The man who slipped through the door to the dressing room area (careful not to let anyone see the naked woman inside) was not Richter. He was an average looking white guy, about thirty. His eyes swept over the fine, naked expanse of jet black skin, in an appraising, and appreciative manner. They stopped briefly on the dark brown of her nipples and the pink of her cunt. He whistled, either in appreciation, or as a come on, Ebony couldn’t tell. She could see the cock, stiffening in slacks. It was no bigger than average, but it was enough of a distraction that she didn’t notice he was locking the door to the dressing room, until she heard the lock click. Her whole body started to tense up as she tried to come up with a way out of the room, if things got unpleasant. It was soundproofed and the door was a real one, not one of the half doors folks usually had on dressing rooms, so screaming wasn’t going to do anything. The part of her mind that wasn’t worried that she was about to get her first point the hard way, noted that the dressing rooms were probably from when the store was a small record label about five years back. A sly smile crossed her lips as she remembered blowing a wannabe-rapper in the bathroom, they hadn’t let groupies in the recording studio, but she’d been everywhere else and been done everywhere else in that label.
“So, Richter wasn’t making shit up, which I guess means that you were giving him a handjob,” the man said, cutting her off before she could think of anything to say, or do anything foolish.
Ebony’s teeth flashed white and she relaxed again as she thought she had him figured. He was the big boss, stepping in to get himself a piece. Since he was a white boy and she was looking to fuck as many crackers as she could, she would oblige him. Maybe she could even get more than a skirt and bra outta him, though he seemed like a tougher guy to manipulate than Richter the teenager.
“Which also,” his voice got colder’n ice, “means that you tried to convince him to cheat me, to steal from me. I do nasty things to people who steal from me, or lie to me, or try to get others to do so. So, did he tell me the truth? Were you trying to steal from me?”
The idea of him doing ‘nasty things’ to her sent a not altogether unpleasant chill down her spine, but the bet was for quantity, not quality and nasty things take so much more time than quickies. She needed to win.
Her tongue swept in a casually sexual way over her lips, before forming her response… |