Little Cat - Page 30

‘How much?’

‘No.’

‘Come on … ’

‘No.’

‘She thinks she’s better than you, Billy.’

‘How much you want, wild one?’

‘You can come to the back,’ I said.

‘Yeah? What’s at the back for a young guy like me?’

‘Private dance.’

‘All right, sweetheart, lead the way.’

‘Oh boy, now you’re fucked, Billy.’

I turned on my heels, holding on to Bill’s hand. It was soft and fat, all the fingers stuck together. I really thought everyone in the club was watching. ‘All right, Mira!’ they shouted. ‘I’m next! I’m next!’ The sound of my heels pockmarked the floor. A vulture, no fear, eating the dead.

In the booth at the back, I sat on the table. Bill slid in front of me, eyes at my crotch. Light pricked all over his face in white dots. I inched my panties down to my knees.

‘That’s it, sweetheart.’

I started rubbing my clit around with two fingers. Bill followed my rhythm on the mound of his pants.

‘That’s it, Mira. C’mon, how about a kiss?’

Still rubbing myself, I leaned close to Bill’s face. He smelled like perfume mixed up with beer. I pursed my lips at his torn-up beard. Then I leaned back and rested my ankles on his shoulders. I gave Bill a view. That’s what he wanted, to see: That’s how she opens, that’s where I fuck.

All of a sudden, Bill gripped me hard by the waist. I slid off the table right onto his lap.

‘I know you’re a wild one!’

With me wedged in between the table and his gut, a tight little spot started to pulse in his crotch.

‘Another song, sweetheart.’ The music kept pounding. ‘Come on, darlin’, you know what I like.’

‘Sixty,’ I said.

Bill breathed like a fool. I was jiggling, splayed open, trying to turn myself around.

‘I see your pussy! What a pretty little pussy you got there.’

My skirt was up around my waist. I undid my bra and let him pinch my nipples as I tried to settle on his legs in the right spot. I was bouncing up and down. I wanted the cash.

‘Yeah, lemme feel.’

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His hands moved to my ass. It smelled different in the room, like a match had just been blown out.

‘There you go, lemme feel.’

His finger was a slug.

Tags: Tamara Faith Berger Fiction
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