I've been working what I call the graveyard shift for at least a couple dozen years. I've lost count. But [even] a dozen years is a long time to spend collecting the souls of the dead. I'm a grim reaper and I work the "stupid accident" beat. And yeah, it is as bad as it sounds.
She worked at a topless bar and gave lap dances to those morons who didn't realize that they could get more for less at almost any street corner. Or else they were too fricking chicken to do that. Anyway, I shouldn't judge; I just pick 'em up and I would hate to get into dutch with the judgement union.
Where was I? Oh yeah. She worked at a topless bar. Between lap dances and drinking cokes that cost some poor asshole the same as a rum and coke, she dances on the stage. Most girls who are on the stage avoid dancing at all costs. They move around, maybe in time to the music, maybe not. Next song lose the top, move around...etc.
She didn't. She actually danced and danced hard. She danced just like the girl in that Flashdance movie. Bouncing around, twirling on poles, the whole bit.
She just twirled one pole too many and broke her pretty little neck.
I walked up to her as she stared down at her lifeless body. It wasn't easy with all the [?] running around and gawking and screaming and "oh my god"ing. Still, I reached her and tapped her on the shoulder.
She turned around and looked at me. Her eyes grew wide which was understandable seeing as how I was standing in the middle of a table so only my top half (okay top seventeen thirty-seconds, god damn engineers and their fricking nitpicking) [you forgot to finish the sentence]. That is what struck her. What struck me was the deepness of the brown in her eyes.
She was young. Young enough to cause a few "too young to die" comments later in the week, but I have learned that there is no such thing. Short brown hair that only just covered the perfect "C"s of her earlobes, leaving* [I'd use `showing' or add it after `studs'] just the hint of her two studs in each. I stood and stared.
She recovered first, which is unseemly for a grim reaper. She said in a voice that spoke of great effort to avoid sounding panicky, "What happened?"
I pulled myself together quickly. "You died," I said, trying to sound bored and sacastic and just a little put off.
"I...?" she started
"...died. Dead. Finito. Compute* [strange word; if it's meant to be latin, look up the proper one]. Said the raven, nevermore," I finished for her getting back into character. "Let's go; eternity awaits, but the grim reaper don't."
She looked like she was about to cry. Normally, I would have grabbed her hand and pulled her away. Maybe I would have taken her right through a wall to make my point. This time, I could only think about how attractive she was.
"Don't cry," I actually found myself saying in what to my horror sounded like a concerned voice. "You'll find that being dead is a lot like being alive, just a lot more permanent."
That actual got her smiling and right then I knew that I had to make her, in an ungodly sense of course.
Normally, I show up and the begging starts. If it is some reasonable attractive woman, she might even try to bribe herself out of it with her body. Like I was some cop handing out traffic tickets. I never even fake like it will help unlike some other Lyndon Johnsons I could mention.
Here I found myself scheming on how to get into her pants (like as if* [either use `like' alone or `as if' alone - both don't work] I were that John Kennedy bastard who works in the terminal cancer section) as [I] lead* [led] her through the door. The whole time [I was] making reassuring noises, trying to get her at ease. A long, bitter career of dealing with dopes who lose their heads in lawn mower accidents or strangling themselve with soaps on the ropes is forgotten. All I can think about is getting into her dental floss-like g-string panties.
Finally, she said in a gap in my rambling [how were you rambling - those were thoughts, you didn't show talking], "I wonder how it happened. I was up on the pole, thinking about my exam in mythology and...."
I didn't hear the rest 'cause right then a plan formed in my brain. I finished the details when we arrived at where she was going. I cleared my throat and stuck out my hand. She looked at it like I was some sort of moron.
"What?"
"My tip. You have to tip me." She stared at me like I was some sort of moron. "Don't you know your mythology? You are supposed to tip me."
She nodded her head and reached to her side. She didn't find her purse.
"Damn, I knew that I should have let that creepy guy stick that five in my g-string," she said to herself. "I don't have anything. Can I owe you?"
"No, I'm sorry." I paused. "But maybe we can work something out."
She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Christ, I can't even get away from this shit in the grave. What's it gonna take? a hand job?"
"Hell, I can give myself a hand job."
"Alright, I'll blow you, but that is the best you're gonna get."
She dropped to her knees and pulled my dick from my tight leather pants. I am sad to say that the fact she swallowed it all on her first try had little to do with her skill. Still, it felt good as she bobbed her head up and down on my short but hard shaft. After several strokes of her mouth, she pulled it out and ran her pointed, pink, and pierced tongue along it. That proved too much and I came right then. She held it steady and let me squirt all over her face.
After the last drop fell onto the very tip of her small pixie nose, she stood up and walked away. After she was a stride and a half from me, she stopped and looked at me. She shook her head then continued on her way.
The sight of her pretty face with my come dripping from it is the only good memory I have of this job.
© 2003 Kenny N Gamera