Message-ID: <29460asstr$985237803@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Message-ID: <20010322010838.6742.qmail@web3404.mail.yahoo.com> From: Don Winslow Subject: {ASSM} On the Strip: A Vegas Story, Part 1 Date: Thu, 22 Mar 2001 00:10:03 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: assm-admin <1st attachment, "Vegas1R.txt" begin> From: "Don Winslow" dwin2001@Yahoo.com Subject: {Winslow} "On the Strip: A Vegas Story" (D/s, humil, spanking) Newsgroups: alt.sexstories.moderated, alt.sexstories Content type: text/plain On the Strip: A Vegas Story Part 1 Don Winslow Her eyes examined those blond good looks that greeted her with such comforting reassurance, whenever she glanced in a mirror. At the moment her pretty face was less than attractive; the big blue eyes watery, unappealing frown curling down the edges of her brightly-painted lips, giving the girl a sort of spoiled-brat pout. Men feared that pouting look. It always meant trouble. Cigarette smoke was her current annoyance. It seemed to thicken the warm moist air, already laden with strongly-scented perfumes, hairsprays, deodorants, and the smell of dozens of sweaty women. Sometimes it got so thick you could actually see the blue haze hanging in the hot, brightly lit dressing room. Nikki's gaze critically examined her makeup: inspecting the blush she had just applied to her cheeks, following the sweeping twin arches of her lush, gleaming-red lips. She now leaned forward, coaxing her substantial tits into the half-formed cups that dangled from her shoulders. She settled her bosom into place and cupped herself to plump them up a bit before securing the tiny clasp at the front of the bra. She gave herself a quick squeeze, delighting, not for the first time, in the handsome endowment nature had given her. Then she adjusted the electric-blue bra; a wince of annoyance creased her smooth brow. "Damn! I hate these fuckin' push-ups," she opined. The words may have been directed at her reflection in the glass, or they may have been meant for Trixi who, still topless, sat next to her fellow-dancer on the long padded bench, contemplating her own image in the mirrored wall while brushing the finishing touches on her long dark lashes. "These goddamn wires cut right into your boobs," Nikki complained in a tone that suggested she felt quite put upon by the callous management who insisted on the hard shelf bras the girls had to endure when they went on stage. "Yeah," Trixi agreed, without much interest. "That's the price you pay for family entertainment," she added dryly, referring to the early show, which it was widely assumed was attended by a more strait-laced crowd. The midnight show, was an altogether different matter. No bras, not even panties. Just a g-string, thigh-highs, and a pair of wicked 4-inch heels. And sometimes there would be a late, late show, one where showgirls gave specially-arranged performances for private parties, doing their routines in the all-together. It was funny, but after parading around in the buff so much, even the scanty bras felt an uncomfortable annoyance, needlessly confining. Now Trixi was donning her own bright blue satiny top, enclosing her tits within the straining cups so that her more modest breasts were pressed together, cuddled to form two taut bulges that threatened to spill out over the skimpy bra. She thought the look was quite sexy, and a little bit of discomfort didn't bother her. But then Trixi was a girl who took things instride. Nikki was altogether another matter. The big, curvaceous blonde was not very popular with the other girls, not so much because she was conceited and self-centered, but because she bitched constantly. Nothing ever satisfied her. She was restless, a girl on the make, one who could be so charming that you'd think butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, at least where men were concerned. And then only certain men -- rich, powerful men. Nikki was ambitious, and she was very, very particular. She had always been careful about who she let get into her pants. Even back in high school, when she was Josephine Walziewleski, the girl with the biggest tits in the sophomore class. Even then, though she dressed like the prick-teaser she was, she was definitely not an easy lay. She soon learned how to fend off the sweaty, randy teenaged boys who followed her with lust in their eyes whenever she walked by. The pathetic bastards practically drooled, sporting their silly, obvious erections. A lucky few, might occasionally be favored with a hand job. She even went down on a couple of guys, but none of the boys in her high school ever got to fuck her, not "the princess" -- one of the kinder things they called her. Even then, Niki liked older men. It wasn't much different now that she was older. Men were just big boys. Most of the guys she met in the casinos she dismissed as "losers" to anyone who would listen. The frequent admirer that seemed to be always trailing after her, would get the quick once over, and if she decided the guy didn't have the money or the right connections, he was history. The glamorous blonde slid her cupped hands under her generous brassiered breasts, gave them a final plumping, smiled at herself one last time, then rose to her feet. She turned in place to look over her shoulder, checking the view from behind. A hooked middle finger slipped under the elastic of her left legband to re-seat the up-ridding panty, capturing an errant rearcheek. Assuring herself that her butt was properly tucked in, she paused to admire the smiling undercurves of the straining seat of her shiny blue panties. 'Nice ass,' she thought, giving herself a little pat. Domenick used to say that she had the classiest ass of any girl on the strip. He once offered her $500 if she'd let him spank her. She laughed and told him to shove it. In all sincerity, he then countered with an offer of 20 bucks if she'd only let him kiss it. He practically begged! Some high roller, she laughed. Some day, she thought she might give the poor creep his chance, but that kiss would cost him $100. What a loser! She put Domenick firmly out of her mind, and thought about Bobby, and the bright red Mazda that was almost hers. Still smiling to herself, the big blonde turned to thread her way through the crowd of half-naked showgirls milling about in the dressing room, She still needed to collect a tophat and cane, props for the opening number. It was showtime! **** **** **** **** The old man stood at the second story window, looking down on the driveway as the familiar white Cadillac pulled up to the front door. He watched Al get out from behind the wheel, and walk ponderously around the front of the car, his burly shoulders straining the tight Chauffeur's jacket Natalie made him wear -- her idea of "class". Al opened the rear door and the solid figure of the old man's only daughter climbed out. Natalie was a small-breasted woman, tall and thin, in her early 50s. Her lean body was wrapped in a snug, rose-colored dress that flared out at the knees. Her salt-and-pepper hair was swept up and secured in a tight bun, giving her hatchet face an especially severe look. 'Just like her mother,' the old man thought. Don Vincente Carducci slowly shook his weary head. This was not good. He knew she would be coming to him today. It was that bastard she had married. This time the little shit had gone too far! Vincente didn't like Bobby. Never liked him, but he tolerated him, for Natalie's sake. He never should have insisted that she marry Fredo. He never had any illusions as to the sort of prospects his skinny, hard looking daughter might have where the opposite sex were concerned. But he had made a mistake by making her marry that bum, even though, at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. They hadn't made it through a year together, when the Don decided that Fredo, having just royally fucked up in his first job as casino overseer, would have to quietly disappear. It was done. And Natalie took it in stride. She never gave a shit about the little weasel in the first place. Still, after Fredo, he always felt he owed her something. And it was years later, when she saw the second chance come her way, with that pretty-boy of hers, that she jumped at the chance. This time the Don, though he had no respect for the boyish lounge lizard, stayed out of it. He gave her his blessing, and she married that grinning jerk, 20 years her junior. But he was good looking; with a tanned, well-built, if soft body. And Natalie seemed happy. Still, everyone knew the guy was nothing but a gigolo; Natalie's fancy boy. It didn't matter. She wanted him, and Vincente made sure she got him. Now he waited for his daughter to come to him, already knowing the purpose of her visit. She had been insulted in public by that stupid bastard who couldn't keep it in his pants. Worse, he wasn't smart enough to make sure his dicking around was done in private. The whole town knew about him, and that blond bimbo of his. They were laughing at his daughter behind her back. And when they laughed at his daughter, they laughed at the Don. That, of course, could not be allowed. **** **** **** **** "Daddy, you know why I'm here," she began, turning her back on him to make herself a drink. Scotch on the rocks. Afternoon drinking, especially by women, met with the Don's silent disapproval. "Yes, Angel. I know why you've come to me." "It's Bobby," she informed him, needlessly. The Don's bald head slowly nodded up and down. "He's chasing tail again. Got some blond bitch this time. A goddamned showgirl." "Angel, I don't like it when you talk like that. Watch your mouth." It was said softly, but she instantly caught the warning. She realized she was treading dangerously close to the edge. She had let her momentary rage blind her to blurting out things in a way she knew her father would find offensive. She had to get herself under control, to be more careful, to always show her father the proper respect. Above all respect. That was what they talked about -- respect. Something had to be done about Bobby -- that much was obvious. He had been warned, but he just couldn't help chasing anything in a skirt. The Don nodded sagely. In his mind a plan began to form, wherein a speeding Porsche would meet with an unfortunate accident. But his daughter had something else in mind. He listened to her solution to the problem, and he had to admit he admire it. His, he felt sure, was a better solution, more final, no loose ends. But hers...well, he recognized it for what it was. The scheming of a jealous woman who had been wronged, and who was hell-bent on revenge. The Don appreciated revenge. Natalie was determined to teach a lesson that would never be forgotten, but while it would serve as a future warning for the little prick she was married to, she reserved her full fury for the other woman. Now, for the first time, she surprised him. Instead of asking that he take care of things, which he fully expected her to do, his seething daughter asked for the Don's permission to take care of the bimbo, herself...her way. The old Don couldn't help smiling to himself, instinctively recognizing her as a chip off the old block. She had the same crafty mind, working to consider all the possibilities, before deciding on how best to serve up her cold revenge, and fully savor the sweet meal. Don Vincente eyed his daughter with a new appreciation, and nodded his approval. **** **** **** **** Bobby Giordello swung his gleaming Porsche onto Flamingo Road, and put the petal to the floor. The shiny black sports car surged forward. He was driving too fast, way too fast, and he knew it. Family members were not be picked up on minor things like speeding tickets; the Don didn't like it. They were to be law-abiding, model citizens. Bobby knew all about it. But at the moment, the distraught driver wasn't thinking very clearly. Bobby was afraid, wildly desperate, as his powerful Porsche shot down the wide boulevard. He sat up, tense at the wheel. Under those loose curls of dark hair, his boyish good looks were clearly troubled. He had to get to Nikki, to warn her! They'd have to lay low for a while. Maybe even stop seeing each other, at least till it was safe. Natalie knew! He was certain of it...Natalie knew. She knew!!!! The thought terrified him. He hated himself for being so stupid. At first they had been super careful enough, confining their lovemaking to her apartment at times when he could arrange things. But Nikki got bored with hanging around her place, waiting for him; hated being "cooped up." She nagged him constantly about wanting to go out, even though he explained to her how dangerous it was. She didn't believe him. But then, she didn't know just how ruthless Natalie could be. "Hey, Honey," she would wheedle in his ear, her naked body slithering up against him, pausing to lick the outer shell of his ear, her hot breath sending shivers through him, "C'mon, let's go get a little action. Whaddya say?" It was crazy; definitely against this better judgment, but he simply couldn't deny Nikki whatever she wanted. Even the red Mazada, he thought bitterly. Well, she could forget about that one! He had foolishly listened to her, and now they had been made. Of course, they were bound to be: there was nothing that went on Vegas that Natalie's Daddy didn't know about. Nothing! He tightened his grip on the wheel, desperately hoping he wasn't too late. For once, the conceited young man wasn't even thinking about his own neck. Once Natalie was bent on revenge, she was quite capable of having Nikki taken care of; he had to warn her! His eyes never took in the flashing neon lights, as he barreled along the familiar road. He was thinking back to last night, and the look Natalie gave him when he came home, creeping though the front door, and abruptly being taken aback by finding her sitting there, wide awake, watching the news on the big screen TV. She didn't say a word to him, just turned to look at him as he stood in the hallway. Her hard gaze said it all! He had seen that look before. The same look her father had: those coarse features set in stone, the tight lips with that brutal twist, and the stare, cold and detached, as though she were examining a worm under a microscope. His muttered apology about being so late, trailed off under those cold, furious eyes. He hurried up the stairs to his room. And when he went to pour himself a drink, he found his hands were shaking uncontrollably. The Porsche roared up the curving driveway of her apartment building and came to a screeching halt. He ran up the stairs, and rang her bell repeatedly, frantic that he was too late. She should be home. Must be home! But there was no answering buzzer, so he fumbled for his plastic key card, and slid it in the slot, letting himself in. Not waiting for the elevator, he raced up the two flights of stairs. He knocked; no answer. Trembling, he let himself into her place with his own key. The apartment was dark, and eerily quiet. He had a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach; his knees weakened under him. Holding onto the door, he called out her name. No answer. It was then he knew... knew with a chill of fear that rippled up his spine: he was too late. END OF PART 1 Copyright 2001, Don Winslow dwin2001@Yahoo.com http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Don_Winslow/www <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ ------- ASSM Moderation System Notice-------- This post has been reformatted by the ASSM Moderation Team due to inadequate formatting. -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+