Chapter 0 - Sizequeen: Working Girl

              Jon Herron slouched in the passenger seat with a wardrobe fit to match his posture. A loose Bruins hoody and jeans. Plain and simple. Though his athletic form, replete with muscle, could hardly be hidden underneath the wardrobe. His thoughts wandered as a sea of billboards and mall plazas rushed by at eighty miles per hour from beyond the interstate. He was feeling optimistic after a weekend of touring some of California’s more competitive Universities. College came with a suit of freedoms not found in high school and he’d be surrounded by like-minded kids his age. Best of all, he’d finally put distance between him and his more, libertine roommates.
              
              “I liked UCLA!” Jane Herron exclaimed with a hand on the wheel at 10’ o clock. “You’ve got your pick of cute sorority girls and it’s a gorgeous campus. Not to mention Heather Locklear was a graduate!”

              For Jon it was a buyer’s market when it came to applying. At the age of sixteen, more than a few recruiters reached out already. His guidance counselor assured him that GPA wouldn’t be an issue. Ultimately it would be his decision where he attended. Despite his mom’s lecturing. But lectures were better than having to hear stories about the bands she fucked backstage or on a tour bus every time their name popped up on Sirius Radio. That’s what he got for losing his air pods. Jon did his best to tune her out. A tall order considering Jane being what she was. The matriarch looked as primped and stacked as ever. Even on their trip back home, on the Lord’s Day, she invoked the darker sins of Mary Magdalene by appearance alone. Ruby red lipstick and smokey eyeshadow painted the image of a women prowling for hapless johns. Her implants, testament to the steady hands of Cali’s finest plastic surgeons, pushed the limits of her emerald green, sleeveless, skintight dress. A deep v was tailored into the front, giving oncoming drivers a fleeting glimpse at her cleavage before having to correct their drifting into the next lane over. The sun imbued her tanned skin and Auburn hair with a fiery aura. Were she born in the classical age, there wasn’t a doubt in Jon’s mind her beauty would stoke the hearts and loins of Greek kings into launching another Trojan War. Eat your heart out Helen.
              
              “Not to mention…” she crooned “Their football team looked very talented on the field.”
              
              “There it is.” Jon replied.
              
              “There what is?”
              
              “Every time. Every time you take an interest in my education, you’ve got the same motive. Nailing whatever dick’s attached to the situation. Whether it’s the principal, the gym coach, my scout leader, and on and on and on.”
              
              “That is not true!”
              
              “It explains why you’ve been so eager to scout colleges with me. And where you were last night instead of the hotel. Your lipstick’s still smudged by the way.”
              
              “What?” Jane looked in the mirror rear-view to get a look. “Oh. That’s just from the bellhop this morning.”
              
              Jon let out a long sigh while rubbing the bridge of his nose at the thought of her having blown the same guy who trafficked their luggage. Jane pulled a wipe from the driver-side pocket and did what she could to clean up the mess Bell Boy left. As their conversation continued, the car made its way down an exit ramp. It began threading its way through the streets of their neighborhood, the likes of which turned more suburban with every block.
              
              “So I stayed out last night. What do you care? What’s that got to do with the football team?”
              
              “Mom. C’mon. They were running drills you gave them the same look that you give all the others.”
              
              “Alright. Fine.” Jane confessed. “Excuse me if I just wanted teach your future colleagues the value of real teamwork- OH MY GOD.”
              
              Jon looked to see what stole his mother’s otherwise unshakeable reflection of her latest bout of dick-hopping.
              
              The house. It was a mess.
              
              After a few days away, the two returned to find it riddled with the debris of a rager thrown in their absence. Their front lawn was a battlefield littered with the shell casings of beer cans. Tire treads had torn up the turf of an otherwise immaculate lawn. Spray paint marked their windows with indecipherable lettering and the crude rendering of a cock. A stranger’s body was passed out in the rose bushes. Alive, presumably. And, as was expected, evidence of the instigator had been parked crooked in the parking lot. A neon pink Porsche 930 Carrera.
              
              Jane’s Mercedes pulled into the driveway with a screech, followed by a firm slamming of the driver side door.
              
              “WHERE IS SHE? I’M GONNA KILL THAT BRAT.” Her heels wasted no time clacking up to the house in a furious staccato. Jon followed her at a slower pace, careful to keep his distance from her wrath.
              
              As the two passed through the foyer, the living room’s vast chamber was revealed. No frat party could compare. The debauchery of that past weekend lingered in every corner. Red solo cups, empties, and liquor bottles were scattered about. Random articles of clothing festooned the ceiling fan and hung from the furniture. Fluids of various shades pooled here and there, if not already air-dried. Junk food wrappers and weed stems told a tale as old as Lays Chips. The withered forms of used condoms leaking with cum mimicked the aftermath of an intense water balloon fight. And a palm sized mirror, one rolled-up bill, and the faintest traces of a white powder resting on the coffee table explained how everyone got the energy to paint the house red with debauchery.
              
              The house, riddled with the fallout of that party, had seen better days. Clearly. But that could be corrected. All it would take was elbow grease and a few garbage bags. The real travesty was that of the priceless. The irreplaceable. While Jane Herron might not have been the classiest woman in the state by virtue of (or lack thereof) her lust, that guiding sin occasionally overlapped with her greed. This manifested in the form of a few gaudy purchases. Their curation complimented the house with all the feng shui of a post-modern bordello. Paintings of various poses inspired by the Kama Sutra and imported from India were now sprayed with the tags of graffiti “artists”. African tribal fertility statues, each carved in the likeliness of a male bearing an enormous phallus, were smashed to broken blocks by some drunken squall. The cloudy silhouette of a stranger’s puke stained an intricate Grecian Rug, depicting an orgiastic bacchanal inspired by Athenian Vase Painting (rather fitting under the circumstances). These brow-raising items could have been serious contenders on Antiques Road Show: Late Night Edition. Now they were totaled.
              
              And in the center of it all, like the eye of a storm, was Jen Herron lying passed out, face up and naked on the sofa with platinum locks splayed out onto the armrest and pillows. Like some build-a-bitch, Bride of Frankenstein, her body was stacked with all the essentials of a bimbo fuck doll. Massive silicone implants, an ass that led her tits by an inch in the race for men’s attention, bee-stung lips, a nose job, veneers, finely tweezed eyebrows, and a body that’d fit the mold of a weightlifting hour-glass. While her face normally had the delicate grace of an angel, despite her otherwise succubae attributes, that morning it looked tired and drained of energy after a weekend of drinking, smoking, snorting, cackling, gossiping, and of course, fucking every dick with a double-digit wingspan. Phantom trails of dried mascara ran down her cheeks while her Barbie pink lipstick had smudged beyond the contours of her DSLs.
              
              A pause filled the room. Jane’s temper boiled as she took in the sights around her. Both fists were clenched. Jon swore he could hear the whining of a tea kettle off in the distance. He took a step back.
The statuesque sex symbol then took a random solo cup still full of some mystery liquid and splashed it onto Jen’s face.
              
              The silence broke with a shrill screech.
              
              “WHAT THE FUCK?!” Jen yelled. Jon reflexively held both hands to his ears.
              
              “What the fuck is right you little SKANK.” Jane retorted. “WHAT HAPPENED TO MY HOUSE?”
              
              Jen looked to her mother in a mix of fury and confusion before taking a moment to remember where she was. The house. Right. The bleached-blonde princess looked around to see just how bad things were.
              
              “Oh.”
              
              “Oh? That’s all you have to say?”
              
              “What? I threw a little party! Excuse me for trying to have a little fun while you guys were away!”
              
              “A LITTLE FUN?!” Jane’s diaphragm, thoroughly conditioned in the bedroom, maxed out yelling at her daughter. “Jen, the place is a warzone! I’ve got priceless items here that are totaled! There’s got to be at LEAST a couple thousand dollars in damages! I mean the place looks disgusting! Is there even a room that HASN’T been trashed?”
              
              Jon’s eyes went wide at the question and raced out the living room.
              
              “Please.” Jen rolled her eyes and blew the bangs out of the way with a *pssh*. “Just get some crusty old guy from the country club to cut you a check after you fuck em’. Like always. It’ll be fine.”
              
              “OH MY GOD.” Jon’s disembodied voice yelled from down the hall. “WHAT HAPPENED TO MY ROOM?!”
              
              “It’s not just about the money, Jen!” Jane replied, to which Jen gave a skeptical eyebrow lift. “You don’t pay me any respect! Your own mother! I’m the one who had to pay for all this while you just lounge around getting stoned and fucking scumbags!”
              
              “Seriously? Bitch, when it comes to cock, we both know you pick up after my scraps.”
              
              “Excuse me?!” Jane scoffed at the thought. “I’m the one who’s got the style and class to score real men. Guys that are loaded in all the right places. Not some drug dealer parked outside a Seven-Eleven.”
              
              “HOW ARE MY SHEETS THIS STIFF?!” Jon again.
              
              “Yeah? Back in the day, maybe. You’re used goods now.”
              
              “Wha- YOU FUCKING BRAT.”
              
              Jane took a step forward with a raised hand as if to unload her tightly coiled package of muscle onto her daughter. Jen’s eyes went wide and she leaned back instinctively... 

               ...The elder Herron managed to stop herself at the last second instead, with lip injections still sneering in contempt at her leech of a daughter. She breathed deeply and let out a sigh.
              
                “Jen, I love you. But I’m sick of this. I’m sick of the house always smelling like pot, of you blasting music at two in the morning, leaving junk food out on the kitchen counter...”
              
              “LEAVING USED RUBBERS IN MY ROOM.”
              
              “That too.” She agreed with a limp gesture at the direction of Jon’s voice. Then pointed right at Jen. “No more stipend. You need to start pulling your weight around here. At the very least pay for the damages. Maybe even pay rent. Do that, or you’re out of here.”
              
              Jen Herron took her time to sit upright as the gravity of her mom’s ultimatum set in and the matriarch’s emerald eyes bore down on the spoiled skank.
              
              “Jen… You need to get a job.”
              
              “NOOO!”
              
              Jen’s hands gripped her head in terror at the thought. Of her time not being her own. For the first time since tenth grade. She stared down with a vacant look in her aquamarine eyes. No more living her life without a filter. No more vegging out to Real Housewives. No more shopping sprees (shoplifting really). And spending hours of her day without taking a cock into one of her holes? It was all too much. A spell of nausea started to boil up. Whether from her party or the prospect of working, she didn’t know.
              
              “You can start by cleaning the house. I want it done by the end of the day.” Jane put a finely manicured hand on her hip and looked down at her daughter whom she’d just had the satisfaction of disciplining. “Alright then. I’ll be shopping Uptown in the meantime. Who knows? Maybe I’ll pull one of those ‘scraps’ you left for me.”
The clacking of Jane’s heels receded out the door, leaving her hot mess of a daughter frozen in a state of shock. Jen began to double over as a night’s worth of munchies, jizz, and liquor was on the brink of catching up to her.

              No more shopping sprees. Right. On. The brink.
              
              Jon’s limber form walked into the living room. “Where do we keep the squeegee?”
              
              BLAARRRRRGGGGHHH
 
              30 Hours later…
              
              GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK
              
              A platinum blonde head bobbed up and down on the crotch of Cody Shaw, owner of Scandals; California’s most notorious strip club. It's neon pink sign towered over a neighborhood of concrete and asphalt, long deprived of any charm or meaningful investment. Clientele of all stripes were welcome, provided they had the cash on hand. But any working stiff knew better. Scandals was the meat-market for only the most dangerous types who’d like nothing better than ending a week of committing crimes with a piece of ass and a little liquid anesthetic. From crooked state troopers, to tattooed gang members, to car salesmen; Cody’s club was a crossroads for the only most notorious types to kick back. It was also the first place Jen Herron thought to get work.
              
              Inside was a show of Cali’s hottest girls stripping down to full nudity by the end of their set. The place was filled with mirrored walls, brass railings, gilded trim, and a suite of lighting. On stage strippers could either be writhing to the slow and steady rhythms of Drake’s latest single. Or they might take a page out of Cirque du Soleil’s playbook, whipping around the pole in a wicked display of flexibility. On the floor girls worked to coax every bill out of their respective wallets with a bit of sweet talk and grinding. Down to the last dollar. And the champagne rooms… well, the champagne rooms were the champagne rooms. Prostitution of any kind was outlawed in the state of California. On the books. Under the table, so to speak, was another matter. Discretion was the name of the game in Scandals. And if management got a cut, they didn’t mind looking the other way.
              
              Cody fit the archetype of a club owner all too well. Thanks to a regular regiment of bench-pressing weights, he’d built an imposing, barrel-chested figure. A buzzcut was kept short all the way round’ save for a singled scar running from the right of his brow, well into the scalp. His rugged complexion and features complimented an Eastern European heritage, as did the golden chain draped into the opening of his loosened, dark maroon button down. Tattoos with links to the Russian Mafia were also a nod to his origin for those who had the street smarts for it.
              
              “Oh baby you are so hired.” He croaked with a bastardized Slavic accent, now warped with western influence.
              
              A GLURK was heard in response below. From the twin veils of eyeshadow and lash extensions, Jen Herron’s aquamarine eyes kept contact with Cody as she slowly pulled up on the shaft of his ten-inch cock. All the while maintaining pressure and building friction. With one hand she held the shaft while the other teased his balls. Then, with a slop and a *pop*, Jen’s barbie-pink coated lips released the dome. The gleam of her tongue stud tickled his member as she licked with a slow and thirsty slobber.
              
              “Mmm… ssslurp!” Jen smacked her lips with satisfaction while a manicured hand pumped away.
The few times Jen saw Jon on his way out the door to a job interview with jobs, he’d dress up like total dork to make a good first impression. Tucked in shirt. Dress shoes. Combed hair.  Jen didn’t bother. She’d already made a habit of dressing like a total whore day after day. Why change now, of all jobs? For the “interview” Jen came dressed in the default template she used most: A slut-branded flat brim, micro-bikini, sheer leggings, and chuck-taylor heels.
              
              “So when do I start?”
              
              “Tonight.” Ted’s head lolled back and stared at the ceiling, lightheaded. Even a man that “auditioned” as many girls as he did, had to admit, the Herron girl gave platinum-grade head. Who cared if she could dance or not. “Take whatever station’s free in the dressing room. Same goes for a locker. And you’ve got plenty of clothing to pick off the rack.”
              
              “Great!” Jen grinned with wicked satisfaction. She already had plenty experience teasing guys into coughing up cash in exchange for their choice of services. Whether they knew it or not. Either way they’d walk away with an empty wallet. Stripping would be a cakewalk. And Jen had cake to spare. A point which she drove home by twerking of her booty while blowing Cody. From the club owner’s point of view, he was given an bird’s eye view of her tramp stamp as well. ‘Size Queen’ was written in a swoop of cursive and undergirded with a tribal design. Clientele would go nuts and bleed cash just from the sight of that alone. Jen would clearly have no problem making money. That was certain.
              
              “Dancer you’re replacing had to quit last minute. Left us with a slot that needs filling.”
              
              “Mmm. I know the feeling.” The bimbo replied, still slobbering on Cody’s nob.
              
              “Oh. And one more thing. You need a nickname on the job. Something like Cinnamon or Starlet. Along those lines. Got any ideas?”
              
              Jen perked up and grinned wide.
              
              “Isn’t it obvious?”
              
              One shower and a couple dozen swabs from Sephora’s Nightwalker palette later, Jen Herron was ready to make her debut. By that point, 10 PM, rush hour was just getting started. Every booth was full of regulars, creeps, criminals, and deviants. As the last girl strut off the stage with a bundle of bills stuffed in her thong, the club DJ  gave Jen a whore’s welcome like the Herald of Arms at a royal court.
              
              “Alright alright. Ya’ll best be sitting down and keepin’ your fuckin’ socks on cause’ we got a new girl here that’s about to blow. Them. Off. Everyone give it up for SIZEQUEEEEEEEN!”
              
              A current of bass shook the room as Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion’s WAP kicked in. UV light lining the stage cast a sultry aura from below while spotlights shone above, evoking the atmosphere of a forbidden paradise lush with the fruits of original sin. A vibration hit the atmosphere. Some electric current. Every eyeball attached to an XY chromosome turned on a dime in anticipation.
              
              Thigh-high, neon-pink leather boots with six-inch heels clacked onto the stage with one firm strut after another. Filling them were the legs of Jen Herron, thick, tanned and corded with muscle. Framing her wide hips and covering her pubis with the bare minimum of triangular shaped fabric, was a pink T-Back thong out which spilled out an ass that put every other girls’ on notice. As men’s eyes traveled upward, they saw an abdomen cut with an eight-pack of cum catchers, encircled by a belly chain, and a diamond belly button piercing. Further above were two enormous handfuls of silicone suspended mid-air by the tightwire fabric of a pink micro bikini top. Contained therein was enough cleavage to spill over any one of their palms. The contrasting shades of violet and teal mood lighting highlighted her massive bust with a scintillating aura as it quaked with every step. Covering her arms and upper torso was a black, long-sleeve, fishnet top, terminating right above where the canyon of her tits began. Jen’s hair had been straightened into a smooth current of platinum blonde, tied off into a high ponytail with a bedazzled hair cuff. For makeup she kept to her typical palette of smokey and violet eyeshadow with the only exception being a layer of glitter catching the light with every bat of her lash extensions. Eyeliner was laid on thick with a winged flourish and a gloss of pink coated her DSLs. The proverbial cherry on top came in the form of a layer of baby oil coating every inch of her caramel tan, shining bright under the lights and giving rise to an army throbbing erections.
              
              The men seated down below were blindsided. The air from their lungs seemed stolen and their minds gripped in the sight of Scandal’s newly hired bimbo.
              
              While Jen’s pole-dancing didn’t get any practice outside amateur hour at whatever bachelor pad she’d end up at on a given night, she knew how to get engines purring and blood flowing: confidence, confidence, confidence. The shot of Vodka thrown back at her makeup station helped.
              
              Gripping one hand on the pole, she leaned in, whipped her weight around, and dropped to a squat. In no time flat her ass, thicc and phat as it was, clapped double time to the beat of the music with all the fury of a jackhammer. Her frontloading what every man wanted got them yelling, clamoring, and catcalling. As Cody predicted, the sight of her Sizequeen tramp-stamp pushed them into a lust-induced frenzy. Here was a girl broadcasting to the world that she had the talent and appetite for a thorough deep dicking. Rain, sleet, or shine. What choreography she brought to the stage, played out in a haphazard, improvised fashion. Not that anyone minded. Jen just did what came naturally. Every position was one she’d gained ample experience from holding mid-coitus or out on the dancefloor of numerous clubs. At one point she’d be in a standing cowgirl with her legs wrapped around the pole where some douchebag from the bar might be. The next she’d be bent over, holding onto the pole with legs spread and shaking her ass like she was getting fucked over the counter in a sugar daddy’s penthouse.
              
              What experience she lacked, she made up for in passion, leg work, and core strength. After a bit of pole-play she worked a wing of the stage floor that extended into the crowd like the bow of a ship. There her “routine” lapsed into a mix of moves. Leg lifts. Ass-up pushups. From the knee kip to the kneeling body wave. At a couple points, her top and bottom bikini piece got unclipped and tossed to the audience thanks to press-studs tailored into the side. At the head of the stage, Jen turned away from the crowd, dropped to all fours, went face-down-ass-up, and made her cheeks quake with every shake of her hips.
              
              Dancers that had been there for more than a minute knew what got the bag. But any charisma they brought had likely plateaued from night after night of working the same pole with the same routine to the same songs. Black, white, hispanic, thick, skinny, or chiseled: they all made steady money. Steady money. The last thing anyone expected was some new girl to make a scene with the kind of brash and bratty fire that only Jen Herron had. Course her being stacked and cut with all the firepower worth a porn starlet’s envy didn’t hurt.

              Jen’s closing maneuver had her facing forward, on her knees, bent backward, tits up, legs spread, and grinding her hips cowgirl style onto some imaginary stud. In a fit of lust, she took both hands to the collar of her fishnet top, ripped it off She-Hulk style (as was designed), and tossed the remains to some Harley Davidson fanboy in the back. Jen’s sex was soaked with attention. All eyes were on her. The brightest star in a stable of Blue-Chip skanks. Unable to resist, she let a free hand wander down to her quim. With two fingers leading the charge she dipped into the honeypot. Her undercarriage soon got filled with the sight of knuckles prodding in and out like the pumpjack of an oilwell. A free hand started massaging her tits. The rhythm and the friction of it all picked up. What baby oil there was below got washed out by a flow of pre-cum. She soon got to probing with wild abandon, plumbing the depths of her pussy without a care in the world. Knowing just where and which buttons to push, a sensation of vibrations coursed throughout her. Her openly jilling on stage got Herron to the brink of release, with a tingling explosion of dopamine flooding her mind. The bimbo’s diamond studded tongue licked her lips injections with a hungry fixation. Right at the edge of climax her fingers retracted. Their tips kept up momentum, rubbing her clit and labia. Rubbing and rubbing and going and going and gone.
              
              “Oh my god. OH MY GOD YES! FUCK!”
              
              A torrent of cum gained steam before shooting out like a pressurized water fountain. The arc of her squirting covered the front of the stage in a spray of fluid and even caught a few fans in the crossfire. Not that they minded, as evident by their shock and laughter. Jen’s face looked possessed with lust. Riding out her climax, she bit her bottom lip, rolled her eyes back, and moaned deep before crying out at a volume heard above the din of the music.
              
              “FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK OOHHHHHHH FUUUUUCCCKKK!”
              
              It was all the encouragement boys in the orchestra section needed to shower her with the wizened vignettes of founding fathers. Leaves of green rained onto Herron who grinned wide at the sight. All that cash for what came all too easy: Being the biggest slut in whatever room she occupied (in the absence of her mom at least). Soon enough the stage was coated in tender.
              
              As the song closed the DJ gave her a closing cheer, “LET’S HEAR IT FOR JEN. GOD DAMN. DON’T KNOW BOUT’ YALL BUT I NEED A SMOKEBREAK AFTER THAT SMOKESHOW.”
              
              Jen got up on her heels, legs quaking for a moment. She then gathered herself and as many bills as she could before waving to the audience, winking, and shooting them a kiss.
              
              As Jen strutted off stage, flush with armloads of cash, she caught the eyeline of the next dancer on deck standing next to Cody. A black-haired Puerto Rican girl wearing a lime-green slingshot bikini. Jen vaguely remembered her introducing herself backstage as Carm or Kat or something. At the time, Jen couldn’t really give two shits. She’d only given a grunt of acknowledgment before returning to her makeup prep. While her Latin co-worker hadn’t invested as much money in plastic surgery as Jen, she wasn’t without her own share of eye-catching assets. What Carm or Kat or whateverthefuckhernamewas lacked in muscle and implants, she made up for it in thicc padding and big natties. The kind that got most guys tossing her rent money night after night.  
Her expression wore a look of disgust while the boss looked unamused.
              
              “The fuck was that shit?” Jen’s co-worker exclaimed.
              
              “What? I was just feelin’ myself. You see how guys just lost their fucking minds?! That shit was so hot!” Jen cackled. Her mind was charged with adrenaline at having just performed her first show and getting showered with attention. Not that she was any stranger to it. But to have the stars align with mood lighting, music, and the sleazy atmosphere of a strip club, well one couldn’t help but wonder…
              
              Why didn’t she pick up stripping years ago?
              
              “The’ fuck is WRONG with you? I don’t wanna be dancing in that! That’s an OSHA violation or some shit. Right, Cody?
              
              Other dancers. That’s why.
              
              In her experience girls were just a mood swing away from pulling out earrings and letting the claws come out. The idea of working in the same dressing room with a bunch of cunts out for blood was just ASKING for trouble. Of course, Jen being a MASSIVE homewrecker, thief, and loudmouth was often what led to those catfights. But she hadn’t the mindfulness to realize that.

              “Reign it in, Jen.” Cody weighed in. His expression looked implacable with his heavy, ruddy features and steely gray eyes. “No more jilling on stage.”
              
              “Seriously?” Jen scoffed. “It’s a nude club!”
              
              Cody ignored ‘Sizequeen’ and gave the other dancer a smack on the ass. “Get out there, Carmella. Make some money.”
              
              “Whatever.” Jen huffed off back to her locker, stuffed it and her Prada bag full of newly earned cash, before heading back out.
             
              While the crowd sat content, leering at one of the regulars on stage, their collective expressions lit up at the sight of Jen Herron sauntering back out to spend a little quality time on the floor. Instead of suiting back up in her micro bikini, she opted to go all but naked in just boots and accessories. Catcalling and invitations filled the room.
              
              “Eyyy, it’s new girl!”
              
              “Wassup, mami? You wanna give us a little love tonight?”
              
              “Hey! Jen! It’s Derek from the club last week! Wanna get a bottle with us?”
              
              All were primed and ready to pump more cash in exchange for a little face time. The thought thrilled her and that all-too-familiar feeling from onstage returned. A tingling itch washed through her as a breadth of options opened with all the variety of a box of chocolates.
              
              There was a grizzled gaggle of bikers clad in denim jeans and leathers at one table. Another had a fraternity of popper collars leering at her. A trio of cholos sat near the stage. Piggy banks primed for milking in more ways than one. Course there were about a dozen sad sacks that came stag, sitting here and there. They were a last resort. One stood out and caught her attention, however. A slim silver fox dressed in a suit of navy blue admiring her from a booth in the back. He didn’t yell out like the rest. He didn’t need to. His five-o-clock shaded jawline and piercing gray eyes proved enough to catch her eye. He looked… expensive. Jen’s mind drifted to the thought of getting him alone before she was distracted by another groups’ invitation.
              
              “AYO! NEW GIRL!” Across the floor from where Jen entered was a group of eight black men dressed in baggy clothing, iced-up chains, a gang colors. Bloods from the look of it. A couple of girls were already entertaining them with lap dances. The man who called out wore a Bulls cap and a black puffy vest.
              
              ‘New Girl’ grinned wide and sauntered over to her fans. She didn’t discriminate over skin color. But it was a numbers game when it came to cock size. And for some groups of men, those numbers had a greater chance of adding up. Others looked disappointed as she passed them by, unable to look away from her blow-up doll proportions and porn star aesthetic.
              
              As Jen came up to the table, Bulls Cap kept his eyes, forest green, on her.
              
              “Show us a little love tonight, Sizequeen? We don’t bite.”
              
              “Why not? I’m counting on it, baby.”
              
              Meanwhile, Carmella kept dancing. As she fell into her typical routine, the dancer got distracted by a lack of attention thrown her way. Taking stock of her clientele she realized how quickly her dancing lost eyes and wallets to the Herron bitch. Rage and jealousy boiled up within. Her livelihood was getting compromised by some gringo-bimbo. Carmella turned things up to eleven. Every move turned more suggestive and aggressive as she whipped around the pole like it was an extension of herself. Her hips thrust aggressively in a fit of passion and every strut sashayed her hips like the rocking of a boat. That Herron cunt might have got attention just by virtue of being a fresh face. But she sure as shit didn’t have the choreography of a REAL stripper. One that knew how to ACTUALLY dance. THAT’S what happened when you brought years of athletic discipline to bear. Her muscles started getting sore and desperation crept into her psyche. But the performance paid off. Men’s eyes gradually shifted back to the main attraction. They’d all be focusing on her.
              
              At least they could have been.
              
              One ill-fated step into the lingering pool of Jen’s vaginal discharge was all it took. The dancer’s foot slipped out from under, her leg whipped up in an arc, and the rest of Carmella landed on her right arm with a THUD. The wind was momentarily knocked out of her lungs and a blunt bolt of pain shot up from where she’d had to brace her fall.
              
              “Fuck!” Carmella cursed out loud.
              
              She struggled to stand up, wincing with pain and holding her injured arm with the other. The dancers in the Bloods’ booth got off their respective piggy banks’ laps and rushed to help Carmella, leaving Jen alone with the gang of eight. A few bouncers helped lift the dancer up and guide her backstage.
              
              Down below, Jen’s bubble butt had been grinding on the lap of Bulls Cap. With a slap of his hand, her cheeks quaked like a stone thrown into a still pond. Already, the cuffs of her stripper boots were full of bills rattling in the breeze as she twerked to the beat. In the middle of gyrating and probing for a sense of her partner’s dick size with her hips, Jen cackled with delight to see the cunt from backstage get her comeuppance.

              The laugh didn’t go unnoticed by Cody standing at the end of the bar, who whipped his head at Jen with the same grim look on his face from before.
              
              As BIA's Cover Girl started playing in the background, Jen continued showering the gang with attention. Batting her eyelashes, stroking pectorals, and grinding on more than a few laps. After a couple of lap dances, it was clear: She struck gold. At her disposal was a crew hung like giants. It was time to close the deal.
              
              “So, are you guys’ real Bloods?” Jen asked, twirling a finger in her hair, feigning ignorance. After long nights of initiation, she’d already become loosely affiliated with over a dozen gang chapters in California. She was well aware of what they were.
              
              “Maybe. Why? You tryin’ to gangbang?” The man whose lap she was dancing on replied. He wore a tank top and a red bandana headband.
              
              “Maybe…” Herron leaned in close until her lips touched his earlobes. “Depends on what you mean by gangbang.”
              
              Tank Top couldn’t help but grin and chuckle in response.
              
              “What she just say?” Bulls Cap asked.
              
              “She finna get a train goin’.”
              
              The crew went wide-eyed and let out a rowdy mix of laughing and cheering.
              
              “Yooooooo!!! This girl crazy ya’ll!” Bulls Cap exclaimed.
              
              Jen mocked surprise with a tilt of her hand, smiling. “Whaat? You're gonna turn me down? The new girl?”
              
              “I mean shit. We could make it happen.” He shrugged, then looked to others to get a sense of how they were feeling. From their body language and a few head nods, they were all on board.
              
              “Hope so. Cause’ those Crip boys REALLY know how to turn up. Hope ya’ll do too.”
              
              Cold jealousy washed over the eight before Tank Top cut the tension with a laugh and pointed at Jen.
              
              “Bruh. This bitch trollin’!”
              
              The rest laughed a bit and loosened up. Only now, there was an unspoken desire to set the record straight with ‘New Girl’. To Jen, boys competing in the bedroom only got things more fun and more heated.
              
              “I mean shit. Heard they got some back rooms where shit goes down.” Tank Top continued.
              
              “Oh and I’m sure you know nothing about that.” Jen replied
              
              The man simply smiled and shrugged.
              
              Without another word, Herron swooped upward into a standing position, sashayed out the booth, and looked behind her at the men with a sultry expression. Holding up a finger she beckoned them to follow.
The train of Jen and eight gang members made their way to an entryway where beyond was a room big enough for groups. Cody only showed it to her as a formality for her initial tour of the building. But already she was taking full advantage. It was marked by a curtain barring entry and a bouncer standing by for the protection of the dancers inside. Behind the curtain was a short hallway that terminated with another curtain. All eyes in the club watched, clientele and dancers alike, knowing what was about to go down.
              
              Scandal's champagne room didn't differ much in terms of aesthetics. Mirrored walls, gilded trim, and black leather couches lined three of the room's four dimensions. Thankfully, it was big enough to fit everyone. The biggest difference was a set of overhead red lights casting a sinful aura wherein secrets too scandalous for daylight were made. In the center was a low-riding circular ottoman, wide enough to fit and support the weight of a person. That person being Jen. Each member made themselves comfortable with feet kicked up and arms either resting on the couch or giving their bagged bimbo a grope or two. Herron situated herself by kneeling on the centerpiece, legs spread, bolted-on booty back on her haunches, facing them. With one hand groping her implants, fingers sinking into the silicone, the other went to work down below, working to get her motor started. Her torso and hips started grinding in a subtle fashion like the crank of a steam engine. The men meanwhile leered at her with a serious thirst.
              
              "Alright. Nuff' chit chat." Bulls Cap leaned forward, and beckoned Jen to get up close and personal with him with a diamond-ringed index finger. The other hand gave a *pat pat pat* on his lap. "Get yo ass over her."
Jen crawled from the ottoman with all the fluid grace of a panther and bridged the gap over to where Bulls Cap sat. While doing so, her massive breasts hung down while her rear cheeks rode high, divided down the middle by the dental floss of her T-Back.
              
              With a swoop, Jen squared right onto his lap. Her thick legs straddled him while her implants pressed up against a set of thick pectorals. Jen found herself staring down at him. Both traded looks of burning lust before Darius grabbed the back of her head and pulled her close. The two started swapping spit and wrapping tongues around one another. The men flanking Darius continued feeling up Jen's curves while a couple of others had to lean out of their seats, too impatient to just sit by and let the de-facto leader get sole dibs.
              
              "Aye! Easy nigga! Don't gotta be pushin' up on me." Protested one of the men to another. "Don't see why we can't get other bitches in here."
              
              "Nu-uh. I ain't letting other cunts steal my spoils." Jen replied. She reached over to the man and extended an olive branch in the form of her massaging the inside of his leg. This softened his anger and hardened his... desire. "You boys want me, you gotta share me. K, sweetie?"
              
              The man relented with a sleazy grin. "God damn, you a greedy bitch. Aight. Jus' so long as I get a piece."
              
              "Chill nigga. You gonna." Bulls Cap replied before reaching into the side pocket of his jeans. From there he retrieved a small baggie of white powder and held it up for Jen to see. The bleached blonde fuck doll lit up, grinned, and went to reach for it. He pulled his arm away just in time. "Nuh-uh. You gotta work for it first, bitch."
              
              Jen grinned and her eyes softened to a sultry, knowing look. In her twenty-one years of life, Jen rarely ever PAID for drugs. Whatever she didn't steal or teased out of men, she traded in sex. This got her close to a wide network of scumbags. Many belonged to notorious gangs and organizations. That kind of networking came in handy whenever she needed a ride, fast fashion, a jealous hookup put in their place, a dick or ten for hooking up, and of course, more drugs. Despite knowing their histories, with crimes ranging from petty theft all the way to murder of the first degree, Jen was always down for a little trade and then some. If anything, their rap sheet made them even hotter in her eyes. Some in that network kept up appearances with clean suites and a buttoned-down business for laundering. Others dropped all pretenses and went full Scarface. But all were cut from a dangerous, crooked cloth. And all wanted a piece of Jen. Course what they asked of her was a drop in the bucket compared to her bottomless, unquenchable thirst for cock. Whether they asked for a blowie in some alley wedged in the Red Light District or rallied to run a train with the whole gang in some abandoned warehouse, Jen never hesitated. According to some gang's rules, her getting ran through was a form of "initiation" that made her a member of their little clubs. However big of a deal they made, Jen paid little mind. What mattered was she got the product: From weed to coke to molly to shrooms to tabs of acid. Whatever got the party started.
              
              So a gangbang in the champagne room would be cake.
              
              She lowered herself between Bulls Cap’s legs. With one hand she pulled down his zipper with a deft nimbleness while the other stroked his torso up above. In hungry anticipation, she traced her lips with the stud of her tongue. It didn't take long for her to fish around and get a hold of his member. A cock so thick she'd just barely touch thumb and index. It then flopped out and stayed gripped in Jen's manicured hands, still soft to the touch at 10 inches flaccid. Jen couldn't help but let out a quick cackle with glee before taking a lonnng lick from base to tip with her tongue. At the head she got to sucking with a *SCHLURP*. Her DSLs engulfed the dome and her cheeks dimpled inward with the pressure. A steady film of spit began collecting as her lips worked their way further and further toward the base. Meanwhile, her hands worked the shaft, coaxing a rush of blood into the massive cock, growing bigger by the second. Jen's head bobbed, up and down, up and down.
              
              *SCHLURP SCHLURP GLUK SCHLURP*
              
              Bulls Cap’s hand palmed her head, forcing her up and down as if she were nothing but a fleshlight to stress fuck at the end of a long day.
              
              “That’s it. Swallow that shit. That’s it bitch.”
              
              Jen kept to sucking, sheathing inch after inch down her gullet. Outside her cock blinders, other men began to unholster their firepower.
              
              Bulls Cap allowed her to push back against his hand and pop off him with an audible *SSSSSCCCCHLLURRRR-POP!*. In her periphery was a whole stable of dicks closing in from every angle. Each one was a marvel of vascular onyx, clocking in at no less than ten inches. Slowly Herron rotated her head to see eight rock-hard, massive cocks ready to get GLUCKED. Her heartbeat kicked into high gear and her mouth went agape with glee. Jen’s attention then refocused on Darius when he grabbed her chin and forced her to look back at him.

              "Aight, slut. I’m stiff as a mothafucka. Hold that steady." Darius pushed his cock level with Jen's hands still gripping. He then took the baggie from before, carefully doled out the contents onto his shaft, then retrieve a Scandals business card from his vest. With it, he carefully corralled the cocaine into a three-inch line.
              
              "Anyone got a bill?" Darius asked his entourage.
              
              "Gotchu."
              
              One of the men handed Jen a rolled-up fifty. She took it betwixt her fingers, admired the ivory powder lining that pillar of obsidian, started towards the base, and in one fell swoop...
              
              *SNIFFF!*
              
              Gone. Alakazam.
              
              Jen tilted her head back with irises going wide and a mild like of shock on her face. Adrenaline shot into her brain and a hum coursed throughout her body. Goosebumps tingled and every sensation was heightened. A beat later her world refocused. She collected herself.

              "Fuck! That’s good shit."
              
              Jen gave a cursory wipe of her nose with her thumb before diving back into the task at hand. While one hand straddled the base of Darius's cock, the other kept up momentum on the shaft.
              
              "Mmmm... Now, where were we?
              
              "You was about to take me to the fuckin' hilt is where we were."
              
              Darius grabbed the back of Jen's head and forced it onto his cock. She was already game with an open mouth and took a big *gulp!* of meat, head now bobbing up and down at a faster pace. From her lips came a discordant symphony of slurps and glurps. The rest of the entourage kept busy either by nursing their drinks of gin or pulling out baggies of their own and taking a quick sniff off a palm mirror getting passed around. Soon everyone was jacked.
              
              As Jen made her way closer and closer to Darius's pubic bone, her hands pumped away at whatever cocks she got a handle of, switching from one to the other occasionally. Once Darius's manhood got thoroughly doused, Jen pulled back and released. She then got to blowing wind into the sails of others’ ships. The *SLURP SLURP SLURP* of her efforts filled the room. After no less than ten minutes everyone's cock was coated in a film of spittle.
              
              "Oh fuck." Jen croaked before grabbing a glass of gin from one of the men's hands in an effort to wet her whistle. "Alright. Main course. I want you boys to fucking skewer me."
              
              She turned to position herself on the ottoman on all fours, ass up, head down, with her face looking back at Darius and friends.
              
              "Spitroast me you fucking savages."
              
              "Don't gotta tell me twice." Bulls Cap stood up and placed the head of his cock, hanging like the bow of a crane, up against Jen's vulva and rubbed it against her with the slightest bit of friction. A tremor coursed through the slut and her loins ignited with anticipation. In front of her, Tank Top appeared with his own impressive member in hand. Her mouth opened in excitement at the sight, to which he took full advantage by shoving his member down her throat full throttle to the hilt. She took it like a champ in one loud gulp and started sucking. Her head bobbed to the rhythm Tank Top set as he plunged down her esophagus. More sounds of sucking, spittle, and slurping.
              
              In the back, Darius lined up his shot and wasted little time easing the head into Jen's cunt. Her lips, wet with anticipation, held ground for barely a beat before giving way to the man's first thrust. As he slid in, without much resistance, Jen let up on the cock in front to gasp out loud. She went wide-eyed as her pussy finally got the filling it needed for the second time that day (the first was in a rest stop bathroom at one in the morning by some guy who claimed to be a UFC contender, but that felt like ages ago). Jen looked behind just as Darius made an earnest attempt to sheathe his cock to the hilt in one go. He was enough to make any woman squirm and quiver with fear at the sight of him naked, let alone accommodate his girth. But Jen Herron was another breed. As was her sloppy, dripping wet cunt with lips agape. He thrust right up to the point of his hip bones slapping against her cheeks in one fell *sloop!*
              
              "OHHH FUCK!" Jen cried and looked back at her intruder. Her panting spoke the tongue of a bitch in heat and her aquamarine eyes begged for more.
              
              Darius pulled back and slammed right back in not a second later. Jen's intruder worked up to a rapid rhythm, slapping his hips into the bimbo. 

              CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP
              
              From his point of view, her wide flaring hips and phat ass jiggled and wobbled with just the right amount of jelly as they clapped against him. Wherever she got work done, they'd clearly earned a masterclass education in bolting on booties. The sight of it all kept him hard as a rock. But he couldn't help but notice that she'd taken in him full hilt no problem. Almost as if she were built for someone... even bigger.
              
              Jen's partner in front pulled her attention back into focus by grabbing her chin to face him again. "The fuck you doin' bitch? Get that mouth to work!"
              
              Jen went right to bobbing on Tank Top with a GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK. The man at her bow craned his head back, enjoying the tingling sensation of his head plumbing the back of her throat and beyond. Like Darius, he was surprised at the slut's ability to take XL BBC no problem.
              
              GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK
              
              "Thas' right. Take that dick bitch!" Tank Top growled.
              
              Jen did what she could to keep her own rhythm going with all the momentum of a Newton's Cradle. The boys could care less. To them, she was a flashlight to get fucked at their own pace. Just a couple of wet and sloppy holes to penetrate at whatever rate of thrusts they wanted.
              
              The other six men jeered and cheered Jen on, getting excited at the sight of a bimbo as stacked and thicc as her so willing and hungry to get ran through. Several hands reached out to grope her, while others were content to sit back, take a sip of Gin, and enjoy the show. It'd be their turn soon enough.
              
              "Take that nut barbie!"
              
              "Oooohhhhh shit dis bitch is BAD!"
              
              "Work that ass girl!"
              
              After about ten minutes of thrusting, Tank Top was about to bust. He grabbed the base of Jen's ponytail and yanked her off his cock. Being the throat GOAT that she was, Jen kept applying suction with a SSSLURP! until her lips were emptied altogether. In its absence, a whorish moan escaped her lips. With one hand around her high ponytail, Tank Top had the other pump his cock up to the point of release.
              
              "Here comes bitch. Open up dat pretty mouth an' say ahh!"
              
              "AHH!" Jen replied with an open mouth and extended tongue. Both eyes were trained on his.
              
              Little white soldiers locked and loaded like a U-boat on D-Day unloaded onto Jen's face in one. Two. Three dollops of jism. Herron, a decorated veteran of facials, got decorated. What cum hit her mouth slid back on her tongue while the rest painted her face with a shot of liquid pearls, melting under the red light upon impact.
              
              After Tank Top, it was Bulls Cap’s turn to bust. Jen's canal flooded with a torrent of viscous white, filling and washing back out of her pussy. The bitch now dripped at both ends. He pulled back, tilted his head to admire the creampie, and grinned.
              
              "Shit bitch. You took that dick like a champ. Fuckin' creampied that pussy."
              
              "You boys talk too much." Jen kept her knees glued to the ottoman while sitting back on her heels. One hand went down to her quim, reached for a dollop of cum, craned her head back, and with a cum laden finger up in the air, let a bead slowwwly drip down onto her tongue. Her head turned to the group so they got a profile shot. The trail of jism finally separated and fell into her mouth. Jen gave a *gulp*.
              
              "I’m sorry? I thought you guys were gonna fuck me up? Let’s try that again. And don't hold back this time."
              
              "I mean I sure as shit wasn't, goddamn girl!" Bulls Cap chuckled and threw up a hand dismissively. "But alright. Tear this bitch up ya'll."
              
              She was soon surrounded. One stripped down to just his boxer briefs, white t-shirt, and a red durag. He placed both hands on Jen's hips, lifted her up, and laid back on the ottoman himself. Jen cackled to herself at the sensation of being weightless for a moment in Durag’s grasp before getting set down on his abdomen in a cowgirl position. Filling the crack of her massive cheeks was the man’s cock standing at attention.
              
              "Aight bitch. Get up on that shit." Du-rag gave Jen's ass a firm slap. "You know what to do."
              
              Jen stood up, hovering for a moment in the air, positioned her sex over his dome, and let gravity do the work as once again her cunt got filled to the brim. In a few seconds flat her Brazilian wax job slid down onto the man's pelvis. Herron felt a palm on her back pushing her forward into a more vulnerable position. Turning her head she saw another man standing at a hulking seven feet six inches, cock in hand, aimed right at her asshole. With a mind of its own, her sphincter flexed as if to warm itself up for the workout ahead. In the heat of the moment, Jen reached back with both hands to pull her cheeks apart to make an open invitation.
              
              "C'mon you fucking thug! Tear up that asshole!"
              
              Her enthusiasm got the hulk of a man smiling in excitement. The head pressed in. Her asshole, even more compliant than her pussy, gave little to no resistance as it stretched to accommodate the thirteen-inch long, seven-inch diameter thick donkey cock.
              
              "Shit! Bitch is takin' the whole thing!" Hulk exclaimed. He slid right in, balls slapping her taint in no time. "God DAMN yous a loose bitch!"
              
              The two men soon picked up momentum, spearing into Jen. She got off about a dozen cries before getting gagged by a bare-chested third wearing a thick gold chain. Hulk kept Jen in control by holding her ponytail, using it for leverage while also forcing her head onto Gold Chain’s cock.  Airtight at last, she got pumped like a locomotive with three pistons chugging away. Gaining speed. Throwing coal into the furnace. And all the while she grunted like a pig in heat. Every once in a while she let up off the cock in her mouth to catch her breath and let loose a string of ecstatic cries and curses loud enough to be heard on the main floor.
              
              "FUCK YES! FUCK THAT ASSHOLE! FUCK ME LIKE THE SLUT I AM! YES! YES! YEEEESSSS!!!"
              
              And on and on and on. Getting fucked, creampied, basted in cum, basking in attention, living her best life. The boys rotated out after they popped their nut but Jen got constantly bored into for the next hour and a half. Positions changed a few times. At one point she was getting assfucked by a partner on the sofa, while another filled her cunt with a creampie. At another she took spit roasting for another spin. But throughout their time, Jen's sluttish savagery persisted (albeit not without another bump of coke halfway through). She was often manhandled by whoever tagged in/out, much to her delight. The eight were in control and made it clear by grabbing her hair, slapping her ass, and thrusting into her with wild abandon, that she was at THEIR mercy. Such an open display of control, confidence, and cocksmanship got her libido burning bright as a bonfire.
              
              At last, after little more than an hour, Jen's party of eight called it quits. The last man pulled out, wiped the sweat off his brow, and zipped back up. The others collected their things and began filing out. Jen, still in a fugue state from getting gang fucked by random black guys in the champagne room of a strip club, took a minute to shake out of her reverie. Her end state was face down, ass up on the ottoman, cum oozing down the inside of her left leg.
              
              Before leaving, Bulls Cap turned to look back at the puddle of skank marinating on the champagne room furniture. Digging into his pockets, he pulled out a thick roll of bills, unraveled the band, and flung them onto Jen laying in her submissive position. Like confetti, sheathes of green reigned down on her.
              
              "That's for you. Hit me up if you ever in Bompton." His mouth stretched into a sleazy grin, exposing a set of gold teeth. "Pssh, the fuck am I sayin'? You prolly there all the time gettin' ran through. Slut."
              
              Bulls Cap walked out. Jen collected herself and as well as the money. All hundreds. More than a couple thousand. Must have been.
              
              Herron walked back onto the floor to see Whateverthefuckhernamewas standing there, waiting, with her right arm in a cast and sling. Behind her were a couple of other dancers clad in heels and slutwear.
              
              Carmella instantly bore down on Jen with a pissed expression. And then stopped short in shock and disgust. Jen's face was dripping with a mess of washed-out cosmetics. Her hair cuff had long since been discarded, leaving her bleached blonde locks a tangled nest after having been yanked around by dominant hands and knotted with cum. A stray lash extension had detached and adhered to her check. And a steady flow of cum flowed from her orifices, trailing down her legs. Herron looked like a blue-ribbon whore wrapping up a twelve-hour shift at the state fair. Tying up her appearance into a neat little bow was a zen-like smile.
              
              “What. The. Fuck.” Said Carmella.
              
              “Need something?”
              
              Carmella shook off her shock and held out a hand.
              
              “I’ll take that money.”
              
              Jen’s state of zen got swept aside by amusement at Carmella's sheer audacity. Unable to control herself (not that she ever tried), Herron cackled out loud.
              
              “HAHAHAHAHAHAH. Are you serious? No. Don’t think so.” Jen shook her head and went to walk past the dancer before getting blocked by Carmella and her goons. “Bitch get the fuck out of my way before I school your one-armed ass.”
              
              “You even know how much this shit is gonna set me back?” Carm pointed at her cast and sling. “I can’t work for a month!”
              
              “Why the fuck should I care?”
              
              “Cause you were the one jilling all over the place!”
              
              “She slipped 'cause’ of you BITCH!” Shouted one of the dancers backing up Carm.
              
              Jen ignored the side-cunt and focused on Carm. The two were inches away from one another. Both sets of tits were pressed together with flakes of glitter fluttering down from their makeup onto the other’s cleavage.
              
              “Fine. Here.” Herron took a couple of hundreds from her bundle and flung them at Carmella’s face. “That ought to cover your green card. Puta.”
              
              Before a single bill hit the ground, Carmella lashed out with her good hand. She went for the bundle. Jen held on tight and the two went down on the floor. The two were a mess of appendages wrestling with one another and playing tug of war. Jen used her free to get a handful of Carm’s hair, only to pull out a handful of extensions. All the while they traded insults.
              
              “STUPID BIMBO!”
              
              “ANCHOR BABY!”
              
              “SLUT!”
              
              “CUNT!”
              
              The DJ couldn’t help but do commentary on the loudspeaker.
              
              “Whoa! Alright alright! Looks like we got a couple of stray cats that need separating. Bouncers might wanna step in here!”
              
              Cody Shaw and a couple slabs of muscle wrapped in black-button downs and tribal tattoos rushed over to separate the two. Despite getting pulled out of arm’s reach, both ripped and clawed at the air. More than a few smartphones were out recording the catfight, including a few from Jen’s gangbang party minutes ago.
              
              While still flailing her arms, one bouncer managed to wrangle Jen towards the backstage entrance where dancers came from their makeup stations and lockers. Cody was there waiting and shaking his head. Jen’s feet touched the ground, and her respective bouncer released his grip.
              
              “Let go of me, asshole!” Jen squirmed out from the man, who remained standing behind her. She went wide-eyed and realized that the roll of hundreds she earned was missing. After checking around her feet she looked across the room to see Carmella with the bundle in hand. Her eyes glanced at Jen and a shit-eating grin appeared on her face.
              
              “THAT’S MY MONEY CUNT!”
              
              “Too bad.” Cody said.
              
              “Excuse me?!” Jen whipped around and get face to face with the owner.
              
              “You know the deal. Management gets a fifty-fifty cut for any extras in the VIP. And far as I see it, I’m out a dancer for the next month because of you. Then you had to go and start a fight with the girl you injured.”
              
              “I didn’t start SHIT! That was all her!”
              
              Cody looked down at the pile of skank standing at five-foot-five. From his height he had a royal view of her cleavage eclipsing nearly a quarter of his eyesight, bathed in mood lighting and toasted with a caramel tan. Her face was a mess of smudged lipstick and runny makeup. Her pillowy lips looked tailor-made for sucking dick. Which, in his experience, they were. She was terrible in all the best ways. But at the end of the day, he was a businessman. His employees had to work with each other. And with girls like Jen, Carmella wasn’t going to be the last incident.
              
              “Go home Jen. You’re not cut out for this.”
              
              “Whatever.” Jen spat and rolled her eyes before heading back to her locker. She opened the door to grab her Prada bag. Before looking she did a quick audit of the money she earned on stage. It was mostly ones, fives, and tens. By her estimation there was barely more than four hundred. A pittance compared to the payday she had in hand minutes ago.
              
              “… Fuck.”
              
              Jen’s high heels soon hit the asphalt and filled the parking lot with a furious clacking. One hand held a tight grip on the strap of her bag. Between getting fired no more than three hours into her first job and losing out on a bigger payload to that pig in lipstick, Jen just wanted to get back to the house, throw back a shot, and pass out to the vocal fry of Kim Kardashian on the E! channel.
              
              Worst-case-scenarios filled her head and anxiety crept into her mind. What if she couldn’t find a job? What if she had to settle for some Fast Food shitshow like In-N-Out? What if her Mom kicked her out? Where would she go? Where would she live? One of her fuckbuddy's cribs? Some shoe-box-sized studio? A motel she’d end up turning tricks out of?
              
              Behind her was a chud of a man who worked for Scandals. One of the bouncers. He was charged with making sure all the girls made it to their car alright. He paced behind with a heavy *clump clump clump* of his boots.
              
              As she approached her Porsche, the likes of which stood out like a neon-pink gumball in a row of rust-bucket sedans, Jen noticed a trim figure leaning against the hood. The put-together silver fox from the main floor.
              
              “How you doing tonight, Miss Herron?”
              
              Jen stopped and defaulted to her typical, juvenile stance: One hand on a cocked hip with an upraised eyebrow.
              
              “What do you think?” Jen gestured at her messy appearance and rats’ nest of a hairstyle. “Terrible. Now get the fuck off my car.”
              
              “Oh, sorry.” The silver fox feigned surprise as if the Neon Pink Porsche Carrera could be anyone else’s. He stood up and stepped away.
              
              As Jen went for the driver's side door he continued.
              
              “Just thought you might be interested in earning some real money.”
              
              The high-heeled barbie stopped in her tracks and looked at him.
              
              “Yeah?”
              
              Her six-foot-three, chud of an escort stepped towards the businessman and tried waving him off. “Leave the lady alone, bro. She’s just trying to get home.”
              
              “Hey, Guy Fierri.” Jen looked to the bouncer. “Why don’t you fuck off back to your cheese sliders.”
              
              The crew-cut topped oaf looked to her in surprise, threw his hands up, and walked back to the club.
              
              “Crazy bitch…”
              
              “And you might wanna get that lump in your balls checked out!” She called out, then turned to Mr. Fox. Her gait, oozing with sex appeal, sauntered over until the two were shoulder to shoulder, locking eyes. He kept to a languid posture with one hand in his pocket. The other held his cigarette with a trail of smoke drifting up into the night sky.
              
              Without asking, Jen plucked it from his hands.
              
              “So…” A deep drag on her part with the bright glow of an ember, burning hot. Her eyes locked in on his, not twitching a bit. From her collagen-injected lips, a steady plume of smoke blew into his face. His attempt at posing a dominant, alpha male posture let up for a moment as he turned his head slightly. “You were saying?”
              
              “I represent clientele who are looking for a voracious girl such as yourself.” He continued despite the cloud of smoke now hovering around him. “They make a habit of hosting exclusive parties now and again. And when I say exclusive, I mean no phones, no names, and no faces.”
              
              Jen went wide-eyed with excitement.
              
              “Oh shit! You mean like with masks and champagne and stuff? Like from that Tom Cruise movie?”
              
              “Uh, yes. Something like that.” Mr. Fox answered with a steady creak of his voice. “The talent, meaning girls like yourself, won’t be wearing masks. These men are going to see every inch of you at some point in the night. I guarantee it.”
              
              “Kinky. So what’s this gig paying?”
              
              Fox smiled and pulled out a pen and piece of paper from his trouser pocket. While he scribbled a number Jen cocked an eyebrow in confusion. Couldn’t he just, ya know, tell her? Why all the secrecy-
              
              “HOLY SHIT.” Jen exclaimed with the paper in hand.
              
              “Now then. You should know that the men I represent… Their desires are-“
              
              “Unconventional. Yeah. Got it. Whips and shit. FUCK that’s a lot of zeroes! I can buy a trip to Cancun! Or a real pair of Red Bottoms! I can pay off my Porsche! They don’t take blowjobs at the bank but the Repo guys do so things have been kind of touch and go lately.”
              
              “…Right. Well. Glad you’re excited.”
              
              “Totally. Thanks, sweetie!” Without another word, Jen got on her knees and started fishing for Fox’s hardware secured behind in his trousers. At the sound of sharp zip! Jen began salivating with a level of classical conditioning that would tickle the mind of Pavlov himself.  And she sure wasn’t above impromptu parking lot blowjobs. Especially at that hour of the night.
              
              “Wha- What are you doing?” While he sounded surprised, the silver fox wasn’t making any moves to defend himself.
              
              “What’s it look like?” Jen took a guesstimation at his size while holding the pork sword in her hand. Nine inches and three-eighths. Not great. Not terrible. She shrugged and looked at him. “Finder’s fee.”
              
              Already her tongue wrapped its way around the head of his dick with a long film of spittle starting to drip onto the asphalt. “So… *sssslurp* Where am I headed tomorrow?”
              
              “To a place where even girls like you can’t keep up.” Mr. Fox continued looking down at Herron with her cartoonishly large assets, juvenile wardrobe, and layers of dried, messy makeup. She was a girl fine-tuned for doing one thing and one thing only: Milking mammoth cocks. Full stop.

              Jen Herron was just the girl he was looking for.
              
              “You’re going to Vegas.”