The imitation diamond on Trish's pouting navel winked coyly as she rotated her shapely hips, and through the misty veils that covered the goodies Bruce could see the outline of the pasties that covered the dancing peaks of her breasts, along with the hint of a triangular shadow below her glittering belly button.
Bruce felt his cock stretch and harden against his thigh. He groaned inwardly. His libido was ready to climb the nearest wall. He gulped and broke out in a fresh sweat. His big hands itched to get under those sequined veils, and he envisioned himself removing the pasties from Trish Asher's quivering breasts with his teeth.
He shook the erotic thought from his mind and smiled without humor. Christ, if looking at the fabulous redhead tore him up this badly, how would he react when he got near enough to whiff the perfume between her bouncing boobs, to touch them with his lips and feel the heat of her naked body against his? He knew the answer: he would go completely crazy, and probably blow his nuts before the tip of his cock reached the dewy lips of her tight little pussy.
Trish kept working, teasing. Her hands moved lazily. Her fingers twitched and unfastened the first sequined veil. Fingers held, then dropped. The glittering veil trailed to the floor like a suicidal butterfly.
A dirty old man at the next table lifted his goblet of expensive champagne and yelled, "Take it off, kid! Take it off!"
Manny Black suddenly appeared from nowhere and whispered harshly, "Cool it, you down-yonder bastard. This is a respectable joint. If you want to get your jollies by yelling, go down the street to Stella Roller's Covered Wagon and howl at her girls. Keep quiet at my place."
The dirty old man lapsed into silence.
Bruce shifted his attention back to Trish Asher. Her hands kept moving. Slowly. Sensuously. Veil after veil trailed to the floor like abandoned wisps of smoke, and momentarily she was down to her bra and G-string.
Bra? Bruce stared at the fantastic redhead's bosom. Her bra was pink and blended with the color of her flesh, twin hammocks whose cups were tipped with the dark stars he had earlier mistaken for pasties. He mixed his laughter with the loud applause Trish was receiving as she stepped out of the baby spot, and thought, A bra with pasties on it? This sweet-assed doll doesn't miss a trick!
Bruce waited for Trish to finish taking her bows. Then he downed his drink and went over to the bar. He caught the bartender's attention, slipped him a ten-dollar bill and said, "Try her again, pal. Maybe I'll luck out this time."
The bartender pocketed his tip and scooted toward the dressing room. Bruce returned to his ringside table. He worked his way through two cigarettes before the bartender reappeared at his side and announced, "Trish will join you as soon as she changes into her street clothes, Mr. Cord."
"Good deal!"
The drink pusher smiled crookedly. "Might not be as good a deal as you think, Mr. Cord."
Bruce became annoyed at the innuendo in that man's voice. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
The bartender licked his lips. "Well, it's really none of my business, but I think you're getting in over your head with this bird. She's strictly a champagne drinker.''
Bruce shrugged. "Let me worry about the tab, pal. Just bring the champagne."
The bartender nodded and turned away. "Whatever you say, Mister Cord."
Another fifteen minutes passed before Trish Asher emerged from her dressing room, wearing a skirt and sweater and carrying a light evening wrap over her left arm. The evening wrap clashed with the rest of her ensemble, but Bruce was too preoccupied with staring at her breasts to notice anything else.
He stood up to hold the chair while she sat down, slid it under her shapely derriere and said, "I hope you like champagne, Miss Asher."
She laughed musically. "I'll force myself to like it, but only if you drop the Asher bit and call me by my first name."
He reclaimed his own chair, nodded solemnly. "Trish it is." He filled two stemmed glasses with the bubbly he normally considered lower than chilled horse urine, and placed one in her dainty hand. Then he fisted his own, clinked it against hers with practiced awkwardness and said, "Bottoms up."
She cocked a delicate eyebrow at him. "Whose bottom? Yours or mine?"
Bruce threw back his head and laughed.
Trish winced inwardly and thought, Christ, this clodhopper cracks up at everything. He'd probably piss his pants if I told him a real knee-slapper. Like, 'Think the rain will hurt the rhubarbs?' And answer my own question by saying, 'Not if they're in cans.'
Bruce sobered abruptly as Manny Black made another sudden appearance, this time at his table. The man who enjoyed getting his kicks by screwing his female hired help in their back holes focused his attention on Trish and growled, "You know the house rule, kid… no mingling with the customers."
Trish smiled acidly. "Turn that house rule into a suppository and shove it up your ass, Manny. It doesn't apply to me anymore. I quit this dump right after you opened that big mouth of yours."
Manny paled, then clenched a fist and started to hang one on Trish's jaw. His knuckles never reached their intended target. Bruce came to his feet and drawled, "Wouldn't do that if I were you, old buddy. The lady's with me."
"Lady?" Manny snorted derisively. "You're talking with your prick, Bruce. This is no lady… she's a pig."
Bruce exploded suddenly. He buried a handful of knuckles in Manny's stomach, then followed through with another to the big ape's jaw. Manny dropped like a sack of shit and landed on his big ass, hard. Bruce towered over him and snarled, "Get up, you glass-jawed bastard."
Glass jaw? Trish smiled wickedly. No damn wonder Bruce had been able to drop him so easily.
"Get up," Bruce repeated.
Manny shook his head. "I've had enough of you for one night, amigo. Do me a favor. Take the pig and haul ass before I forget we're friends and get my bartender to mop the floor with you."
"He'll pay hell doing it," Bruce said flatly. "Get him and I'll prove it to you."
"Stop flexing your muscles, Bruce," Trish said, taking him by the arm. "I've caused you enough trouble for one night. Come on, let's shake this dive."
They did.
Once outside, Trish rubbed a breast against his arm and purred, "It's all over, tiger. Simmer down."
Bruce exhaled loudly. "I'm all right now. I don't stay pissed off very long."
"The way you toss punches, you don't have to stay mad very long. I never saw anyone come unglued so fast."
"The bastard asked for it."
"And got it." A slow smile spread across her face. "Considering that it was me he originally intended to clobber, I guess I owe you for saving my neck, tiger."
Bruce managed a thin smile. "It was the least I could do after causing you to lose your job."
"Don't sweat it. I was going to quit anyhow."
"Oh?"
Her voice tightened. "I hate working for a prick who thinks twenty bucks a night entitles him to a crack at my asshole after every performance." She watched his mouth yawn in shock, and a moment later her voice loosened. "Ah, well, to hell with Manny Black and hooray for us." She rubbed her breast over his arm again. "How about a drink?"
So Manny fucked this doll in her rear,- eh? Bruce thought, and aloud he said, "I could use a drink. How about going to the Covered Wagon?"
"I've had enough of crowds for tonight. My place is at the hotel. What say we go there and celebrate my unemployment, tiger?"
Bruce decided to go for broke. "A small hotel room isn't my idea of a nice place to unwind. Wouldn't you rather sip cold champagne in front of a warm fireplace?"