They were so soft to the touch; and yet so firm. The girls that worked for him had big, firm tits. But they were filled with silicone. These were all-natural. They were beautiful; luscious; perfectly formed. The breasts of a nubile young woman at her physical peak: 19 years of age. Or was she 20 now?
Jacob—Jake—should know these things. But he'd have to take a second look at her resume. It was weird. You only had to be 18 to perform at his club—to dance nearly in the nude, in a thong and skimpy bra. But you had to be 21 to enter his club; be a patron; watch the girls; have a drink. It was like when you were a soldier in the last war. At age 18 you were deemed old enough to die on a battlefield for your country; but too young to be served a cold beer. Everything was fucked up. That 18 to 20 demo—it would kill in a city like this, what with all its colleges. He and his partner Jonah's business would probably increase by a third. Maybe more.
Jake had gone from feeling her breasts to leaning kneeling down and kissing them: the smooth slopes, her erect nipples. Jake knelt on industrial-grade carpeting that looked like it hadn't been vacuumed in ten years. I'll clean it for him if he wants, she thought, sitting there on couch's edge while he kissed and squeezed her breasts. The couch was another thing. The reason she was sitting so far forward was partly because every other square inch of horizontal vinyl was covered with crap: papers, boxes, porn mags, videos (also porn). And the vinyl's once ochre color was toned grey with dust and dirt. How could a man who kept the interior of his big Bimmer so immaculate work in a place like this? Answer (partial): the guys down at the car wash are the ones who kept his car looking clean. Jake needed not just another dancer but a helpmate.
She was good at organizing things. He could trust her. She would offer her services when the time came. She was ambitious, too—having just recently, latently, come to that realization. Maybe the partners would let her buy into the place some day. God! What would her mother have to say about that?
As Jake, standing now, unbuckled his pants, he looked down at the vision of honey-blonde loveliness sprawled on his couch. What a...piece!
"I can't believe how you've grown up."
She giggled. "You expected me to remain small?"
"No, it's just that..." Jake wore sky-blue bikini briefs under his dark trousers. The bulge at the front had a vertical seam running down it. She thought them a little on the gay side and wondered, as he prepared to lower them: I know he likes girls, but...
"You saw me last Christmas," she said.
"Yeah but..." His hands were at briefs' waistband. They hesitated. "You weren't naked then, were you?"
"I'm still not naked. Want me to take my panties off? Is this what you call couch casting?"
Jake waved a hand. "No. Leave them on. And it's not couch casting. I don't believe in that."
"What do you believe in?" She was smiling up at him, genuinely. And the smile produced—really, no joke—a twinkle in her brown eye. You could call it "couch casting" if you want but it was really something else; something more. As Jake familiarized himself with a new employee's—a prospect's—body, and he grew intimate with it, he was watching all the while. Observing. There was method to his employer's madness.
Did she maintain a smile throughout? Did it seem genuine? Was she enjoying herself? Enjoying sex? Or was her smile false; or did she lose it altogether? As they fucked on his couch did she stare off into the distance, at, say, a fixed point on the rain-stained ceiling tiles?
Jake hated dancers who were distant. Who didn't connect with their audience of eager men. Who hated their job, their current role in life. No matter how pretty they were, or how great a body, if they danced on stage while staring off at some distant point, some imaginary star...it just didn't work. Girls like that—women—never lasted.
There were two options in this biz: either you enjoyed your job or you were one hell of an actor. One was an A, the other a B+. Everybody else was...shit. A failing grade. There was no C+ in this crazy business.
"Well here it is," Jake said, one hand out in palm-up display, the other gripping his cock, his erection.
She was a little disappointed, though it didn't show. She'd expected it to be bigger, longer. Not that it was stubby or anything...
"You've never seen this before," he added. Jake was smiling but his expression was one of insecurity, she thought.
"Only in a Speedo."
Jake laughed. "Besides, I got the hell out of there."
"Where?"
"Last Christmas." He sighed. "I could do without all the knowing looks."
"What looks?"
"The heavy morality. The judgmental shit. The black sheep..."
"I've never looked at you that way."
"You're different. I always loved you for that. Look at you, sweetheart! Lean back..."
She glanced behind herself. At all the shit. "Where?"
"Just shove all that stuff out of the way. There's a couch under there somewhere."
"A couch?"
"A pillow I mean."
There was, actually. One as filthy as the rest of the couch. There was a Peer Place down the road that always had beautiful, decorative pillows on their cedar shelves. They were pricey but...She would ask Jake for some petty cash some day soon and go buy a few. Or maybe just buy a whole new fake Oriental couch—teak and hibiscus silk-screened pillows. Class up the joint. A woman's touch.
She leaned back, spread her legs, her thighs toned and luminous. As perfect as her breasts. "Sure you don't want me to take my panties off?"
"Yes," Jake said, moving forward, sinking.
"Yes you do?"
"No! I don't!"
"Why?" eye still twinkling like a distant star at dawn.
"Because."
"That's not a reason."
