Veronique Tempest was her name. At least, that was the name most around this place knew her by. It had seemed a name that would bring thoughts of erotica to the minds of those hearing it.
Her first want, to dance at the Bee-Bee Burlesque Club, would have demanded such a name. And she had a great time dancing there until the day Xavier “discovered” her. He came to her with his perfect smile, perfect physique, and simply too much money for her to not accept his offer to work at Calypso’s.
With such thoughts, she would have used finger quotes, but it might have caused the gentleman currently pounding her pussy pause.
Her brown eyes squinted up at him as the only sign her thoughts were not on his actions. “Pounded” was the wrong descriptor for what he was doing. She was a firm believer that size didn’t matter all the time, as some lesser endowed men knew their way around the female anatomy.
This particular gentleman had none of size, experience, nor innate ability.
His name was Guy. He had smiled up at her over the rim of his drink. “Things are floopy,” he said.
Veronique nodded and laughed, just as she had been trained to do. “You are so funny,” was her lie of a response. She was trained well.
What the fuck did floopy mean?
Xavier, the club manager, had trained her well. For starters, she knew not to be overly concerned about defining odd words. It was usually a sign that one was trying to woo them with false intellect.
Her doctorate in English Literature had to be checked at the door on entering this place. Her job, as a secret hooker, was to get as many people in the club to orgasm during each play party as she could. It did not involve her correcting the grammar and stories of those that believed they were seducing her.
The place, Calypso’s, was the newest swinger clubs in downtown Denver. Being most clubs had issues with men leaving unsatisfied, Xavier’s solution to this was to hire three secret hookers. They would mingle with the local couples and single gentlemen, attempting to make certain as many men got off and wanted to pay money to come back again.
Veronique did see this as unfair to the women that came to the club, but questioning this policy wasn’t going to pay for her two-bedroom condo and son’s private school tuition.
At the moment, Floopy Guy had her calves over his shoulders as he pounded her.
Right, not pounded.
Guy, who was starting the pre-filling-the-condom moans, had an exagerated look of strain. With the music of Rhianna singing about Work filling the club, it was a surprise his moans could be heard. The tendons of his neck protruded to look like bridges that kept his feet attached to his brain.
She couldn’t look at him. Blurring her vision, she shifted her gaze to the stiletto pumps on her feet.
The shoes were a generic brand of manufacture. They were black faux-leather with four-inch heels that were shiny enough to reflect the face of one looking at them. They had been a Valentine’s Day gift to herself and, like most of these shoes would be worn out within a month.
Veronique saw her eyes looking back at her from the covered toe of the right shoe.
This job paid very well. It had paid for those pumps.
Floopy, indeed. Guy’s grinding tickled Veronique’s clit with his unkempt pubic hair, but that was all it did. Going down on him, she had closed her eyes to hide the eye roll while attempting to avoid a mouthful of hair. Now, her face remained sensual and passionate in spite of his misgivings. Most of these johns didn’t know how to treat a woman, not that it was her concern.
Of course, she had the right to say no. Some of these guys were too creepy for her to play with, but too many nos would have brought her employment at Calypso’s to an end.
Thoughts of the old Tina Turner song, Private Dancer, always helped her get through these events.
Just focus on the money. She was trained very well.
Floopy Guy grunted, and Veronique felt his condom bulge inside her.
She kissed his forehead and whispered a few sweet nothings in his ear as her eyes caught sight of her shoes again.
They were gorgeous pumps.