Stardust #3 - Part 1

The dirty fog still clung to the sidewalk when Honey Potts pushed through the alley door behind Pussy’s Palace. Fresh welts burned across her hips—red handprints from her last private dance—and she relished the sting like a signature. Bubba, the fat club owner who smelled like scorched coffee and whisky, counted tonight’s cash on a plywood bar; his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow so he could pat the crooked sweat off the top of his bald head whenever the numbers weren’t right. Martha Harry, half cop, half prowling cougar, let the brass-knuckle cuffs on her duty belt clink. She already had three of Pepper Lee’s earrings swinging from her blouse pocket. Pepper ran in a moment later, head rush, perfume sticky-sweet, eyes wild, hauling a half-empty bottle of peach schnapps and using it like a paperweight to trap Bubba’s fingers against an envelope stuffed with skimmed twenties. Outside the neon sign bathed the vestibule in burnt-peach light. Under its glow stood Michael Zen, director of every fuck-film and pulse-short that came out of this place, lining them all up with two fingers like the soundtrack. Pepper took a swallow of schnapps, then turned the bottle upside down so the liquor spilled across Martha’s blistered knuckles. Honey straddled the bar stool, thighs open, panties already pushed to one side; Bubba plunged inside her without bother while the fiver changer on the register pinged a fat bell when it slammed shut. Pepper swallowed hard, watched, then mouthed Martha’s tongue so deep the belt buckle echoed. Michael spoke only once, filming on the tilt of a digital rig no one ever paid for yet: “Wet the lens, ladies.” Honey’s pussy gave an audible, soft pop each time Bubba bottomed out; Pepper’s lipstick printed four perfect crimson shapes along Martha’s throat, each mark deeper and wetter than the last. Cash rustled, moans skimmed. Somewhere in the private lap-room another five ones fluttered to the floor and a camera shutter threw a tongue-flick of flash every seven seconds. Honey arched, gasped, anchored her nipples with both thumbs to make certain the night still pulsed. Every scent in the bar thickened—the ripe musk of fucking, peppered booze, lime, leather, ashtrays. Martha pulled back first, leaving a wet string of spit between her mouth and Pepper’s. Her free hand slipped down into her open fly, fingered past soaked cotton, and pinched at Honey’s smooth clit the instant Bubba thrust forward. All three women rocked forward in one slick shiver of wobbling tits. They held that angle—three warm breathing bodies, banknotes in a spread fan, heels and scarves, screws on a tabletop polished by lovers and money that would never remember their names.