Dame

This is the business. I don the lacey clothes, make sure I’m the real dish, and I show the button men and the beaus and the dope peddlers a good time.

 

I’m a dame of the night, and I’m damn good.

 

But this fella is a little different tonight. He likes to watch. “How much do you usually charge?” he asks.

 

“To watch me finger myself?” I wonder if that’s really all he wants to do.

 

He nods his head. No man wants to sit there and pay me to pleasure myself. But I know that look in his eyes; he’s getting dizzy. Don’t these macs know anything? You never fall head over heels for a ragtime girl. Even though this one’s been carrying a torch for me since we were kids.

 

“I don’t usually go chasing skirts, Bella,” the wonder boy says when I don’t answer his question.

 

I look up at him as I push my fingers deeper. “No?” I ask. He shakes his head as he palms his hard erection. “Fine. Two bits.”

 

“Twenty-five cents?” he asks in surprise.

 

“Dollars.” I smirk.

 

“I’ll give you a grand if I taste those fingers when you’re done.”

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