It was the last night of the convention, with everything wrapping up, and Krissy was in a foul mood. She didn’t mind dressing up like some middle-aged man’s fantasy whore. That was just part of the job of being a floor model, and all of the other women working the convention had had to dress up in the same way: Sleeveless white shirts, worn unbuttoned with the tails knotted tightly together just below their tits, uncomfortable push-up bras underneath, and tight black hotpants, the whole ensemble topped by identical wigs that looked like they’d been made from Christmas tree tinsel. They’d also had to wear knee-high black boots with stiletto heels, but the convention organizers didn’t supply those. Each woman had to provide her own. She had a pair tucked away in the back of a closet. They looked great on her, but after a while, they put a hell of a strain on her legs. Normally she’d take every chance to rest her legs by perching prettily on whatever convention display she could find, but this had been a boat show and there was damned little available to sit on, or even lean against. Every time she tried to take a bit of the load off, Jackie Strasser, that overbearing uber-bitch who supervised the floor models, would show up and make her walk the floor again. To be fair, she did the exact same thing to all of the other floor models, but Krissy was sure that she did it because she herself was on the plain side, on the skinny side, and on the wrong side of forty. She must have been jealous of all the hot young babes under her supervision to treat them the way she did.
The convention was finally over; the lights all turned off in the big hall, and most of the attendees and models gone. Krissy herself lingered behind, even though she had plans for the evening. There were other, more immediate plans that she had to attend to. She’d already changed into her street clothes, and on her way out she tossed her uniform into the laundry bin, along with all the other model’s costumes, then tossed her tinsel wig onto the shelf above it along with all of the other silly tinsel wigs. Her boots were tucked away in the shoulder bag she carried. She knew that some of her coworkers had arranged trysts with wealthy men from the convention and were hurrying to meet them – now that the convention was over it wasn’t exactly illegal. It wasn’t exactly hooking, either, but Krissy regarded those women with contempt, picturing them letting flabby older men paw them and fuck them in exchange for money and lovely parting gifts. It was disgusting.
She quietly opened the emergency door and slipped out into the dimly-lit alley. She shut the door behind her just as quietly. They weren’t supposed to use that door to leave the building, but no one was keeping tabs of how anybody left, and the alley led to the rear parking lot, where Krissy knew she’d find Strasser’s prized BMW. She had a key in her hand as she rounded the corner and spotted the car, just twenty feet away. But as she came closer to the gleaming silvery machine she saw that someone else had beaten her to it. There was a long, deep scratch across the hood, the left front tire was flat, and it looked like someone had pelted the vehicle with eggs: Rotten eggs, from the smell. As she came even closer, it was apparent to her that the eggs were rotten. She wrinkled her nose as she surveyed the damage. There really wasn’t anything that she wanted to add to this act of disapproval, so she pocketed the key and walked away. Even in her most comfortable running shoes, her legs still ached subtly from three days on her feet in those damned boots, but she had her own appointment to keep and she’d have to hurry if she was going to catch the next bus back to her apartment building.
Amy wouldn’t be there waiting for her, which was probably just as well. Sweet, slender Amy had lasted for just over two weeks before deciding that she really didn’t like being tied up, or handcuffed, or blindfolded, or any of those other things that Krissy liked to do to her. She especially didn’t like it when Krissy used the strapon, even though Krissy was so skilled with it that she could almost always make Amy come. At least their parting had been on an amicable ‘we-can-still-be-friends’ note, unlike the endings of many of Krissy’s other short-term relationships. It gave Krissy hope that perhaps someday they might get back together, but she knew from experience that it was more of a wish than a hope. At least she’d helped the girl get a job, waitressing at an upscale bistro, so she knew where to find her if she ever wanted to go looking. Maybe she would, but not tonight. Tonight she planned to meet the very wealthy, very middle-aged King Jackson. In spite of the fact that he wore an expensive wedding ring he’d been hitting on her throughout the convention, flashing a fat wad of cash at her every chance he got and making indecent proposals to her whenever he thought he wouldn’t be overheard. She had turned him down coyly every time, but in such a way as to give him the idea that she was at least a little interested. And a little more than an hour ago he’d told her what hotel he was staying at, and at what time she might find him in the hotel lounge. Apparently he’d made this trip without Mrs. Jackson, and was feeling a little lonely.