Debbie Does Daddy Ch 04

Okay. Be warned - very little actual sex in this chapter. It's setting up what comes next. If the joke about the club's name being "The Adler" but the girls calling it "Polly's Place" went by you, see if you can find a copy of a book titled "A House is not a Home". The Austin-Healey 100-6, if you're interested, was produced from 1956 to 1959. As Jimmy says - not very sophisticated, but a blast to drive. It fit the late Ken Purdy's definition of a sports car perfectly: "A car that has nothing on it that isn't there to make it go faster." With an exhaust cutout, Vickey would appear to have done some (questionably legal) mods to improve performance as she rebuilt the car.

As always, everyone is over eighteen, work of fiction, blah blah and please don't steal it without at least mentioning my name.

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We headed down to Vickey's car - mine might have been more convenient, since it was an SUV the client had rented for me, but Vickey insisted on driving, and there was something about Debbie's wicked grin that had me worrying about what these two vixens were up to now.

Well, I saw all right.

Vickey's car was than me. It was a fully-restored Austin-Healey 100-6, one of the elegant big-bore sports cars that the Brits seemed to turn out with such nonchalant ease in the Fifties and Sixties; not much more mechanically sophisticated than a high-end ox-cart, but oh-so-fun to drive. She saw me staring at the midnight-blue monster and laughed out loud.

"Yeah, you might not believe it to look at me now," she said, looking down at the black silk t-shirt, open jacket and tight pants (both sleek back leather adorned with lots of snaps, zippers and studs, all chrome), and the black, spike-heeled, almost knee-high fuck-me boots she was wearing, "but before I got these and figured out how to use 'em," (she reached a hand up and gave her right boob a bounce, proving conclusively what the close-draping silk had suggested - that she was still braless) "I was a big-time tomboy and a motorhead. Got my license the day after I was sixteen. My brother and I bought a junker '66 Mustang and completely rebuilt it - I was eighteen, and I did most of the engine work. My first bike was a 'Guzzi Interstate I found in a barn and rebuilt - I rode that to college.

"I gave up working on cars mostly when I realised that I could get guys to do the dirty greasy work and the heavy lifting for me - even though I always checked up on 'em, just to be sure.

"But then, now that I don't have to spend a lot on living expenses and I'm making good money, well, I went down to the fanciest classic-car dealer in town and asked what they had that ran pretty good but needed some restoring... and they showed me Sir Donald here. He needed bodywork, a new top and paint, and a transmission rebuild, but it was love at first sight..."

She slipped under the wheel, and I walked round to the passenger side, opened the door, and remembered that this was a two-seater.

"Ummm, where's Debbie going to sit?"

She looked at me as if I were a bit slow. I guess I was, actually.

Debbie had been making some last-minute adjustments to her already (to my mere male eyes) perfect appearance, and had said she'd catch up with us in the garage. As I slid onto the buttery-soft blue leather of the seat, I heard the elevator doors, and then the rapid tapping of Debbie's heels on the concrete.

"Oh. good - all ready to go," she said. As she trotted round to my side of the car, I got my first good look at her outfit - red leather miniskirt and jacket (more leather - looking down at my khakis and open-necked cotton shirt, I began to wonder if I'd missed a memo or something), the jacket open over a t-shirt that said "Objects under this shirt are larger than they appear" in sequined letters. She wore fine-meshed fishnet hose, and high-heeled sandals that had Grecian-styled straps that twined in a complicated pattern to mid-calf.

Showing an alarming amount of leg under the mini (enough for me to tell that the nets were old-fashioned stockings with a garter belt, but not quite enough to be absolutely sure she was wearing panties), she deftly swung herself into the car and plunked her warm, well-rounded leather-wrapped butt firmly in my lap, and then slammed the door.

"Well," she said, as Vickey started the car, "cause it to march, my old; the night is passing!"

And Vickey, indeed, "caused it to march". Actually, it was more like she caused it to gallop. I have been in some high-stress situations - an airliner with stuck gear that had to circle and dump fuel for an eternity before we belly-landed on a foamed runway, a couple of rather spectacular wrecks of my own, the Olympic Park bombing in '96 and under fire in one of our country's less well-known foreign adventures... but none can compare to that midnight ride through the dark streets of an unfamiliar city, exhaust cutout open to let the big six-cylinder bus engine roar unmuffled. Vickey seemed to be able to see round corners, and always managed to miss oncoming traffic, though I'm sure that our passage must have doubled the city's weekly underwear-cleaing bill. Personally, I became closely acquainted with the chicken stick.

She took one last corner in a full four-wheel cornering slide, and then, halfway down the street, spun the big two-seater forty-five degrees with a handbrake turn that left it at a dead stop and perfectly lined up with the only open parking space on the block.

Both girls hopped out, and were several paces away before they seemed to notice I wasn't with them - they looked back and I was still sitting in my seat, hand firmly clutching the grab handle, mentally reliving some of the more horrifying moments of the last few minutes. Or possibly it had been centuries. Debbie trotted back, carefully pried my fingers loose, and gently urged me out of the car.

"The ride's over, Uncle Jimmy," she said. "Let's go get you a drink or two."

Now that was a capital idea. But it was a minute or two before I trusted my knees enough to walk to the club door.

The building was pretty unremarkable, with no neon or signs to indicate it was a club; glass doors said "The Adler" in discreet gold script, and the casually-but-elegantly dressed bouncer/doorman had a nametag that said "The Adler" in the same script above his name. (The name on the tag was "Bob". It almost always is, for some reason.)

"Hey, there, Kris - Tam! Haven't seen you for a while!" he said in a mellow voice that had traces of an Australian accent, beginning to open the door. Then he spotted me. "Uhh - guys? You know the rules, right? No outside food, booze, free-lance work," at which point he looked me up and down, and finished "... or citizens."

Vickey broke out in giggles when she saw my face; Debbie grinned, put her hand on my arm, and said "It's okay, Bob - this is my Uncle Jimmy; he's cool with things. Tam and I'll keep him out of trouble till he learns the ropes. He'll learn fast."

Bob looked me up and down - pausing about halfway to stare a little longer than I was really comfortable with, and then said "Uncle Jimmy? You mean...?" and he held up his hands about a foot and a half apart. Debbie and Vickey collapsed in each other's arms, laughing their fool heads off at my red-faced expression.

Bob grinned, said "Sorry about that, Uncle Jimmy. Glad to meet you. Don't judge everyone around here by these two kookaburras." Which set the girls off into fresh giggles. As Bob opened the door, I gave Debbie a swat on her round leather-wrapped bottom that caused her to jump and squeak... and then look round and give me a wicked grin when my hand stayed where it was, as my fingers explored her cheek and the valley of her fine ass.

As we walked in, I asked Debbie "So why didn't we go to... what was it?... Polly's?... like you said?"

"We did."

"But the door says 'The Adler'."

"It does."

"So?"

Vickey grinned over her shoulder at me and said, "You're smart. You'll figure it out."

I grumbled to myself as we walked along a dimly lighted corridor. As we passed the first door on the left, I felt more than heard a rolling beat that suggested that there was a dance floor in there, and also that it was well-soundproofed.

Next was the entry to the bar, and Vickey and Debbie paused for a moment to decide whether to head in there for drinks, first, or to head straight to the dining hall; everyone was hungry, so we trotted on down the corridor. I began to realise that the club probably took up the entire ground floor of the building.

The dining hall was wonderful. Brightly lighted enough to see the whole place, but not so lightly as to either be uncomfortable or harsh. Decent-sized tables and booths, with enough space between them that waiters or friends could stand by your table and chat without impeding anyone else's getting around. Snowy white linen draped almost to the floor on the tables, and elegantly-shaped cutlery, monogrammed linen napkins, and lovely crystal completed the setups.

The impeccably-dressed host appeared silently at our side. His eyes lingered on me so briefly I almost missed it, then turned to Debbie.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Miss Kristal! It's been a while since we've had the pleasure of your company or Miss Tamara's, for that matter. I assume you'd like your usual booth? And, if I might inquire as to your guest?"

Kristal? Tamara? I remembered that "Bob" had called the girls "Kris" and "Tam", which hadn't fully registered at the time.

"Good to see you, too, Robert," she said, giving the name the French pronunciation. "This is my Uncle Jimmy, visiting from out of town. I'd appreciate it if you could arrange guest privileges for him while he's here."

Robert glanced my way again, and I swear I saw the corners of his lips quirk in a very small grin, and his hands twitch as if wanting to measure something in the air. I was going to get tired of that routine, I suspected.

"Ah, yes; I recall your tales of Uncle Jimmy. He is certainly welcome here on your recommendation, but do, please make sure he understands the house rules." With that he sketched a small bow, and, with a sweep of his hand, led us to an empty booth in the far corner of the room. He saw us comfortably seated (me on the outside, next to Debbie, Vickey across the table), asked our preferences in beverages, promised to send a waiter in a few minutes, and vanished as smoothly as he had appeared.

Before he was out of sight, Debbie had her hand in my lap under the table.

"'Kristal?'," I asked. "'Tamara'?"

"Okay - to be serious for a minute, that's part of what we have to explain to you about the rules here. Take a look around, see what you think of the other customers."

There were perhaps twenty other people in the room, almost all in couples or larger groups. As I really looked, I began to realise that they were a somewhat oddly-assorted group. Not too far from our table a couple who appeared to be my age or a bit older sat at a two-top. They were dressed in the height of conservative elegance; everything they wore obviously hand-tailored of the finest fabrics, probably in Paris or on Savile Row, if my eye was any good. He wore a dinner jacket, black tie and snowy shirt, she was dressed in an understatedly elegant gown, not too low cut, but showing off her excellent if somewhat matronly figure without flaunting it. Large, probably real, diamonds sparkled at her ears and throat, and his watch was a Rolex. The sort of couple one wouldn't find out of place at the most sophisticated restaurants or clubs in any major city.

The wide leather dog collar with inch-long spikes that he wore, and the leash snapped to it that ran down to her hand, were a bit... odd, though.

Across the room, in another booth, sat two couples that did seem, overall, a bit out of place in this quietly expensive-seeming place; not to put too fine a point on it, if I'd seen them in the street and tried to guess their professions, I'd have said a couple of really nasty pimps and a couple of their girls.

The guys both sat on the inside in their booth, but were visible enough. Fur jackets, panamas, so much gold around their necks and on their fingers you almost wondered how they could stand up or walk under the weight, shades indoor at night - you get the picture. I flashed back to the end of that traumatic ride here; the vehicle we'd parked next to was a huge pink thoroughly pimped-out Cadillac; had to be theirs. Both guys were black, one of the girls was white, one black. The black girl had a huge blonde 'do that almost had to be a wig, wore a hot-pink halter top that barely covered ... well ... left most of her ample breasts uncovered, and just barely covered her large and prominent areolas, and, it looked like, skimpy hot pants that probably showed not only her ass crack but a camel toe as well when she stood up. The white girl, if anything, had bigger tits; she wore some sort of sparkly/satiny purple corset/bustier thing that reminded me of why the big bullet-shaped bumper guards on '50s Caddies were called "Dagmars", and a matching micro-mini in either leather or vinyl; if the skirt hadn't been split up both sides almost all the way from hem to waistband, she probably couldn't have sat down.

Most of the rest of the crowd were less... unusual... than those two tables, but there was a wide range of dress and styles from what my mother would have dubbed "cheap and tawdry" to almost as nice as the dog-collar couple. Of course, one of the tables in the "nice" end of the range was occupied by a tall voluptuous woman in full male evening dress and a slender guy wearing wearing a lovely designer evening gown, complete with matching accessories and large dangly earrings...

Vickey was watching me as I noticed more and more indications that the crowd here were not exactly everyday citizens - at which point I flashed on "Bob"'s reference to "citizens", and Debbie and Vickey's acquisition of new names - and I wondered what kind of place these two had dragged me to.

She grinned, and said "So, have you figured out what Polly's is, Uncle Jimmy?"

Briefly, visions of headlines flashed through my head - "Computer Contractor Arrested In Vice Raid".

"Some kind of sex or fetish club?"

"Not exactly," said Debbie. "But close. This is a private club for people in a potentially high-stress profession, a place where they can come and enjoy nightlife like 'normal' people."

"Uh-huh," I responded.

"Okay - the basic rules, the ones you need to follow to stay out of trouble. We'll cover the more abstruse ones - like how to invite a girl here to dance or whatever - later."

"Rule One - the most important," Vickey said, dead seriously. "Anything you hear or see here stays right here. You tell no-one about it; you can talk about things that happen here outside, but only with the people involved, and only if they are willing to."

"There's some pretty tough... enforcement... of that rule," Debbie said. "Bob seemed to like you, but he'll still break your fingers or do whatever else seemed indicated if you break that rule and get caught."

"More to warn others than to punish you, of course," Vickey put in, "but it'll still hurt."

"Rule Two - everybody here has a professional name - maybe more than one. You only use professional names, and you never ask anyone what their real name - or anyone else's real name - is. If they want you to know, they'll tell you."

"So, while we're here - or while we're working - I'm 'Tamara' and she's 'Kristal'," Vickey said.

"So what - it's a club for professional criminals? Organised crime?"

Debbie giggled. "Not much organised about it, though 'controlled' might be a good word."

"And 'crime', yeah, but mostly one type of crime..." Vickey added.

"Okay - I guess I'm a little dumb tonight," I said. "What kind of crime?"

"Most of the people here are whores, gigolos, escorts, 'models' and other kinds of sex workers. And everyone else here is hooked up to the sex business somehow - the cute guy in the darling green chiffon over there?" I nodded that I'd noticed him. "He's the best cameraman in town; shoots all of the really high-quality porn films, and does most of the girls' portfolios."

"And the guy with the dog collar... well, we didn't expect him here tonight; let's just say that he's way up the food chain from us."

"What about those four over there?" I said, indicating the pimp/ho table with a jerk of my head.

Another of those wicked grins I'd grown to expect from Vickey just before she did something to make me jump, and, "They're vice cops," she said.

I jumped.

"Relax - they work the street vice that's neither controlled nor safe; girls with everything from clap to AIDS, badger games, pimps who pick up fifteen year old runaways and break 'em in and get 'em strung out and then put 'em on the street... like that," Debbie said. "They can't even talk about what they see and do out there with other cops... so they come to Polly's, where people they can talk to hang out. As long as they follow the rules... no problem.

"And Sugar and Tyson - that's the black girl and the guy next to her - are a lot of fun to party with."

I filed the implications of that away for possible future discussion with Debbie.

"No shit - her tongue must be eight inches long. But Maggie and LeRoy are pretty surly so-and-sos, most of the time, though," Vickey said. "But when he's in a good mood, LeRoy's almost as much fun as Uncle Jimmy, here," and she held up her hands almost a foot and a half apart.

"You'll pay for that, my girl," I threatened. Both girls giggled, as our waiter approached.

Debbie's hand in my lap was doing interesting things, so I was happy to let Vickey order first. After he had her order, the waiter turned to us, and, rescanning the menu, I ordered what Debbie assured me would be an excellent strip steak with all the fixings, and she ordered surf and turf.

Turning back, I was startled to see that Vickey had disappeared from her seat.

Her untouched martini still sat there, but she was gone. At first I thought that possibly she had gone to the little hooker's room, but I realised that I hadn't had my eyes off her for long enough for here to be out of sight. I turned to Debbie, who was sitting there with an altogether too innocent expression, and asked "Okay - where did she go?"

"Where did who go?"

"You know very well 'who', 'Kristal' - where's 'Tamara'?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said.

"Right. She was right there, and now she's... under the table," I finished weakly, as I suddenly felt busy fingers unbuckling my belt and fumbling with my waistband and zipper.

With a truly evil grin, Debbie leaned close, her hand closing firmly on my cock as those busy fingers under the table dragged it out and unseen lips and tongue began teasing my balls. "There's a reason the tablecloths hang all the way to the floor in this place..." she whispered, just before her point little tongue began to invade my ear...

, which hadn't fully registered at the time.