She waited in the room until it was time to leave. The wind was strong enough to force her to have tied a scarf around her perfect hair, and the temperature was neither warm nor cool; about 60 degrees, which was as good as it got in this area in late March. The weather was dry but Daddy insisted that she wear her raincoat both during the drive to this town and while she walked to the bar. "Otherwise," he said, "people will think you're a street walker."
"Isn't the idea to grab attention?" she retorted playfully.
"Yes," he said, "but only from your, shall we call them, 'prey'; not the God damn police."
A little crestfallen, she answered, "Sorry Daddy. You're right. But it won't take away from my entry. I can make a good show of taking it off and smoothing down my dress. It might even be better that way."
He nodded slightly but continued to frown. The conversation and his mood bothered her, but not enough to abandon her project. Indeed, so strongly did she desire this that she would have proceeded even without Daddy's help, despite the fact that she was his property. Love him though she did, this particular compulsion drove her like the demons of hell. Folly or not, dangerous or safe, she had to do this. He knew that, which was the only reason he had any part in the matter.
The bar they'd picked for her hunting ground was just down the block from an inexpensive motel on the town's main road. They had chosen a small city about 20 miles from where they lived so as to minimize the chance of the Slut being seen by anyone who knew her. In those days, most Southern towns had a black side and a white side. The land near this border was the cheapest to be had on the white side and attracted the kind of businesses that didn't ask many questions so long as the customers paid cash and didn't cause a disturbance.
Her master had easily attained three rooms, upstairs and at the end of the building. The party room was last and the monitor room next to it with a connecting door between. The third room was to remain empty and be a buffer. Together with the trip to New Orleans, the clothes and shoes, and these rooms, his Slut's fixation was costing him more money than he could comfortably afford.
He had driven to the motel alone earlier that afternoon. He'd setup and tested the surveillance equipment after making sure that the maid had already done her rounds. He was certain nobody in the party room would notice the small camera and microphone. Then he drove back home and waited for the Slut to finish dressing. When she was ready, they returned to the rooms for a final check and go over the plan, which was for her to walk to the bar at 6:50, use the time before 8 to make her pickups, walk back to the party room with the men, have her party and make the men leave at 10.
It was now six o'clock, and he didn't feel like spending the next 50 minutes discussing her excitement over picking up several strange men, returning here and letting them gangbang her for two hours. There was nothing else to do but wait. He lay on a bed in the monitor room and tried to nap while she sat in the party room. He had turned the a/c unit on high to keep the room from getting stuffy and so, she kept the raincoat on while she waited.
Precisely at 6:50, just as the twilight turned dark and and the streetlights came on, the Slut arose to leave. Her master had taken care of everything, so there was nothing left to do but pick up the clutch that perfectly matched her shoes, open the door and proceed to the bar.
The shoes Daddy had bought her in New Orleans were perfect. The three inch heels were just high enough to show off her legs but low enough be comfortable. Likewise, the black suede straps were soft and did not rub her feet and the heel was substantial, not spiky. Altogether, she could walk a great distance in them and not wobble or get a blister.
As the Slut walked the long city block toward the bar, she observed a policeman cruising by in the opposite direction, obviously heading back toward the white side of town. The cop glanced over toward her and slowed down, looking at her hard. Young white women were rare in that part of town and therefore suspicious. She kept walking at the same pace and used her peripheral vision to see there was a black man in the back of the cruiser leaning forward. "Probably handcuffed," she thought. "Well, his bad luck and my good luck. No way that cop will bother me." As she predicted, the officer returned his eyes to the road and increased his speed.
The Slut entered the doorway of the bar slowly, allowing the dim parking lot lights to form a silhouette of her for a few seconds while she examined the layout. The place, called the "Kung Fu Club", sported a 30 foot bar with stools, about twenty tables, and a small stage. There was equipment on the stage, so a band was to be expected later. She looked over at the bartender who stood behind the bar about midway down and then slid her sultry gaze further toward the end. There stood a tall, well-built man, with a small Afro leaning on his elbow against the bar. Apparently, he had been talking to the woman sitting on the stool next to him. They were both staring at her; she with venom and he with appreciation.
The Slut gave the pair that small half-grin she used when being confident and sexy. She stood by a table and set down her small clutch bag. Then, not looking directly at the two down the bar, she began removing her scarf. While doing this, she noticed that at least four of the tables had occupants, mostly men with a few women scattered among them. Also, she could tell there was at least one pool table towards the back by the restrooms because she heard a sharp crack indicating somebody had broken a rack of balls, and then nothing. Without looking up, she could feel a couple of dozen pairs of eyes boring into her. "Good," she thought. "It's show time."
Facing sideways to most of the patrons, she folded her scarf carefully and placed it in the pocket of her coat. Loosening the coat's belt, she then began slowly removing it, making sure to flex her shoulders so that her chest stuck out and everyone could see outline of her breasts. Her large and prominent nipples pressed tight against the thin, clingy material of the dress revealing clearly that she wore no bra. Placing the coat on the table, she turned her back to the patrons, bent over about â…“ of the way and began pulling up and smoothing first one stocking and then the other. This had the effect of giving everyone: 1) a good look at the shape of her bum; 2) knowledge that she wore no panties; 3) the fact that she was wearing sexy lace-top stay up stockings.
When she turned to face the denizens of the establishment, she ran her hands down over her body, smoothing the dress and tugged down the hem. She was smuggly pleased to see pop-eyed admiration on the face of every man and hatred on those of the women. Picking up her clutch, she cat walked to the jukebox, breasts jiggling alluringly, inserted some money, and chose "Kung Fu Fighting," both in honor of the joint's name and because she liked the song.
Walking back toward her table, she gave the bartender a sultry smile that he hesitatingly returned. Upon reaching her table, she kept eye contact with him and continued smiling. He began to be puzzled. Then he saw her place her hand on the back of her chair while she pursed her lips at him as if she were waiting for something. He suddenly realized what she was waiting for, hurried from behind the bar, walked quickly over to her and held out the chair for her to sit. She intensified her smile to the point that it would have paralyzed a blind man and said, "Thank you," in a rich, sexy voice.
He nearly stammered but managed, "You welcome, miz. What kin eyes bring you to drink?"
She said, "Vodka on the rocks, please Ben," having glanced at his name tag.
Ben nearly ran back to the bar, mixed the drink double strength using the special bottle of Stolichnaya he kept for only for certain people, brought it back on a tray, placed a napkin on the table, and the drink on the napkin.
Everybody in the bar starred disbelievingly at this show. They were lucky if Ben didn't throw their drinks at them. And he sure as hell didn't come out from behind the bar to serve drinks. And he sure as double hell wouldn't run to a table to pull out a chair, not even for God Almighty Himself. Who the fuck was this woman?
The Slut sipped her drink as Ben stood there. She said, "That's a damn good drink, Ben. Thank you very much," and reached for her purse.
Ben said, "Drink's on dey house, miz. Yo done played ma favrit song. Named dey bar aftah it." After another paralyzing smile, Ben was gone back to the bar.
The Slut took another slow sip of her drink. She allowed a few drops to run down the side of the glass, giving her the opportunity to extend her tongue and lick the drops. The act imparted the distinct impression that the glass was a cock.
That was it for the tall man at the end of the bar. He looked at the woman next to him and said, "See ya 'roun," and swaggered toward the Slut in that peculiar way of black men.
The woman at the bar was livid and said loudly, "You muthah fukah. Jes' you wait 'n see," and stormed out of the bar.
The tall man glanced over at Ben and said, "Don worry none, bra. I'll pay dat bitch's tab. Cain't have ma favrit joint gwin bust, na kin I?" He then cackled in that idiosyncratic black way.
Arriving at his destination, the tall man looked down at the Slut, licked his lips and said, "Mind I sits down, baby?"
She gave him the full force of her smouldering blue eyes, quickly filling with hazel flecks, and said, "I've been waiting for you."
Grinning a cocky smile, the man sat down. He had brought his own drink from the bar. He starred appreciatively at her, eyeing her down and then back up. "What's a fine white woman like you doin' in dis place, baby?"
"What do you think," she responded.
"Welllllll," he started, scratching his cheek absently, "not to assalt yo' virtue er nutin, but, jedgin' by the way you is dressed, I is sayin you lookin to get good and fucked. Is I wrong?"
By this time, her song was over and some of that new hip hop music was booming and blaring. They couldn't be overheard two tables down.
"And who do you think would do the fucking? You?"
"I is one a da niggas could do it, yeah."
Smiling enigmatically, she said, "Interesting way to put it; 'one of da niggas'. You think there may be others who'd like to?"
He looked at her intensely with narrowed eyes and said, "Is you wantin' a bunch a niggas to run a train on you?"
Again, the enigmatic smile and, "If that's your way of asking if I'm here to get a gangbang, then yes. What do you think?"
"I think you is fine and hot and crazy. You ever had black befo?"
"No. This will be my first time."
"Well, baby girl, doncha wanna start a little slower? Wid jes 1, or, at mos, 2 niggas?"
"No. I've got my mind set on a bunch, not a couple. Are you in."
"Sho as shit stinks, baby, I is all in. Is I dey firs' one you axed?"
