Big Girls on Top

Big Girls
on Top

By Mercy Walker

This is an erotic short story, or episode.
(Approximately 12600 words)
Each episode stands alone, like a TV episode, but is part of a larger story.

WARNING: This story contains explicit sex and erotic scenes, M/ F. For adults, 18 + only.

Big Girls on Top

I groaned as the music cued up
—and
poured myself a shot of Jack Daniels.  Nadia (aka
Cr
y
stal
) had decided to ravage the song
stylings
of
Adele
again.  Not that I wasn’t a fan of my fellow plus sized sister from across the pond, but this was the fourth routine
this
week featuring the contra alto.

Frisky Kittens
, the strip-club the
surreptitiously
named Nadia and I work at, is pretty roomy by Pittsburgh,
Pennsylvania
standards.  But in any other city it would be dinky
.  A
nd
Adele’s
wall
-
of
-
sound songs kind of reverberate off the walls like
shrapnel in a Spielberg war epic.

And all that earsplitting noise for a little waif of a girl with teased
bottle-
blond hair, skinny legs, man hips and absolutely no ass.  But she did have
extravagantly
surgically enhanced breasts that could stop traffic—and probably made her lose her balance every time she moved.  They’d cost her five thousand dollars. 

I think she should have spent her money on a better car.

A gorgeous woman in h
er
late thirties came up to the bar, swinging her hips like a Las Vegas show girl (which she used to be) and set down her drink tray.

“Hey Bev,” That’s me, Bev (short for Beverly).  “I need a crown and soda, and two Buds.”

“Coming right up,
Shirley.
”
I mov
ed
around behind the bar with quick, practiced movements.

I’m the bartender—what, you thought I strapped myself into a G-string and writhed around on some flimsy pole?—and I’ve worked here for five years.  Five long
…
deranged
…
and sometimes funny years.  What can I say?  I make more in tips every night than I could make anywhere else, including using my nursing degree.

Nurses are underpaid and overworked.  Fuck that shit!

I plopped the drinks on Shirley’s drink tray and she was off, swinging her ass like it was an Olympic event.  I had to give
her credit
, she was almost forty and still had it going on…more than the silicon enhanced little girl parading around on stage. 

When Nadia spun around
in her five inch heels
before she
made a
grab for the pole, she got a little too much
centrifugal
force behind it—obviously from her size double
-
D boobs—and missed said pole
.  She
fell off the stage
with a terrified squeal…and into an old man’s lap that was eating garlic hot wings and was hooked up to a portable oxygen tank.

I rushed out from behind the bar to pull the skinny ditz out of the old man’s lap, but before I could help her out I saw that the old man was actually choking on a chicken wing.  He must have been eating it when Nadia took the nose dive.

I pulled Nadia off him and she fell onto the floor with a yelp.  Then I pulled the old man out of his chair and performed a hasty
Heimlich
maneuver on him, popping that chicken bone up and out of his mouth, sending it flying through the air where it magically landed deep in Nadia’s cleavage.

Eww…and yuck…

But once I got the old man back in his seat—he thanked me by pinching my ass—and pulled Nadia up off the floor (she couldn’t seem to get herself up on her own
steam
—guess her tits were too cumbersome), I
headed back to the bar and the three cocktail waitresses lined up
haughtily
with drink orders.

See?  Save a life and you still don’t get any respect.  Mix a drink and get tipped.  What a fucked up world we live in!

By the time I got Shirley and her two cohorts’ orders filled I was starting to get hungry…and god help me the garlic hot wings were sounding pretty good.

So I placed my order, watched a buxom brunet named Candy Cain shake her rather bodacious money maker to
Don Henley’s
Dirty Laundry
, and then poured myself a beer to go with my order of wings.

Shep, the cook tonight, liked me, so I got an extra large order of wings with a side platter of celery, and cherry tomatoes.  And enough blue cheese and ranch dressing to float
The Love Boat
.

I woofed it all down before Candy was done with her set.  That’s when most patrons usually ordered drinks,
between sets,
so if I wanted to eat them before they got cold I had to hurry.

Just as I was swallowing my last scrumptious bite of spicy chicken I saw a man sidle up to the bar out of
my
peripheral vision. 
I licked the blue cheese off my fingers and grabbed a cocktail napkin to wipe my hands off
with
. 

“What can I get you, honey?” I said out of habit.

The man was tall and broad shouldered, and had jet black hair.  And as he turned around to tell me his order, I was struck dumb as a sack of potatoes by his handsome—no,
make that his
gorgeous
face. 

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen some hot-as-hell men in my day, but this guy just had a one of a kind face…and it had been sculpted by that fucker
Michelangelo
!

Unconcerned that my mouth had fallen open and I was staring like an idiot at him, he told me his order.  I hadn’t an idea in hell what he’d said
. 
I just stood there, ogling him like a teenager at a Beiber concert.

Finally he smiled and then leaned in and waved his hand in front of my face.

Oh, god.  I must look mentally challenged or something.

“I’m sorry,” I said, breathlessly.  “What did you say?”

His smile deepened and he leaned forward and reached out, his thumb rubbing across my lower lip—

Damn!—

—and then
he put his thumb in his mouth, sucking what he’d rubbed off my lip
from
his thumb.

His eyes ran over me as his smile turned even more
lascivious
.
  “I’ll have a beer…and an order of those wings you just demolished over there—” Oh, he’d seen that… “—but first
,
I’m here to see Teddy.  Can you tell him Quinn’s here to see him?”

Quinn…that’s a nice name…never met a Quinn before…never met a guy with such a confident air about him…and those dark, melted chocolate eyes…

My
gaze
fell slowly from those eyes, to his thick-lipped mouth, down his neck to where his
clavicles
met right above his broad chest. 

He was wearing a sleek black leather jacket and a matching silk button down shirt.  The shirt was open at the collar…and a few buttons were open too.

It was getting hot in here…I felt some perspiration trickle down the back of my neck.

Quinn smiled and shook his head, and then reached out
and
pushed my open mouth shut with a little upward
shove
of his index finger under my chin.

I moaned at his touch…what the hell was wrong with me!?!?

I took a really big step back and gulped.  His eyes hadn’t left
me, and if I stood there and looked into them for another second I was going to pass out…or maybe tear off all my clothes and jump on top of the man.

So I pulled my tattered pride together and hustled away, back to Teddy’s office.

Theodore Belmont Slater was the owner and manager of
Frisky Kittens
n
ight club, and I’d always thought he was a nice guy and good to him employees.  He’d always been good to me, and he often bailed his strippers
out
from jail, helped them find new apartment
s
when they got evicted, and even helped me move once.  I’d even seen him trying to get Nadia
to
eat a
Philly
S
teak hoagie from Primanti Brothers. 

What a fool to waste such a great sandwich on a girl that was going to barf it up five minutes later!
 
 
 

I didn’t even knock, just barg
ed
into his office and pour
ed
myself a shot of his single malt Irish whiskey and knock
ed
it back. 

Teddy was on the phone and I heard him say he’d call whoever it was back.  I plopped down in the comfy chair that faced toward his desk and let my head fall back against the cool leather.

Teddy stared at me for a solid minute, laughter in his eyes, and then panic settled in as he asked, “Did someone OD in the ladies room again?”

I shook my head.

He frowned.  “Nadia fall off the stage again?”

“Well, yes…” I said while nodding, “but that’s not it.”

Teddy raised his eye brows, and then his hands imploringly.  “Well?”

I took a deep, steadying breath.  “A man named Quinn is waiting to see you.”

A
smile
bloomed on Teddy’s face and he shot up out of his seat behind the desk and jogged out the door.

I’d worked there for five years and hadn’t seen him move faster than a
glacier
even once. 

I stood up and followed suit, not really wanting to, but overwhelmed with curiosity…and I wanted to see this Quinn again…I really,
really
wanted to see him again.
 
  

I got out of
the
office and started walking shakily back up the back hallway to the front of the house by the time Teddy and his friend Quinn shambled past me, arm in arm, shit-eating smiles on their faces, and went into the office.

I went back out to the bar, feeling relieved that Mr. Tall Dark and Gorgeous wasn’t out there distracting
me
…and feeling miffed that he wasn’t.  I mean, he’d licked the blue cheese off my lip, not the other way around…well, I guess it wasn’t directly from my lip…

I had a sudden, very vivid hallucination that Quinn had pulled me to him and had kissed the blue cheese dressing from my mouth, deeply, and with tongue.

A
maraschino
cherry hit me in the forehead.

“What?  Am I supposed to mix the drinks
and
serve them?”
a waitress named Tammy groused.

I shook off my piping hot Quinn fantasy and knuckled down to filling my backed up drink orders.

“Lay off her, Tammy Faye!” Shirley interjected with a polished hip-check that knocked the other waitress to the right about a foot.  “Bev here just met the man of her dreams.”

My head shot up and I gave Shirley the most murderous look I could throw at her.  But she didn’t fall over dead, or even wince…she just smiled all the more, proud of her handiwork. 

Her handiwork earned me a chorus of cat calls, wolf whistles and melodramatic sighs.

“You get your drinks last,” I said, my voice dripping with venom.  “For the rest of the night!”

Shirley just smiled, taunting me with her lethally observant nature.  I filled her drink order second just to get her away from me.

The night went
by
pretty quickly, even though I kept my eye on the hallway leading to Teddy’s office.  But at no time did Quinn leave or show his painfully handsome face.

I thought of that creamy, delicious looking tan skin of his.  Was he Italian?  Maybe from Russian ancestry?  Greek?

I suddenly wondered if he had any tattoos—I was mad about tattoos.  Well, good tattoos, not jail house tats, or
those blue inked jobs that faded into a smudge.  No, I liked a good, clean, polished tattoo with either vibrant color, or a start black that could cut glass.

I wanted to pull off Quinn’s clothes—that lovely silk shirt, and that butter soft looking leather jacket…and other things—and search him inch by yummy inch until I found where his tattoos lie.

After all, I was dressed pretty damn nice.  I wear a size six…shoe, that is.  And tonight I’d strapped on some hundred dollar four inch heels that made my calves look great.  I had my barely D cup breasts peaking through a nearly see-through little blouse about two sizes too small—what can I say, I like to accentuate my assets.  And speaking of assets, my own round, size
-
eighteen
butt
was firmly held by a tight leather skirt that only stretched down far enough I didn’t flash the clientele every time I leaned over to get a beer out of the coolers.