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Two Stories
by Sabina Becker

Sweet Cheeks

Sweet Cheeks Russell was the most popular stripper in town. She didn't have the blondest hair, the biggest implants or the flashiest routine, but she did have one legendary talent--the ability to clap her shapely little buttocks together: Whap, whap, whap.
     Guys just went ape over that. Eventually, the stunt evolved into something truly sophisticated: Sweet Cheeks would take the twenty-dollar tips out of a patron's hands by first standing with her back to him, bum outstretched. Then she'd clap her buttocks the way a sea lion does its flippers: Whap, whap, whap!
     After a few "whaps", the guy would get the hint and slip a twenty or so, conveniently folded lengthwise, between Sweet Cheeks' sweet cheeks. She'd transfer it into her G-string for safekeeping, and then move on to the next patron. She would routinely pull down between $500 and $1000 a night doing this, depending on how drunk the patrons were--the drunker they were, the more they tipped.
     Well, one night, as Sweet Cheeks' routine was at its height of lucrative refinement, a wealthy Texas oilman who happened to be in town decided to get friendly-like. As he was slipping her a hundred, he just couldn't resist. He reached out and pinched her oh-so-tempting little tush-cheeks. Then he gave 'em a shake, sort of like what he sometimes did to his old bloodhound's jowls.
     "Clangalangalang!" he shouted, giggling.
     That proved to be too much for Sweet Cheeks. She let out a rip-roaring rotten-egg fart that stank up the bar worse than a whole roomful of smoldering locoweed. Twenties, fifties and the oil baron's hundred went flying from her G-string as it snapped. Her cheeks shook themselves loose from the millionaire's grip in the eruption. They went: WHAP! WHAP!! WHAP!!!
     The barroom had to be evacuated for the night, and the windows remained open for 24 hours while the stench dissipated. When that failed to do it, a fumigator had to be called in. The management thought it wise from then on to burn scented candles in the little ticky-tacky glass thingies on all the tables. They favored heavy scents--sandalwood, patchouli, and the king-daddy of them all, cinnamon.
     As for Sweet Cheeks, she left town soon after. Rumor has it she eloped with the Texan, who was so impressed by her other unique skill that he put her in charge of all his sour-gas wells.


Garth couldn't take his eyes off the slim brown woman in the spangled red dress. Her satin stilettos, the same color as her dress, slammed into the parquet dance floor, propelled by the most muscular legs this side of Tina Turner. She moved through the jungle of lumbering bodies like a jaguar in its element. He had to have that woman tonight. She'd be the perfect one to breathe life back into him now that his divorce was final.
     He grinned at the double entendre. Oh yes, there would be heavy breathing tonight. But one more beer first. Just in case she was a ball-cutting bitch, like Emery. He pried his gaze from the woman's breasts--she wasn't wearing a bra, and didn't need one--and picked up his empty bottle to wave it at the bartender.
     One beer turned into three, making six. Garth cursed. The place was packed, the bartender busy; he couldn't get his beer in time. Some other lucky stiff got the red-spangled woman first.
     Bastard. Bastard. Bitch!
     He put down just enough cash for his drinks, stiffing the bartender the tip, and walked out. It was a sultry night, and the waterfront bar was stifling. Some cool air should do him good.
     He headed down the sandshore, idly contemplating a little skinnydipping; were the cops out? Nah, not here. This beach wasn't the one where people usually went to swim; too many rocks and scrub willows littered the sand. In the daytime it stank of dead fish.
     Sand sifted in and out between his feet and his sandals, but he didn't care. Then something soft and slightly scratchy caught at his ankle, tripping him. He stumbled, cursing and grabbing at the
     spangled red dress.
     A few feet further down the beach, he found her high heels; they lay far apart and at crazy angles, like they'd been kicked off in a hurry. Then a black spandex scrap--butt-floss, the kind of underwear you'd expect of a tart in a candy-apple dress and no bra--hanging from a clump of silvermound. Ah, shit. He began to walk away.
     Then something moved.
     There she was. Several yards away, her naked body shining with sweat or seawater in the moonlight, hunched over the prostrate form of a tall man. She humped steadily for five strokes, hands on his chest, then stopped to touch his face and kiss him. Then she did it again. And again. And again.
     Garth could feel his lips curling. He kept moving toward them. It was like rubbing his own nose in it, but he couldn't stop. He had to see. Like a crab he scuttled, half-ducked, from bush to bush, a few jerky steps at a time.
     Garth sure as hell wouldn't just lie there like that, like wet mud; he'd arch his back, drive her, make her dance like she did in the club, grinding her ass in the air. He slipped a hand down the front of his shorts, feeling his cock swell. Why did she keep stopping?
     Another bush, closer. He could almost see her ribcage heaving, the skin vibrating like a drumhead, and her small angular breasts jiggling near the man's face. Garth inched closer. Her cheeks worked in and out as she bent over him, mouth on mouth. Like she was trying to breathe life back into a corpse, thought Garth. His erection filled out rapidly, and he worked his hand faster, getting close and cursing that she wouldn't keep going, that she wouldn't speed up.
     Then the woman pulled away, and Garth heard something.
     His hand halted in mid-jerk. It fell out of his pants.
     A sob. The woman hung her head, breathing hard, her black hair dripping ribbons around her face. She thumped the drowned man once on the chest, then tried giving him mouth-to-mouth again. She did CPR on him, five chest compressions. The man lay flaccid, his half-open eyes filmy in the full moonlight, penis hanging shriveled and sideways across his lower belly. The woman crouched beside him, unseeing, her breath ragged.
     Garth's erection died. All the blood rushed out of his extremities, his head, his crotch, and slammed back into his belly. The stink of dead fish and rotted algae hung all around him. He felt cold.
     He needed to puke, and he did, managing to keep it almost silent.
     The woman wiped her face and got up. She stumbled up the beach, still crying, looking for her clothes.

Sabina C. Becker lives in Cobourg, Ontario (Canada).


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