What an asshole, Sheila thinks as she plays with her pussy. He’s been popping quarters into the booth like they were rock candy. A smile wouldn’t cost anything extra.
She smiles down at the customer through the glass, a sugary, seductive smile full of bubble and promise. He responds with a blank stare, the same blank stare he’s been giving her for the last five minutes. His face is flat and listless, a cheap cement statue of a gloomy frog, with a faint trickle of hostility leaking through the stone set of his mouth.
She sighs and spins around, giving up, turning her face away. She sticks her butt in the window, bends at the waist, and runs her hand slowly over her ass. The fucking brick-wall men, she thinks. I’ve never understood why they come here. I mean, I can give them the sight of a dancing naked woman, but I can’t give them the joy of watching a naked woman dance. Don’t they get that they have to bring that themselves?
She licks her forefinger and runs it up and down her pussy as she gyrates her hips to the thumping music. She catches Tanisha’s eye and gives her the contemptuous look she can’t give the customer. Tanisha rolls her eyes, gives a quick nod of sympathy, and turns back to Danielle. The younger girl is sprawled over Tanisha’s lap; she squirms and rolls her hips dramatically, putting on an extravagant show for the two drunken sailors in the corner booth. Tanisha scowls ferociously and slaps Danielle’s tight, round rump; Danielle gives a theatrical squeal of pain and fear and wriggles in delight.
I like a girl who enjoys her work, Sheila smiles to herself. She knows these two: they’ll be doing the real thing later on. They love faking the guys out, but they never do it for real for money.
She hears the window panel slide down behind her, and glances over her shoulder. Yup, he’s gone. What a tragic loss to the human race. She arches her back, aching from bending over, and looks around dutifully for a new customer.
Sure enough, just as she finishes stretching, the panel in the other corner booth slides up. She glances at Lorelei, who’s busily spreading her pussy for a middle-aged man with a briefcase in one hand and his dick in the other. Guess the new one’s mine, Sheila concludes. Conscientious as always, she shimmies over, squats in front of the guy, and smiles. “Hi,” she hollers over the deafening synth-pop din. “I’m Chloe.”
In response, he pulls a pad and pen out of his pocket and begins scribbling. He holds it up to the window and smiles back. Hi Chloe, it reads. I’m Henry.
Her eyebrows shoot up, surprised and impressed. Smart guy, she thinks. Inventive. And he actually wants to talk to me. Maybe this will be a live one.