09



I awoke on the sofa feeling warm and snuggly. I usually like waking up slowly, listening to the morning news that Harvey puts on the TV, feeling his bulk on the couch next to me, feeling his hands gently running up and down my legs. Sometimes as I'm dozing, he plays with my cunt and brings me off.

This morning, however, was a little different. I woke and found a cock in my mouth. I could tell by the smell that it was Harvey's. He was slowly pumping back and forth, making my lips roll in and out. I opened my jaw and slowly, sleepily sucked him in. 

He ran his fingertips lightly down my chest. The sensation made me take one of those long, spine-cracking morning stretches. His fingers traced down my stomach, to my sex. Under his proddings and pullings, I slowly opened my eyes.

I spend most of my time in the apartment naked, now -- the exceptions are when I'm dressing to go out, or drying off with a towel wrapped around me. It's been a long time since Harvey has felt shy about copping a feel. There are times when he'll even walk into a room, feel up my tits, and walk out again, without saying a word. 

And once, when he was drunk, he went further. I don't think he remembers, and as a friend, I don't bring it up. It was the anniversary of his divorce, and he was blotto. He'd been drinking in his room for hours, and then came out and turned on the TV. It woke me up, so I sat with him, while some porn from his stash was playing. We were both naked, but nothing happened, until he suddenly stood up. Without saying anything, he turned to me and layed his cock between my breasts. With rough hands, he pushed my tits over his cock, and started moving it up and down, basically jacking himself off with my tits. Then he came, and layed down with me, and fell asleep. I finished out the porn movie with his cum drying on my neck. I didn't want to disturb him, so I cleaned myself as best I could with my tongue. We both slept in a tangle of limbs.

This morning, I looked up at Harvey, my eyes trying to focus. I saw his face around the curve of his stomach. He was looking down at me intently, his hips rocking as he thrust his cock in my mouth. I gave a sleepy wave.

"You looked too good to pass up," he grunted. "I had to see if I could do this."

I shrugged languidly, not working hard. I kept my lips around his cock, and supplied a little suction. It was too early for me to think of anything else.

"Tyler called already," he said. "He wants you to keep a diary, today, of everything you do. Just for today, he said."

Hence, this diary.

"I think I'll cum on your face," he said. 

I pulled back suddenly, his cock popping out of my lips and slapping my arm. "No! Do that later. You have to..."

I struggled to my feet and pulled Harvey around the coffee table. I opened the curtains, and pulled up the window. Abruptly, the sounds of the city rolled into the apartment. Groans of big trucks, squeals of breaks, distant sirens. Music. I put my hands on the sill and leaned out, feeling the warm morning breeze bathe my naked body.

A few of the regulars were on the street, or at the windows in the building across the way. They knew my schedule, they were there every morning. I listened as Harvey tore open a condom wrapper, and then a few minutes later I felt his stomach on my ass. 

What started as a big tease was now a daily fuck. I didn't pretend to not know what was going on. I arched my ass up to make it easier for him to enter, and then felt his cock slide into my cunt, the ridges of his member thrumming against my nerve endings. In all, it was not a bad routine, a great way to start the morning.

And it had good psychological benefits, for me. I felt bad that I was sponging off of Harvey, staying in his apartment and not paying rent. Thanks to our morning ritual, I could myself that I was fucking him to pay rent -- it made me feel better about myself, as a person.

I waited for him to reach around and grab my tits -- he always started with both tits, and then switched to using one hand with both, with the other hand running up and down my stomach. 

As soon as he was in position, I found one of the guys on the street to stare at. I've started locking eyes with them, one a day, just because I can. He was a thirty-something man in casual clothes, and that's usually all I learn about them. He had an intense, needy expression as he stared back up at me. I started squeezing my cunt-muscles, rocking my waist, as I stared down at him. Harvey didn't like to work, he wanted me to do the moving. With long, slow movements that slowly accellerated, I milked his cock.

We had a pattern going, that's for sure. Harvey had even hinted, recently, that he was getting bored. Not so much bored, as tired, fucking me every morning. He was old, he said, he couldn't go on indefinitely. I said I didn't mind, but he'd have to find someone for me in the mornings. He asked if he could charge money, and I said he could do what he wanted, but I didn't want to break my schedule. And my schedule, every morning, starts with getting fucked in the window. It puts me in the right mindset for the rest of the day. I feel all weird when I miss it.

Harvey's hands were ravaging my torso. One hand was clamping over my tits, pulling them around, the other was scratching up and down my stomach. I could hear his stomach gurgle as my ass bumped it up and down. His cock quivered in my snatch, and I braced myself.

He grabbed my face and turned my head, leaning in. He liked to have his tongue in my mouth when he came. I broke eye contact with my man in the street, and stared at Harvey as he leaned in. I opened my mouth to meet his, and as his moustache brushed my lip, I felt a fire start in my stomach. I was coming, too! I dove for his mouth, grating teeth with him, and pulled his tongue into my mouth.

I could imagine how we looked. Every day we had a few of the regulars, and a few new ones. Sometimes we had twenty people, two stories below, trying to look inconspicuous as they glanced up at me. Here I was, a nubile twenty-something, and there was Harvey, a fat old man. We looked nasty, and I liked that. See? I don't fuck and suck Harvey just because he asks, I like it, too.

I came as he came, with long shudders. I turned back to the street and locked eyes with the guy again. My lips were wet, and I was breathing hard. I felt Harvey pull out, and heard the snap of the condom getting pulled off his cock.

Lately, Harvey has been giving me the full condoms. First, he wanted me to throw them to the watchers on the street below. Then, he wanted me to hold them in my mouth. Yesterday, I sucked out all the cum, as the guys in the street watched. I waited for Harvey to tell me what to do.

Today, he squeezed it out on my chest. I felt the warm fluid drip across my tits, a drop here, a dollop there. It was shameful... it made my nipples hard again. Some of the guys down below had big smiles on their faces. 

"Use your hand to wipe that into your mouth," he said, as he turned away.

He used to make me coffee, but not anymore. He's started taking me a little for granted. You'd think I'd mind, but I don't really. I don't like having a lot of things done for me -- it makes me feel uncomfortable, like I have to repay people. He knew I'd wait at least another ten minutes at the window, and he'd timed his showers so the coffee would be ready when he came out.

With my index finger, I scooped up drops of cum and put them in my mouth. My mind was wandering. Here was my schedule for the day: Work at the diner. Work at the studio. Practice with the band. If I was lucky, I'd get some private time with my boyfriend. Same as every day. I wasn't complaining, but a little variation would have been nice.

When I finished at the window, I gave a little wave and then went to start the coffee. Then to the computer, where I answered some emails. Alexi had given me my own email account on his website, and I was always getting guys asking for blowjobs, or to fuck me, or even just follow me around and watch me on the streets. How weird is that. It's all part of building my popularity as a singer, Tyler says. When I answer, I always give a little list of where I'm playing, or, if I know, what bars I'm hanging out at that night. They like that, though I don't think I've ever met one of them.

I did my 100 stomach crunches, 50 push-ups and 50 leg lifts. When Harvey left the bathroom, I went and showered. The shower has a little window, and I habitually open that, too, so the boys in the opposite apartment can look in. I shampooed, shaved, soaped, and stepped out with a towel.

At the closet, I packed my backpack with the outfits I'd need through the day. By now, everything in my wardrobe is so small and light, I'd be able to fit in one drawer. It's hilarious. 

I put on my waitressing clothes, and joined Harvey in the kitchen. Sipping his coffee, he eyed me from head to foot. I was wearing a pair of short-shorts, tight faded kakhis, and a white muscle shirt that had been cut off at the ribs. The bottom curve of the arm-holes and the cut-up hem resulted in a band of maybe three inches of fabric below the arm-holes. I only wore it because my boss at the diner, Subram, was so in love with it, for some reason. He wanted me to wear it at least once a week. The shorts were really small on me, so I never buttoned the top two buttons of the fly.

"Looking good, Ali!" said Harvey. 

That made me smile. A girl likes compliments. Usually, he just nods or shakes his head. 

He had the water-soluble marker in his hand. As part of my "humiliation lifestyle," he'd volunteered to write something on me every morning. It was black ink, but it soon browned, and looked like a henna tattoo until I sweated it off. I kept asking him when he'd switch to real henna, so the tattoos would stay for longer. 

Today's tattoo was the word "EASY", in block letters under my belly button. Under the word was a little arrow head that pointed down. I'd get some comments about that, that was for sure!

I gave him a deep kiss, like he likes, then stepped back and lifted my shirt as he took two polaroid pictures. One for him, one for me. I usually tuck the polaroids in my back pocket, halfway out. It's my responsibility to lose it somewhere during the day, and it's usually gone from my pocket by the time I remember to check. Sometimes it's a picture of me totally naked, sometimes with Harvey's cock in my mouth. It's his choice, since it was his idea. Sometimes he writes my email on it, or the name of my band.

I breezed out of the apartment. The diner is just a few blocks away, but I take a detour. I like to walk through the little crowd of men below my window, and then circle around the block and go to the restaurant. I don't do it because I'm supposed to, but just because sometimes I can hear what they say as I pass by. It's usually something about my tits, or what they'd like to do to my ass. Like I mentioned -- I'm a compliment junkie.

The guys were getting more forward with me daily. More than a few times, they've reached out to touch me. It occurred to me, as I walked up to them and listened to them talk about my breasts, that if Harvey was tired of helping me at the window, I could invite them up to the apartment, one at a time. I decided to ask Tyler about it.

They blocked my path, hands reaching out. But then, they always did that, now. I got through, dodging most of them. Once, they ripped my shirt accidentally, and I had to find a safety pin at the diner. The men rarely spoke to me, but one guy asked about the tattoo. 

"It says I'm easy," I said over my shoulder, as I moved away. I listened to them until they were out of earshot, and then glanced back up at my apartment window. Harvey was there, with his video camera. He was filming me on Tyler's behalf -- when Tyler heard that I was getting groped on the street, he said it sounded like we could use it for our first music video.

Then, it was just me and the street. It was a short walk, but the same faces passed me every day. They knew my schedule, when I'd be going by, and they asked me if I was alright if I missed a day. I guess that means my fame is spreading, at least in this neighborhood! They know me by name, or my diner name "Perky", and a few (younger ones) jokingly call me "Cum Bucket", the writing on my favorite baby-doll t-shirt. 

Some of the younger guys, high-schoolers by the look of them, always tell me to do things. They say, in a normal voice as I walk up, "Lift your skirt!" "Mardi gras!" "Show us your tits!" "Make an O with your mouth!" Depending on my mood, I play along. It's the least I can do. Maybe you don't know what it's like, when nobody cares about you. That was my life, until Tyler. Now, people know my name, they want to see me, they miss me if I don't show up. I feel like I belong to the whole neighborhood, one big family. I feel wanted.

I turned the last corner and felt for the polaroid picture in my back pocket. It was gone. It had fallen out, somewhere between the apartment and the diner. Well, that was one less thing to worry about. Somewhere, somebody was coming across a picture of me with my shirt lifted, and the word "EASY" written on my lower stomach. I thought about that fact, testing my feelings. Nope. No embarassment, no shyness. It simply didn't matter to me, that every day a new picture of me was dropped into the world. I sure was getting over my stage fright!

Whenever I lost my pictures somewhere, it was planting the seeds for my future career. That's what Tyler told me. Sometime in the future, I'd be on the verge of breaking out, just hovering, almost famous. And then, one of my new fans would recognize me, and connect me to the polaroid he picked up off the street or subway, years ago. If one of these guys made a call to the tabloids, I would have my own media firestorm. That was Tyler's plan -- overnight, I'd be a media story through the whole nation. 

I only had to make sure to "lose" enough pictures... one a day ought to be enough. I was thinking of going two a day, or three. And, maybe the pictures should have men other than Harvey. So the future news stories would be more sensational.

The diner was full. All my regular customers were there, waiting for me. They cried "Perky!!" as I walked in.

"Hi, guys!" I said back, pulling on my waitress persona. I flashed a wide, open-mouthed smile, and strode briskly behind the counter. "You miss me?"

"Some parts more than others," said Bicksby, an older grabby guy. He was always the wise-ass.

I'd long ago learned that, when it comes to waitressing, nothing beats a friendly smile and a winning disposition. I treated everybody like old friends, or, as Tyler called it, "ex-intimates where there's still some attraction." But sometimes he overanalyzes.

Sometimes, being "up" all the time, especially for a seven hour shift, is exhausting. But the tips are outrageously good. 

Subram had me working the tables by the window, because, he said, more people would walk in if they saw my good waitressing skills from the street. Consequently, those tables were always the most crowded. Before I knew it, I was deep in the rhythmn of a day at the diner, carrying dishes back and forth, refreshing coffee, squeezing between chairs and apologizing sweetly when I ran into people, and even when they ran into me.

I also had to shout at the cooks through the pass-through. Those guys annoyed me... when they got something wrong, the customers complained to me. But no amount of complaining, swearing or yelling through the hole made the kitchen staff pay attention to me. Every now and then, one of them would raise his head and glare at me malevolently, with a superior expression. They all have something against me, I don't know what. I could swear that they fuck up the orders on purpose. It's the only bad part about working at the diner.

Since my arrangement with Subram, he's all over me. He stops me with a hand on my stomach when I walk by; he gets my attention by pulling the back of my shirt. If he's standing, he puts his hand on my cheek as he's giving instructions. If he's sitting, he has both palms around my leg. The worst is, he does it in front of the customers. I don't care about the touching -- it's nothing compared to riding the subway, or walking through that group of guys in the morning. The problem is, I always have to explain that, no, I'm not dating him. As if. Sure, I explain to them, he's all over me, but he's my boss. I'm supposed to make his life easier. The customers nod sympathetically.

After an hour or so of work, I was behind the counter wiping it down. The breakfast rush had just started easing. Subram came up behind me: one hand around my stomach, playing with my belly button, the other around my shoulders so his forearm was against the top of my breasts. The customers in front of me paused, watching interestedly -- it was worse, because they weren't regulars who were used to this. I'd probably have to explain to them later that Subram was a tactile sort of guy. Subram's big stomach forced me to arch my back up, which threw my chest out.

"Our 'work-breaks' are working pretty well," he said softly. I felt his scruffy chin tickling my cheek. His breath was sour, but it was warm when it blew in my ear. "I think you should get a promotion."

"A promotion?" I asked suspiciously. He'd been trying to get me to move to night shifts.

"Promote you to two work-breaks a day. What do you think?"

I shrugged. I knew it would be something to brag about, but I didn't think... "Are you sure you can handle it?"

He gave a ragged snort of laughter. "Not me twice. Me and then someone else. Congratulations!"

"Thanks," I said. It had been so long since I got any sort of promotion (if ever) that I had to struggle to remember what to say. "I appreciate this chance."

"Meet me in the kitchen," he said, and then let me go.

I freshened everybody's coffee cups, and checked around the restaurant to see if anybody needed me. Lots of people were staring at me, but not in a "come here" kind of way, just in a normal sort of way. People always stare at me. Nowadays, I get worried when I'm not noticed. 

So everything was alright. Emma, the other waitress, would be able to handle the place. When it came to blowing Subram, she told me she was glad it was me and not her.

I pushed through the doors to the kitchen to find Subram. The waitresses never went back there, and the staff all looked at me sourly. I couldn't complain to Subram about them, they were all his relatives and family members. 

"What's Perky doing here?" one of them complained. It was the first English I'd heard him speak... the fucker had been playing dumb. This was the same guy for whom I had to repeat orders three times.

I got mad immediately. What a mean, nasty trick to play, making me endlessly repeat orders at the pass-through. "How come you guys are always fucking up my orders? Don't you know how fucking hard it is to be a waitress?"

"How is it hard? If I had tits, I'd whip them out," said the dishwasher. Everybody laughed. "I'd rub my ass on everybody, like you. I'd let them stick their hands between my legs, like you."

"It's harder than just that," I spat. "This stupid shit has to end. I don't know what you have against me, but this is hurting my tips. I hate you all." 

"Why should we care if you hate us?" asked a cook. 

That was what I hated the most. There was nothing I could do to puncture their superior attitude. They thought they were better than me, and so therefore they treated me like shit. It was irrational and pointless. If I had still been in high school, I would have just endured it, or tried to make them all my friends, one on one. But now I was too busy, too successful. I was packing people into bars when I sang with my band. Since Tyler, I deserved respect. I liked that change.




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 09



"You should care," I said coldly, "because I'm better than you."

"Oh, nice," laughed the cook. "Subram's whore is better than us."

Subram had been standing off to the side, smiling at the exchange. At the mention of his name, he stepped forward and put his hands on my shoulders. He walked me backwards to beside the door, where a little chair was placed against the wall. 

I sat in the chair, pushed by his hands. I looked up at him, confused. Looking up at him from a chair was normal for me, by now, but we usually went to his office. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly. 

"Subram's whore," crowed the cook. Everybody was laughing at me, their eyes unblinkingly on me, their skin shiney with sweat. The dishwasher was miming a blowjob with his hand to his mouth.

"I think we take our work-breaks here, from now on," said Subram. 

He had the nastiest grin on his face, almost angry. Why was he mad at me? I couldn't understand it. I had to remind myself that Subram had never been a nice guy, and that, deep down, he was just a nasty man and always had been. When I go down on someone, I often start to feel tender towards them. But this doesn't necessarily work both ways. (Take high school, for instance.) I told myself I had to remember: Sucking a guy's cock doesn't mean he has to be nice to me. If I remembered that, I wouldn't be confused. 

I reached up automatically to grasp his cock as it came out. Everybody cheered when they saw me reach for it. 

"Whore! Whore! Whore!" they chanted, in time with my head bobbing on his cock, until Subram told them to knock it off. 

Subram is not a fit man, but I was used to working around a big gut. Most of the men I hang out with are older and fat, and I manage. I had one hand on his ass, to pull him into my mouth, and another on his belly, to hold it up. My forehead rested against his blubber, giving me access to his penis.

He was also not a clean man, but the trick with that is to clean off the cock quickly, so you don't have to think about it. As the kitchen staff snickered, I pulled back his foreskin and licked his shaft clean, and then leaned in to clean off his ball sack. It smelled like the kitchen. 

When he was ready, I went back to sucking on him. He liked me to look at him every now and then, but I found when I did, I always glanced at the cooks too. I couldn't help it. I stewed inside, thinking of nasty things I could say to them when I was done with Subram. As soon as my mouth was empty, I'd tell them!

I had learned enough about Subram's cock to hit all the right combinations. In less than five minutes, his ass started clenching. I pulled back a little and started milking his cock with my hand. He liked to watch himself shoot into my open mouth.

I gave long, hard pulls as he spurted, holding his cock over my bottom lip. His warm goo filled my mouth with strong jets. 

He also liked seeing the cum in my mouth. I sat there, looking up into his eyes, with my mouth open. I moved my tongue in the cum, so he could see my coated taste buds. 

The other guys in the kitchen were cheering and laughing at me. Subram jerked his head towards them. I turned my head and opened my mouth wider, so they could see. It seemed like forever, but he finally gave a satisfied nod, and I closed my mouth and swallowed a few times. 

"You're going to suck one of them next," he told me. 

I glanced around. "The fuck I am. They think they're better than me."

"We are," snickered the dishwasher.

"Remember, you were promoted to two work-breaks a day," Subram said, a knowing smirk on his face. "You don't want to lose your promotion, do you?"

"No," I said quietly, my eyes down. I really wanted the promotion. I felt like I deserved it, for my big improvement at work. 

"For your second work-break today..." he glanced around the kitchen. "Him. You, come over here. You get a treat today."

The dishwasher had a suprised and pleased smile. 

"You know what you can do with that smile," I snapped at him.

"Hurry up with him," said Subram, all business again. He stepped through the door, calling back, "We need you out there."

The dishwasher had a victorious sneer on his face, as he unzipped his fly and pulled out his dark little cock. I gave an angry snort, and then reached out to massage his member, making it grow hard in my hand. The rest of the kitchen staff had stopped what they were doing, and were watching with nasty smiles. 

"Someday," I told them, "I'm going to be a star!" 

They laughed at me, as I put my mouth over the dishwasher's cock and drew it in. I worked it for a while, sinking my mouth deep over his cock until I could feel its head in my throat. My nose was buried in his pubic hair. I built up a rhythmn that wouldn't make him cum too quickly. I don't know why -- something in me won't let me give fast blow-jobs. Rule number one: don't go too fast. They have to be just right, I guess it's a pride thing.

After a moment, I pulled back. "I'm better than all of you," I muttered.

The dishwasher gave an impaitent sigh. "Fuck, woman, just shut the fuck up and suck my cock, will you?" 

I bobbed my head over his shaft, pulling him into my face with my hands on his ass, until he started moving by himself. He pumped his pelvis in my face, long, slow strokes that steadily gained momentum. Finally, he was spurting in my mouth. Long, hot streams of cum coated my tongue. Droplets seeped out around the seal of my lips, running down my chin and landing on my chest.

When I sat back, I kept his foul spunk in my mouth, taking deep breaths. The kitchen staff was all watching me with expectant smiles on their faces. Even the dishwasher, zipping up his fly, had that damn superior smile on his face. It took an effort of will for me to swallow it. They all laughed again.

I licked away the cum on my lips, but there was no way in hell I was going to touch the droplets on my chest. That little fuck's spunk on my hands? I shuddered at the thought. I just left it there for the rest of the day, to dry on its own. 

At the door, I turned back to them. "You better start treating me better."

"Or else what?" asked a cook. "You'll eat our cum?"

"We'll treat you like what you are, whore," said the dishwasher. "So just shut up and suck our cocks."

I stared, unable to think of any come-back. I was wet between my legs, a little excited even after all that, but I wasn't about to let them know. It was something from my past. Usually when guys were mean to me, it meant I'd be doing something sexual soon. I still have the built-in reactions. But on the whole, I was more upset than excited.

"See you tomorrow," said the cook. "Maybe you'll suck me."

I gritted my teeth with anger, and just shook my head at them. "Fine! Maybe I will!" I raised my finger, finally thinking of a come-back. "Just don't jack off first, and make me sit there blowing you for forty minutes. Looosers."

They were laughing at me as I left the kitchen. Since my two work-breaks were now over, I hurried back into the diner. Some of the customers were still there, and they had knowing twinkles in their eyes. So why did they ask me where I had been? I don't know. I was too frustrated and angry to think up reasonable lies, so I just told them the truth, that I got a promotion and that I went on break with the kitchen staff.

(When I told Tyler later about this horrible episode, and my angry helpless feeling as I sucked the dishwasher's cock in front of everybody, he was immediately horney. Amazingly. He asked me to re-enact my blowjob on the dishwasher guy. I'd accidentally found another way to turn my boyfriend on. Or maybe it was still part of that humiliation thing. I still didn't like my kitchen breaks, but I knew I'd tell Tyler about them every day.)

As part of my promotion, there were more responsibilities. For half an hour each shift, I have to stand out on the sidewalk giving menus to people passing by. I don't mind this so much, because it lets me practice my social skills. There are always a few guys who stop and chat for a while. When I hold out a menu, guys usually take it... so I usually only hold out the menu to men.

And, since then, Subram takes his break with me during the first part of the shift. Then, for the second break, I try to get back to the kitchen when I can, after the lunch rush. Let those fucking cooks wait for my convenience. Subram says that if I keep at it, I can expect another promotion every few months, which means more breaks. Crossing my fingers.

By the end of the day in the diner, I was soaked with sweat. My muscle shirt was sticking to me, and I had to constantly peel it off so it would dry faster. I guess I should have been glad it was sticky, because it was so stretched out from people pulling on it, and I'm always afraid of getting kicked out of the diner if the shirt doesn't mostly stay over my nipples. 

If that wasn't enough, the top button on my shorts had popped off as I leaned over. The shorts were just too tight, and now the fly was open three buttons down, to the top of the pelvic ridge over my sex. They were my favorite shorts, and if one more button came off I'd have to throw them out. (Harvey later said I wouldn't -- I could just get a tailor to put the top button of the fly back on, and leave the others off. He said this would make a nice hole in my fly whenever I bent over. If Harvey thinks something is a good idea, it probably is.)

By the time I hit the streets again, I welcomed the hot outside air on my body. I dried off pretty quickly. Nowadays, I don't really notice people staring at me. But I knew that I could get through the crowded sidewalks faster without people rubbing up against me if my shirt was dry.

I got to the studio. I was tired from the diner, sure, but I always got a burst of energy around music. This was my real career. A band was rocking in the recording room, and Max was in the sound booth. He motioned me in. 

"You look good enough to eat," he said, eyeing me. 

"Thanks," I said. That was another change. Max was so nice, especially compared to the nasty guys in the diner kitchen.

"Put your backpack down," he said. He reached out and pulled open the fly on my shorts, easing them down my legs.

I pulled a condom out of the drawer and tore it open with my teeth as he pulled his cock out. In a few moments, I was braced against the console and he was digging into my cunt with his cock. It was our daily routine. People rarely noticed it (Max cared about that sort of thing), because the glass was reflective when the lights were on. They did usually comment how I went in wearing one outfit, and came out wearing my professional clothes. But that was it.

I still remember how it started with Max. I was complaining to Tyler about getting into Max's pants. Max clearly wanted me, though he said he didn't like getting blow-jobs, and I was concerned that so many musicians were frustrated at not being able to cum in my mouth. But how could I do the musicians, and leave Max out? Tyler told me what to do. First, he said he was proud of me, for thinking so rationally about the music business. Musicians get sucked by women, and he said it was wise of me to understand that. Then he gave me the cold, cynical strategy for getting Max into my "world", as he called it.

One day when the studio was quiet, I simply walked into his office. He was sitting behind his desk, and he stared at me wordlessly as I walked up. I was wearing a special dress for the occasion, a light, frilly little thing that was low on my chest and high on my legs. It had about three and a half feet of coverage, top to bottom, about as long as a bath towel.

I moved around behind his desk, holding his eyes with my own, and stood in front of him. He rolled back to let me in, confused but not about to yell at me. Then I simply turned around, and bent over the desk. The skirt raised over my ass in the back. My elbows were on his papers, my tits were brushing the computer keyboard. I put a wrapped condom in my mouth, so it hung out cutely, and then turned and looked at him over my shoulder. Tyler was right again. It was that easy.

When Max finished in my pussy, he gave me his used condom. What is it about older men!? As he watched, I rolled it up like a tube of toothpaste and ate the cum out of it. Then I kissed his forehead, and changed.

My outfit today was a favorite of mine. A men's business jacket, buttoned once in front, and a (somewhat) matching mini-skirt. That was it -- even if I still wore underthings, a bra would show under the jacket, and (as Harvey liked to say), the skirt was too short for panties. The last thing you want is for your panties to show to everybody as you're walking around. People said this outfit looked very professional, and very trendy too. Just the thing you'd want for an up-and-coming music studio.

As Max cleaned himself up, I stripped off my shirt and pulled on the jacket and skirt. 

"How do I look?" I asked, spreading my arms and spinning. 

He always liked this one, but today he looked worried. He had me spin again, and said, "I think you should do the bottom button, not the top one, so it's open more up top."

"Okay," I said, switching the buttons.

"And, um, that skirt. Can it be shorter?" 

I looked down at it. "I guess so. I mean, if it's important. I can use a stapler. But I hate to staple it for no good reason."

"Today we have Elmo coming in. You know, the singer?"

Elmo!? He was a rock star. I mean, he was famous. Why did Zound Studios have someone like Elmo visiting? "Wow! How did you get him?" 

"I didn't," said Max drily. "He's laying down background vocals for a friend of his. I want everything to be perfect. How short can the skirt go?"

I shrugged. "All the way." 

He nodded decisively. "Then do it. And, I want you on him like glue. Anything he wants, get it. He's the only person you have to worry about today. Get me?" 

"Sure." I turned to go.

"I mean," said Max, with slow emphasis, "give him everything. Do you understand what I'm saying?" 

"Yeah," I said. I wondered what he was getting at. "Star treatment."

I went to Max's office and pulled off my skirt. I didn't know how short "short" was, but the hem already reached the top of my thighs. I went by what Tyler would suggest, and if I knew him, he would suggest... um... three inches.

I winced as I stapled in the new hem... and when I held it up, the staples looked horrendous. Oh, well. Good-bye, nice skirt! I'd have to dig through the used-clothing boutiques to find another skirt that matched this jacket so well. 

I removed the staples again, pulled out Max's scissors, and cut the bottom three inches off the skirt. It was a heavy, tweedy fabric, and the ragged new hemline didn't look too bad. A little punky. I saw that the seams up the sides were starting to split already, and hoped that they would last the day. If not, I'd have a slit all the way up to the belt line!

I was pulling the skirt on as I heard people in the waiting room. I guess Elmo had arrived. I had never seen a big, big star, but I still wasn't nervous. All I had to do was act professional.

I looked down, and my heart sank. The skirt was too short... half an inch or more above my crotch. Even I could see my privates, looking from above.

"Ali! Where are you!" bellowed Max.

Oh, shit. I pulled the skirt down my hips, wiggling them to get the beltline low on my hips. I checked again -- better. But now the beltline was four or five inches below my belly button, and I could see the V-shaped muscles leading to my crotch if I held the jacket up. The skirt still felt waaay too short, but then, I only had about six inches to work with.

I took a step to the door, and grimaced as I heard the seams split up the sides. I was hell on clothes. Bursting buttons on my shorts, stretching out thin old muscle-shirts... and now my skirt was coming apart with each step.

But what choice did I have? I was a professional.

I strode out into the waiting area, a big professional smile on my face. Max turned, scanned my body, froze, and then smiled. I was relieved he liked the change.

"Ali, this is Elmo," he said, indicating the singer. He was a handsome guy, I recognized him immediately, though he was much shorter than I expected. He was wearing some sort of nasty faux-fur coat, where the fur was colored in the form of a Nike logo. He was with two other men, huge, bodyguards by the look of them.

"Elmo, this is Ali. She's my executive assistant. She'll be making you comfortable during your stay with us. Anything you need, just ask her."

"That has to be the shortest skirt I've ever seen," said one of the huge men.

Elmo gave a thin smile at that. I smiled back at the body guard, saying, "Thank you. Elmo, let me take your jacket."

He turned towards me, but didn't turn around. After a moment, I wrestled it off his shoulders with him facing me. He had a hard, unchanging expression on his face as he studied me up close.

Max backed away, saying, "I'll just go to the sound booth and get things lined up. We'll get you back on the road in no time."

I crossed the room and hung the jacket. As I reached up, I felt the jacket slide up my ass. Yeah -- I'd been smart not to just take the skirt off, as I'd almost done. The jacket was okay by itself, sure, but it was just too short. 

"Fuck the singing," said Elmo quietly, "I want the poon."

His bodyguards laughed.

One of them asked me, "You want to hang your jacket too?"

I just smiled and shook my head. "What, and ruin my ensemble?" 

He answered, "I figure it's gonna come off soon anyway." 

Elmo rolled his eyes. "Guys, check out the floor. I don't want any goddamn fans running around."

"You got it, boss." They turned and exited, sending long glances over their shoulders at me.

I... Ali... was alone with Elmo. I glanced over, and dimly saw Max fiddling in the darkened sound booth. He was sending a few glances my way. I clasped my hands behind my back and rocked on the balls of my feet, something I do when I'm nervous. Of course, today it had the effect of splitting my sports-coat down the front, to below my belly button.

"Can I get you a drink? Some water? Some lemon?"

"I'm nice," said Elmo suddenly. "Don't let the bodyguards fool you."

"What?" 

"I'm a nice guy," he said. He strode over to me, and put his hands on my shoulders. "You didn't have to, you know, dress up like this for me." 

I gave him a surprised look. "Honestly, I didn't know you were coming today. We treat everybody the same at Zound Studios." 

"You didn't just cut your skirt in half?" he said.

"Well, that, yeah. But my boss wanted me too." 

He nodded, his suspicions confirmed. "It looks horrible."

I nodded, a little downcast. I knew it looked horrible, but to have Elmo tell me, of all the people in the world, made me feel pretty low. "I know."

"Why don't you just take it off?" he said, releasing my shoulders and stepping back. He had me turn around for him. "Yeah. Your jacket is long enough."

"Okay," I sighed. I unzipped the back and let it fall to the floor. I was glad to be rid of it. When it was pulled down like I had it, it was uncomfortably tight. I picked it up and looked it over, the seams had split almost to the beltline. I'd made it a horrible mess. 

I tossed the ruined skirt in the trash, and then glanced over at the sound booth. Through the reflective glass, I could dimly make out Max giving me a thumbs up. 

And now, here I was, down to a single article of clothing for my "professional outfit." A child-size men's sports coat, with two buttons in the front, only one buttoned.

Elmo was watching me with kind, friendly eyes. "Spin around again, so I can check."




She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 09



I obliged him.

"It's fine, so long as you don't raise your arms. That pulls the bottom of the jacket up."

"I feel like my ass is hanging out in back," I said.

"It is a little. But don't tell anybody. It'll be our secret."

"I really appreciate that," I said. I was impressed by how nice he was. "Now, can I get you anything? A drink? Some food?"

He held my gaze. "Oral sex?" he added.

I gave a small smile. Finally! I was earning my title as executive assistant. "If that's what you'd like. I'm pretty good."

He put on a stern expression. "Are you paid to suck people's cocks here?"

"Oh, no! I work for free. You see, I put in a few hours a day and..."

He was laughing at me. 

I said, in a small voice, "Did I say something stupid?"

Tyler likes me to act a little dumb. He thinks I don't know, but I do. I feel the same way -- life is easier if people don't have high expectations of me. Add to that the fact that I am sort of dumb, and it's a perfect combination. I'm dumb, and I don't notice. Usually. Until people laugh at me. Famous rock stars, for instance.

He said, "I can't believe Ali Katz, the singer, wants to give me a blow-job!"

I was confused again. "How did you know I was a singer?"

"Dummy!" he said, giving me a little hug, "I caught one of your shows. You blew me away at some dive bar when I saw you. I was in the back, nobody noticed."

"Really!"

He continued, "And then I was at this VIP party at Club Trash, and I saw your world-famous naked stage-dive."

"I wasn't naked. And it was world famous?"

He was fiddling with the button on my jacket. Then he had it open, and sliding down my arms. Throwing it on the couch behind me, he said, "Not world famous. But everybody was talking about it. Girl, you're getting famous!"

"I didn't know that!"

"Then you have a good manager," he laughed. I nodded enthusiastically at that. He had me at arm's length, and was looking my body up and down. I was completely naked in the studio, but so what? Rock stars carry their own rules with them. And besides, apart from Elmo and Max and me, there was nobody else in the offices. "I'm betting a good many people in New York at least know about you. And you have this paparazzi guy following you around on the streets, putting pictures on a website."

"I do?" I was astounded. 

He petted my body as he explained, and everything became clear. He had stumbled across that website that had Alexi's pictures of me on the street. I guess he misunderstood all the writing next to each picture. He thought I was being taken advantage of, by Alexi when he photographed me, and by the guys on the street when they copped feels. He didn't know I was a model, too.

"The best part... or worst... was when you picked up some guy in the park. You, like, took off all your clothes almost, and then got this guy to rub you down. And then he led you out of the park for a fuck. That was great. Or bad -- for you. Sorry. I mean, I'm sorry that it's online, where everybody can see it."

"No, it's okay," I shook my head. He had his hands on my shoulders, and was pressing me gently to my knees in front of him. "It's just so weird, how things are happening. I never thought I'd be famous, this fast."

"You seem to be making all the right moves," he agreed. He had his cock out, and I clamped my lips over it. He was already hard, and so I drew him all the way into my mouth, swallowing against his shaft in my throat. The veins on his dick thrummed against my lips as I bobbed back and forth. Rock star cock tastes about the same as any other cock, unless it's dishwasher cock.

He said, "So your duty is to do what I want, right?"

"Um-hum," I grunted, as I slid his shaft back in.

"Well," he said, pulling my mouth off his cock. He grabbed his cock and slapped my cheek with it, punctuating each word. "I like sloppy seconds."

"Sure!" I said. "What's that?"

"This is what I want. This is your duty..." he smiled down at me. He was enjoying himself. It made me smile, too. "Leave the building. Go out into the street. Find some guy and suck him off. Come back and show me the cum. Okay?"

It sounded a little strange, but I said, "Okay."

"Good girl," he said. "And don't suck off my bodyguards. Not before me. It has to be someone else. You can suck the bodyguards after me."

"Okay." I stood, and opened the door. "Come back with the cum. In my mouth? Not just on me?"

"The cum in your mouth," he clarified. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Did you want, um, food too? Something to drink?"

"You're forgetting your jacket."

"Oh!" I cried, laughing at myself. I was a little out of sorts. I had an assignment, which was good. But I didn't know what to think about that assignment. I wished someone were there to tell me what to think. Was it supposed to be fun? Kinky? Sexy? Jokey? What kind of blowjob should I give to the stranger I found?

As he helped me pull up my jacket, I asked, "Did you like the Club Trash set?"

"You were wonderful," he nodded. "In fact, I went into the crowd. When you stage-dived, I was there."

"You were!?" I was amazed. What a small world!

"Shit, yeah!" he laughed. "I was one of the hundred or so guys with his fingers in your snatch. It's okay if you don't remember me."

"I'm sorry, I don't," I said. "Like, everybody had their fingers in my snatch."

"Yeah, you went by over my head and sort of stopped there. I had a finger or two in your snatch, and my hand got moved by someone else. So I put my fingers into your mouth."

"I remember that!" I exclaimed. And I did. Lots of guys had had fingers in my mouth that night, but I remembered the fingers that tasted like me. "I sucked on your fingers!"

"Yeah! You were acting so slutty, I was loving it!"

"That slut business is part of my stage personality. It's not really me."

"I'm sure it isn't." He guided me to the door. "The real you is quite different. Come back fast, so I can shoot off in your mouth, okay?"

I nodded excitedly. "Okay!" 

I was amazed at how easily we were getting along. I was talking about music, my careers, clothes -- with Elmo! The "me" from my past would not have known how to deal with it. I wished the guys from high school could see me now! In fact, I wished one of them was here right now, so I could suck him off according to Elmo's instructions. And then I'd tell him how I'd changed since high school, where I'd been a basic cum-bucket for all the insanely horney teenage guys. Look at me now!

I hit the street, not really knowing what to do. I was eyeing every guy who passed, trying to judge whether I should tell him what I had to do. All the guys met my eye, and slowed, as if to say something. (But then, they always did that.) Each time, I lost my nerve and passed on.

I was only two blocks away from the Diner, and my feet had carried me halfway there before I realized what I could do.

When I was waiting for the crossing light at the intersection, a scary old man stopped beside me. He leaned into me and whispered something.

"What?" I stepped closer so I could hear. He was unshaven and skinny. I wondered if I should just save time and ask him.

"I said: Slut, when you take a step I can see your pussy under that jacket. And now, I can see your tits."

"Oops," I giggled. "Thanks. You'll probably be able to see my ass, too."

I stepped off the curb and crossed the street, glancing back at him. He was nodding at me with a happy smile. Sometimes people in New York can be so nice. It was a little neighborhood moment, in the middle of a busy day.

I entered the Diner and everybody cheered to see me again. I walked through the tables of regulars, everybody being touchy and trying to get me to stop and talk. Even though I was on a mission, they still wanted to give me food orders! I had to stop at least twice, bending a little at the waist to talk. I didn't want to bend too far -- but I still got some comments from the guys behind me.

I saw Subram cruising through the back of the restaurant. I chased after him, dislodging the hands on my legs and ass. 

"Subram!" 

He stopped and looked around. His eyes glowed when he saw me. If I wasn't mistaken, he was getting used to me, finally. I stood on my tiptoes and whispered in Subram's ear. 

He shook his head immediately. "What do you think I am? A stud bull? One a day, that's all you get."

"What should I do?" I muttered, half to myself.

A nasty grin split his lips. He jerked his head to the kitchen.

It made me feel bleak inside, but I knew he was right. The guys in there were ready, and I wouldn't have to explain anything to them.

I cracked the door and stuck my head into the kitchen.

They all stopped again as they saw my blonde hair. 

"The bitch is back," sang the dishwasher.

I stepped in, straightening my jacket. They were all eyes -- I guess they'd never seen me dressed professionally before.

"I need..." I said, and stopped. This was too fucked up. I hated these guys. And now I had to ask for a favor!

"What?"

"I have to... I want..." I just shook my head. I couldn't bring myself to say it.

So, instead, I just went to my chair by the door, and sat down in it. I looked at them expectantly. 

"Oh!" one of the busboys said. "She wants more cock! Can't get enough!"

I just nodded. They still had no respect for me, and it ticked me off. I wanted to tell them that I had to suck them off, for Elmo, the famous rock star. So I could get back and finish blowing him. That would probably make them think differently about me. But I knew they wouldn't believe me if I told them. They'd think I was some deluded slut who thought she could get ahead in the world by sucking anonymous cock.

I waited while they yelled back and forth in their language. Then Emilio came out behind his station and walked up to me. He pulled aside his apron, and held up his sagging stomach as I undid his pants.

"Thank you," I said, swallowing my pride. "I appreciate it."

"Just suck it, bitch," he said. "And unbutton that jacket so the guys can see you."

"Okay," I said. I didn't want to lose this chance. Otherwise, it was back to the streets to find a cock to suck. Maybe that old man was still around. Guys usually are -- if I talk to them, I notice they're still behind me like five minutes later. 

I unbuttoned the jacket and slid it off my shoulders. I was getting used to being naked all over the place. Maybe that was the next thing Tyler had planned for me. The naked tour, or something.

Emilio clapped his hands around my head and threaded his cock into my mouth. Then, without ceremony, he started pumping his hips. He liked it rough. He moved my head like it was some sort of sex-toy, slapping my forehead with his stomach. His belt-buckle slid coldly across my cheek. My mouth was full, then empty, then full again as his shaft slid the whole length through my lips. Each plunge went deeper and deeper into my throat.

Since I didn't have to do much, just supply suction, I kept glancing over at the kitchen staff. I swear -- if I went to three or four breaks per day, they would never get any work done. They had stopped what they were doing, and were ranged around Emilio and me, staring at my body. 

Emilio was working my mouth so hard, my tits were swaying, until one of the cooks reached out and caught them in his hand. Others took each of my arms, and rubbed my hands against their chests or cocks. The dishwasher was behind me, his hands around my waist, his fingers tracing down my stomach and roughly parting my legs. I was glad that everybody involved, because it meant they couldn't just look at me and think nasty thoughts.

Emilio started shuddering, and then let loose a long, amazing spurt of cum. It half-filled my mouth, and he kept going like a firehose, until it started dripping out around my lips and running down my chin. He kept his cock in my mouth until he went soft again, and as he pulled out for the last time I leaned forward and sucked it clean. I needed as much cum in my mouth as possible.

Then it was a sort of short dream-nightmare, shrugging off the guys and getting my jacket back on. They didn't want to let go of my parts, and I couldn't tell them that I had to get the cum somewhere, immediately. I finally got the jacket buttoned, and scrambled through the door.

As I rocketed through the diner, I heard them cheering from the kitchen. 

I rushed back on the sidewalks. People, men mostly, were saying things to me as I hurried past. They always did, but this time I couldn't answer. I just pointed at my pursed lips, and shrugged. I didn't have time to chat.

I just walked quickly, and used my fingers to push the cum up my chin when it started leaking out.

Elmo's body guards gave me knowing smirks as I brushed past them. 

One of them said to me, "That mean's we're next." 

I nodded, and pushed into Zound Studios. Elmo was sitting on the couch, drinking a coffee. 

He looked surprised. "Back so soon! You're a real gem!"

I nodded, and opened my mouth to show him. The cum had softened -- it wasn't as lumpy anymore -- and started sliding over my bottom lips. I pursed my lips to pull it back in, and opened my mouth again. He liked watching me fight with it.

"Someone gave you a big load, huh?"

I nodded, trying to smile for him.

"Swallow it down, now, okay?"

I sighed with relief. As soon as my mouth was empty, he had me take off my jacket again. 

"You're a mess!" he told me. "Cum all over. Clean your mouth, before you finish me."

I licked all around my lips, and tried to make a good job of it. When I was clean enough to satisfy him, he pointed at his cock. I positioned myself between his legs and started working on him. 

Some men come quickly. Some men don't. I blew Elmo for forty minutes. He never said a word to me. He finished his coffee, and paged through a magazine. He spent most of his time on a cell phone, talking to his agent, his manager, and some friends. Winking at me, he told them all my name, and how I was a great singer. "Someone to keep an eye on," as he put it. 

"And she works the casting couch, if you know what I mean." I didn't understand the last part, but it made them interested. He told them the website with my pictures, so they could "check the merchandise."

Then, with one conversation, he paused. He said into the phone, "I don't know. Let me ask her. She has my dick in her mouth."

I looked up expectantly.

"Ali, my friend wants to know if you'll give a blowjob to a guy, to get ahead in the music business."

I contemplated the question. It was one of those moral dilemmas. On the one hand, a blow-job shouldn't matter if the singer is good. On the other hand, the guy might really want a blow-job. "I guess it depends. If it made me feel cheap. You know?"

"She says no," Elmo told his friend.

"Wait!" I cried. Tyler would kill me if I missed an opportunity. Heck, I'd kill myself. "I mean, I'll blow him!" 

"I misunderstood her," Elmo said drily. He put his hand over the phone, and said to me, "He works in a fucking record store. Why would you want to blow him?" 

"You never know," I shrugged. I'd need guys like that on my side, if I ever make an album. 

Elmo was shaking his head. "Dude, I'll give you the number to the little shitty studio she works at. You call her and set it up, okay? Just promise one thing -- you won't hurt her throat." 

I mouthed the words, "Thank you" to Elmo, and went back to his cock. 

When he got off the phone, Elmo told me that he'd help my career. He'd give my number to his guy friends, if he thought they could help me. What I did from there would be my own choice. But they'd at least want a blow job. 

"I'm putting my reputation on the line, Ali," Elmo told me. "These guys are going to expect action when they call."

"I'm fine with that!" I said hurriedly. "I'm all about the networking."

"If you ever say 'no' to one of them, I'll hear about it. I'll stop giving referrals."

"I won't say no," I said.

"Shit," Elmo said. "I'm going to make this studio a lot of money. I should get a cut."

"You should ask Max."

He laughed. "Yeah. I'll ask Max for a percentage of all the business you bring in with your mouth. That's fresh." He looked down at me. "Finish me off, will you? I guess I have work to do."

I went back to work on his cock. Elmo had a crazy amount of endurance, but then, he hadn't really been concentrating. I wondered if he did that a lot -- kept girls on their knees, for hours, while he conducted his business. When he started helping, I felt him start to stiffen in just a short time. I took my fourth load of cum in my mouth that day. My lips were getting tired, the cum dripped down my chin again -- but I knew the day wasn't over. One of the band guys would probably beg and plead, and then, if I was lucky, I'd get some one-on-one time with Tyler.

Elmo instructed me to rub the cum on my tits. I tilted my head and spat it out, feeling the warm goo hit my chest. I had enough to cover my chest and stomach. Elmo didn't even wait to watch.

He jumped to his feet, banged on the front door to the studio, and then went into the recording room. That bang on the front door was clearly a signal to his bodyguards. They came in shortly, and asked me to please stop rubbing the cum on my body. Then they picked me up with two hands under my armpits.

They carried me to the glass wall of the recording room, and pressed me face-first against it. The taller bodyguard was behind me, spreading my legs with his foot. I heard a zip of a fly, and the crinkly tear of a condom. Then the bodyguard's dick was nudging between my legs. I gasped as his cock split my pussy wide open.

Elmo was watching admiringly through the glass. I was spread out and pressed against the cold surface, and he could see everything. "Max," he said into the microphone. "You serve some good poon at this studio."

"Thank you, Elmo," said Max humbly. He turned to me and gave me a thankful, happy look that made me feel all silly inside. You'd never see my real father looking at me so proudly.

The bodyguards took turns fucking me against the glass. Every time they made me cum, I fogged up the window in front of me with my breath. Elmo was only in there for twenty minutes or so, and when it looked like he was wrapping up, they stopped. When they peeled me off, the cum had left an imprint on the surface in the shape of my body. 

"Finish us with your mouth," said the bodyguard. "And quickly."

Before long, I had two more loads of sperm in my stomach. I was collapsed on the couch, catching my breath, as Elmo went by. He patted my head, saying, "We'll meet again." 

"Wait!" I gasped. I struggled to sit up. My mouth felt all soft and stretched-out. "I need to give you my number!"

"Right," said Elmo. "I forgot." He shot a look at his bodyguards, who snickered.

Max gave a pained sigh.

"You're so nice to do this for me," I said. I tore off a piece of a magazine page, and wrote my work number on it. I added my email and home number.

Elmo said, "Add 'sucks anybody's cocks for free', so I remember it's you."

"Right!" I added the words. "I really appreciate this."

Elmo passed the scrap of paper to the tall bodyguard without looking at it. The bodyguard began punching it into a cellphone. "I'll put it under 'cocksuck5', okay?"

"That's great," I said. "Just remember I'm number five. Or put it under 'best.'" I was a little worried that I'd get filed away forever. Realistically, how many chances would I have, to meet Elmo again?

The tall bodyguard gave it to the other one, who also punched it into his cellphone. Then he passed it back to Elmo. I hoped that meant that Elmo's bodyguards handled lots of his calls. On the other hand (I was rationalizing a little bit), even if the bodyguards used my number for themselves, it meant I was only two people (cocks) away from Elmo himself. Anything was good.