Chapter 4

Billie took me to a strange bar in the Village.

An unusual bar one whose patrons were exclusively female.

You know the kind of bar ... no men were allowed. The female clientele didn't miss them a bit, either.

"Lady Luck" was the bar's name. I had never been there before, but I had heard of it.

And I had visited other, similar bars.

It was secretive. The cab dropped Billie and me at the middle of the block, a side street above Houston Street.

No sign, no neon marquee advertised the presence of the establishment. It was a street of old tenements and warehouses.

Trucks lined the curbs and so did litter, newspapers and old packing boxes. A couple of Latino kids played stickball against a wall.

Billie and I got out of the cab, Billie paying the fare. The cab drove off.

She took me by the arm and guided me across the sidewalk. We ducked our heads to keep from getting hit in the face by the twilight drizzle.

One of the kids shouted something at us in Spanish. I couldn't make out what it was, but I'm sure that it was something dirty.

Another of his little buddies grabbed his crotch and paraded down the sidewalk, swaggering and posturing in the manner of his elder brothers.

The kids couldn't have been over ten, but already they were full-fledged creeps.

There was a waist-high iron fence with a gate which Billie opened. She had to let go of my arm to go down the stone stairs.

The door to the bar was below sidewalk level, the flight of stone stairs to narrow to permit more than one person to descend at a time.

Now I could sense the presence of the bar, as a dull hollow booming bass which vibrated through the brick wall.

Down in the well we stood side by side, as she pressed the buzzer.

In front of us was a solid metal door with a peephole set at eye hight.

As we waited for something to happen, I studied Billie.

Billie is a career woman, single, in her middle thirties. She's the top designer for Klenco Clothes, my company.

For the last few weeks, she had been my boss as well.

Now she wanted to be ... something more to me than just a boss.

She was good to look at. She's a brunette WASP from an old Boston family, tall and thin, aristocratic, casually elegant.

I like all kinds of ladies, with a special imagine for the tall, cool ones like Billie. I was mixing business with pleasure.

I'm tall, but even in her sensible flat-heeled shoes, she was an inch or two taller than me. Her long-legged frame is more spare, less rounded than mine.

She has a long, fine-boned face, features clearly formed, chiseled. She has dark brown eyes and a long thin nose and neat pink lips.

The bones of her face are thin and well-formed, with jutting cheekbones. She has dark thin arched brows and an air of superiority.

Her fine-formed head sits gracefully on a swan neck. Her body is thin and spare, with small breasts and long legs.

Her dark brown hair is cut very short, almost boyishly, a hair style so boyish that it takes a woman of fine, clean-lined features to make it work.

But make it work she did.

Her brows were dark, her eyes shone, her lips were painted red and a hint of blusher was on her cheeks. She wore cosmetics lightly applied.

That night she wore a beige felt beret, full and floppy; a neatly tailored expensive designer coat, black dress, black stockings, loafers.

She wore neat little earrings and a pair of thin black gloves.

I had used Stan Simmons to get to Billie.

Billie was the head designer for the line, the top-ranking creative person. In her department was the best stepping stone for my ambitions.

More than that, there was a personal element, since Billie fascinated me sexually.

Stan was under my thumb. I made him deliver.

I got him to transfer me to Billie's department, with a nice raise as a bonus, and a most glowing letter of recommendation.

The letter praised me for my hard work, and cited me for my fine company-minded qualities. I know the letter was good, since I wrote it myself, then had Stan sign it before it was entered on my record.

He wanted all copies of the tape, but I told him he had to trust me, since I couldn't trust him not to double-cross me if he got all of them back.

I also mentioned in passing that not all copies were kept at my apartment. A few of them were also stored for safekeeping with my lawyer.

That would keep him from getting any ideas about hiring a burglar to break into my place to steal them, since it would do no good for him.

Now that I had him where I wanted him, I took the opportunity to let loose and tell him what I really thought of him.

His red face turned white as I verbally flayed him. By the time I was done, the air seemed scorch by the heat of my words.

After that, he was more than happy to have me transferred out of his department. He was scared to be around me!

Billie was more than pleased to take on another assistant.

Her department was a madhouse. I wasn't overly strong on the creative angle, but I didn't have to be, since there were more than enough designers there.

Organizational work, clerking, making calls, arranging schedules and keeping things running smoothly these were my strong office skills.

They were just what was needed in the design department, so I quickly established myself as a fixture there.

There's so much competition in this business that it's not enough to fuck your way up the ladder you have to be able to do the work, too.

Then, if you handle the job, fucking your way up the ladder gets you where you're going a lot faster than plain old-fashioned good hard work.

So, I couldn't have kept the job working for Billie, if I didn't have the skills; but I never would have gotten a chance to show what I could do for her, if I hadn't used a little judicious sex and blackmail on Stan.

Whom I no longer had to deal with in the company thank God!

My copies of the blowjob tapes would make sure that he would stay a good boy.

My memories were interrupted by the opening of the door to the bar.

The bouncer knew Billie. Seeing her through the keyhole, she opened the door.

Inside it was dark and shadowed. The carpet was wine red and the music was loud.

The bouncer looked like a truck driver with tits. She closed and bolted the door as soon as Billie and I entered.

The bar was set so that its patrons were members of a private club. Admission to the club was gained by paying an entry fee.

I reached for my pocketbook, but Billie waved it away. Saying that I was her guest, she paid my fee, and in we went.

The bar was set up the same as lots of little bars around town.

There was a bar lined with stools, a small area cleared for dancing (very small), a few booths with tables and chairs.

The lighting was low, intimate. A jukebox opposite the bar was all blue and yellow neon, flashing lights, smooth chrome styling.

It was early and the place only had a few customers as yet. Billie and I had worked late at the office, and come here from there.

I was going to her apartment for dinner, but she had suggested that we stop off at a little place she knew for a drink, first.

So we had come to Lady Luck....

A handful of customers crowded the stools at the bar. They were women from different walks of life, different ages.

At the far end of the bar was a pair of attractive, adult businesswomen who looked to both be in their middle forties. They were neatly groomed.

A girl in her early twenties, with a hard, pale, young face and short hair slicked back 50's style, wore a black leather jacket and tight jeans with cuffs.

With her was her partner, her toy, a little blonde piece of fluff with long wavy hair and a heart-shaped doll's face.

There was one or two women who looked like middle class housewives who had hung up their aprons and stepped out of the kitchen to go for a few quick beers.

Behind the bar was the bartender, who knew and casually greeted Billie, as did a couple of the other patrons.

I would have sat at the bar, but Billie escorted me to one of the booths, which is where we sat with our drinks.

My martini wasn't as dry as I like, but it was very high-octane. Sipping it was like quaffing rocket fuel, and I felt it go right to my head.

From the instant we came in, I felt the stir of interest in the other patrons.

All these places, hetero or not, are the same, with everybody checking out everybody else, to see who's with whom, and how they look.

I knew that I was being looked over. I could have looked a lot more sexy and glamorous, if I hadn't just come from work.

But in all honesty, I had little, well, no worry that my looks were lacking.

I knew I looked great, even in this pert and well scrubbed look.

I knew the others were interested in me, too. But I had come in with Billie.

The two ladies at the end of the bar wanted us to join them.

"Maybe some other time," I said to Billie. "I just want to be with you now."

She said nothing but smiled and looked pleased.

The waitress, who had been the go-between, delivered the turn-down to the two ladies, who were regretful, then went back to their intimate conversation.

It was all down very discreetly, with no hassle.

The hard chick in the black leather jacket fished out some coins from the pockets of her skin-tight jeans.

She couldn't have been much older than me. She was of average height, but had a big-boned body under that leather and denim.

She had big tits and a small waist and a wide ass, with taut thighs. Under the black leather jacket, she wore a tight white T-shirt.

She wore no bra, and her tits were globes that shifted under the tight shirt. Her skin was very white, whiter than Billie's, who was quite pale.

The hard girl's jeans were skin-tight, looking like they were painted on. The faded blue denim hugged her crotch and ass.

She wore boots not finely turned, elegant ladies' boots, but biker boots, big solid things with heavy heels and soles.

She dropped the change in the outthrust palm of her blonde toy's hand.

The toy looked like she was in her middle teens, and acted younger, but she had to be at least eighteen to get into the bar I think.

The toy was actually a few inches taller than the hard girl. The toy had long masses of shoulder-length wavy hair.

The hair was yellow as straw, and to my eyes seemed to be her own natural coloring, although sometimes it's hard to tell these days.

She wore it done up in a pair of pigtails, one on each side of her head, bound at their bases with pink scarlet ribbons.

She had a heart-shaped face with sand-colored eyes, a sassy upturned nose, and wide lips which were painted a shade of fire engine red lipstick.

She wore a lot of make-up too much, if you ask me. But she was cute in a kind of young, flashy, cheap way.

Fluff like I said before.

She wore a short-sleeved pink satin blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Her breasts were nubile, heavy, with outlined nipples.

Her bra was too tight, and it pushed her tits way up and made them jut out.

She wore a short black skirt with a wide pink leatherette belt. Its hem came down to the middle of her thighs.

She went to the jukebox. Leaning over it, blue and yellow lights painting her pink face, she studied the selections of discs.

She found some she liked and fed a quarter into the slot and pressed the buttons.

Music oozed out, a slow smoky torch song from the fifties, slow and sexy.

Her hard friend swung off the bar stool, leather boots smacking down. The chain decorations adorning her jingled as she crossed the floor.

The blonde fluff pressed up against the hard girl, who embraced her with a show of ownership, pulling the blonde to her.

The blonde was pretty if vacant. She kind of melted, then fastened her front to the hard girl's, her limbs all pliant and movable.

The hard girl hugged her close, molding their bodies. Her hands crept down the blonde's back to fasten on her ass.

One hand on each ripe bottom cheek, squeezing and kneading them. They swayed slowly to the ripe sensual rhythm, grinding their fronts.

I looked away from them to discover Billie studying me.

Tight lines showed around her eyes, as they peered over the rim of her glass. I knew she studied me to see how I would react.

She said, "That's Kris and Jill ... they're quite a couple of characters."

"Yes, I can see that ... very interesting pair. Do you know them?"

"To say hello to. Everybody here knows each other. It's like a kind of family."

"Interesting place," I murmured.

She asked quickly, "Do you like it?"

I paused for a moment before answering, to prolong the suspense.

"This is the first time I've ever been here," I said, "But I've been to other places like it, places of which you might have heard."

I named a couple of bars into the same scene as this one. She knew of them.

"My, my," she said, "you have been around, haven't you?! "

"Some," I admitted. "Enough not to faint when I see two women dancing. As a matter-of-fact, it looks like fun! ... I love to dance, myself.

She got the hint, asked, "Will you dance with me?"

"I was hoping you'd ask!"

We got up from our seats in the booth. I paused before putting aside my pocketbook, but Billie assured me it was safe here.

We stood awkwardly facing each other, then she reached for me.

She murmured, "I'm far from the most accomplished dancer in the world...."

"I don't mind ... you lead, and I'll follow. In dancing, or ... whatever." Then she embraced me and we danced in place.

Her long lithe body was wiry. I rested my head on her shoulder. She took a quick breath when I lay my head down.

She held me and we swayed. Dancing? Well, it was more like just standing there, swaying, taking little steps as we pressed in close contact for the first time.

All too soon, the music played its last notes and ended. Another tune came on, but it was a fast jumping rock number.

I just knew Billie wouldn't be into that type of music.

I put my mouth close to her ear it was loud, with that rock tune on and I asked her if she wanted to leave for her place.

That's what she wanted. I wanted it, too.

From a pay phone, she called a cab, so we wouldn't have to stand out in the rain trying to hail one.

As we rode in the back of the cab, we sat close together, with our legs touching. We held hands, my palm moist in hers.

She lived in a renovated brownstone on a quiet, safe street, in an apartment on the third floor, a lovely place.

It had a living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. There were lots of flowering green plants and Art Nouveau posters and fine furnishings.

She had invited me over for dinner, but as she feverishly worked her key in the locks, I came up with a suggestion.

"Perhaps ... we can dine later," I breathed, '. . .afterwards."

"Yes...."

As soon as we were inside her apartment, with the door closed, we embraced and kissed, kissed, kissed ... for starters.