ick dancers were definitely not something that DaShawn was supposed to be handling. That was on Llewellyn’s list of jobs: Number one, hire the girls, a task that Llewellyn embraced full-heartedly, though it wasn’t as simple and as pleasant as everybody seemed to think, finding hot-looking non-skanky females who were both willing to grind their naked booties on stage and who could be relied upon to show up and do so.
Number two on Llewellyn’s list of duties: Fire the bitches who were chronically late or who fought with the other girls or who tweaked or shot up on the premises or who had perennial babysitter problems or psycho boyfriends or who gained too much weight or got too old or who attempted to turn tricks without giving DaShawn a cut of the action. Llewellyn had initially pussied out on the firings but after being played by enough females was now turning nicely cold.
Llewellyn job number three: Deal with the girls who fainted because they didn’t eat enough or yacked because they drank too much or who went crazy from too much crank or two many hands pawing at their pussies or who cut themselves or who passed out or nodded out because of whatever reason.
But it was DaShawn’s arms that Taryn fell into when she toppled off the stage. Girl was usually prancing around the stage, racing around, working that pole, shimmying so fast she was a golden blur. Taryn Piper was the finest child ever to wander into the Exquisite, and her talents had a lot to do with DaShawn’s success, he never denied that. It was, shit, nearly ten years ago the first time she walked through the door, claiming to be 18 and with the phony papers to prove it, but looking more like 12. Barely up to his shoulder, barely 100 pounds, with teeny little turned-up breasts tipped pink as rosebuds and hair the color of home-churned butter on her head AND below: that was one special sight. Everybody, DaShawn included, was so mesmerized by that blonde-haired pussy that Taryn still held the distinction of being the only girl never sent over to the spa to be waxed.
aShawn gazed in Taryn’s direction as she talked, trying to keep his face composed in what he guessed might be a posture of listening. He nodded slowly and steadily, like a fucking Emmitt Smith bobblehead, and held his mouth slightly open and relaxed, and stared with wide eyes at her pretty little white face, all juiced up like fucking Hillary Clinton or something, but much much hotter. And DaShawn kept listening, like he was fucking Obama with the TV cameras turned on.
his is it?”
here WAS that girl?
e raised his hands to the congregation.