~BBW, SSBBW, ~~WG, horror - A woman in search of her inheritance uncovers a big family secret.
Chapter 1
The dancer swung around the pole, back arched, and flung her cow-spotted bikini top away with a smirk. The tinny music flared and the few patrons paying her any attention gave a perfunctory whoop.
It was a busy evening at the roadhouse, but the crowd so far seemed more interested and drinking and shouting at one another than in anything happening on stage. The air stunk of stale beer and the sweat of a late summer workday. The crowd had come for the main show; the warm-up act tottering around the stage in cheap cowboy boots was an unwelcome delay to their catharsis.
She released the pole, striking what she hoped was a sultry pose, puffing out the chest that had earned her the job and sucking in the soft beer gut that had earned her plenty of comments from the other dancers.
It wobbled faintly as she strutted across the stage. She looked up, trying not to think about it, and immediately tangled a foot in her discarded top.
With her equilibrium still muddled from all the twirling, her balance betrayed her immediately. She toppled forward, careening off the edge of the stage and landing bodily on a scantily clad waitress, upending a full tray of drinks. Her tiny cowboy hat rolled away.
“Oh my god,” hissed the waitress, “not again, Bridget!”
Bridget scrambled to her feet, apologizing and wiping the spilled cocktails from her chest. She reached to help the waitress but a shove from behind sent her sprawling. Flailing wildly, she knocked a woman from a chair and crashed into a crowded table, landing in a shower of spilled beer.
The rowdy patrons erupted in a riot, pouring drinks on her as she extracted herself from the mess and throwing bottles as she scampered back onto the stage. She slipped through the curtains just before a pitcher shattered on the floor behind her.
A crash sounded from the far side of the room as an unrelated brawl broke out. A pair of bouncers scowled and began walking over; the music changed and the waitstaff set about restoring order.
Backstage, Bridget shivered and hurriedly pulled on a shirt. “Oh my god,” she panted. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for the table. And…and all the drinks, obviously, and…”
The manager sighed. “We can work something out. And don’t worry about the crowd…they’re all animals out there.” He closed the stage door. “Bridget, I know you’re doing your best, but something’s got to change. Udders is the state’s finest gentlemen’s club and we have to uphold that reputation.”
She brushed her dark hair from her face. “I know. I’m sorry. I really am trying. I want to be good at this. I really thought I could be really good at this.”
“I thought so, too.” He shook his head. “You’re eager and you’ve got…for the most part, you’ve got the body for it.”
“And I’m working on that, too! I’ve been following this, like, fitness show thing on TV. I’m down to, like, one-sixty…well, almost. I think. The scale’s been iffy ever since—”
He held up a hand. “Easy, cowgirl. I’m not gonna fire you. This town isn’t big enough that there’d be anyone to replace you.”
“Okay. Oh, god. Thank you. And I’m really sorry.”
“I know. But I need you to get it together. You’re spilling more drinks now than you did back when you were a server. Neither of us is gonna make any money that way.”
Her eyes lit up. “I did get some tips, though! One guy tucked a bunch of…hm…” She spun around, plucking at the strings of her bikini bottom. There was no cash. “Maybe I dropped it.”
The manager rubbed his temples. “Look, Bridget, how about you just take a few days off. Try a dance class or something. Get your head on straight…I’m sure this has been stressful.”
“I don’t know what it is,” she wondered, plucking her jeans from the dressing rack. “Sometimes I just feel cursed.”
“You’re just in a rut. We all—”
Bridget turned, preparing to step into her jeans, and collided with a stagehand. The beers he’d been carrying splashed over her.
She straightened up, lips pursed, hair dripping. The stagehand picked up his now empty glasses and backed away. The manager folded his arms.
“Sorry,” Bridget gasped. “So sorry. Oh my god. I’m just gonna go home. Sorry.”
They watched her scurry off.
“You forgot your jeans!” called the stagehand, too late. “Holy cow. Maybe she really is cursed.”
The manager shook his head. “Just a rut. If anything, it’s her roommate’s bad luck rubbing off on her.”
The Uncontainable
by Marlow
by Marlow
Chapter 1
The dancer swung around the pole, back arched, and flung her cow-spotted bikini top away with a smirk. The tinny music flared and the few patrons paying her any attention gave a perfunctory whoop.
It was a busy evening at the roadhouse, but the crowd so far seemed more interested and drinking and shouting at one another than in anything happening on stage. The air stunk of stale beer and the sweat of a late summer workday. The crowd had come for the main show; the warm-up act tottering around the stage in cheap cowboy boots was an unwelcome delay to their catharsis.
She released the pole, striking what she hoped was a sultry pose, puffing out the chest that had earned her the job and sucking in the soft beer gut that had earned her plenty of comments from the other dancers.
It wobbled faintly as she strutted across the stage. She looked up, trying not to think about it, and immediately tangled a foot in her discarded top.
With her equilibrium still muddled from all the twirling, her balance betrayed her immediately. She toppled forward, careening off the edge of the stage and landing bodily on a scantily clad waitress, upending a full tray of drinks. Her tiny cowboy hat rolled away.
“Oh my god,” hissed the waitress, “not again, Bridget!”
Bridget scrambled to her feet, apologizing and wiping the spilled cocktails from her chest. She reached to help the waitress but a shove from behind sent her sprawling. Flailing wildly, she knocked a woman from a chair and crashed into a crowded table, landing in a shower of spilled beer.
The rowdy patrons erupted in a riot, pouring drinks on her as she extracted herself from the mess and throwing bottles as she scampered back onto the stage. She slipped through the curtains just before a pitcher shattered on the floor behind her.
A crash sounded from the far side of the room as an unrelated brawl broke out. A pair of bouncers scowled and began walking over; the music changed and the waitstaff set about restoring order.
Backstage, Bridget shivered and hurriedly pulled on a shirt. “Oh my god,” she panted. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for the table. And…and all the drinks, obviously, and…”
The manager sighed. “We can work something out. And don’t worry about the crowd…they’re all animals out there.” He closed the stage door. “Bridget, I know you’re doing your best, but something’s got to change. Udders is the state’s finest gentlemen’s club and we have to uphold that reputation.”
She brushed her dark hair from her face. “I know. I’m sorry. I really am trying. I want to be good at this. I really thought I could be really good at this.”
“I thought so, too.” He shook his head. “You’re eager and you’ve got…for the most part, you’ve got the body for it.”
“And I’m working on that, too! I’ve been following this, like, fitness show thing on TV. I’m down to, like, one-sixty…well, almost. I think. The scale’s been iffy ever since—”
He held up a hand. “Easy, cowgirl. I’m not gonna fire you. This town isn’t big enough that there’d be anyone to replace you.”
“Okay. Oh, god. Thank you. And I’m really sorry.”
“I know. But I need you to get it together. You’re spilling more drinks now than you did back when you were a server. Neither of us is gonna make any money that way.”
Her eyes lit up. “I did get some tips, though! One guy tucked a bunch of…hm…” She spun around, plucking at the strings of her bikini bottom. There was no cash. “Maybe I dropped it.”
The manager rubbed his temples. “Look, Bridget, how about you just take a few days off. Try a dance class or something. Get your head on straight…I’m sure this has been stressful.”
“I don’t know what it is,” she wondered, plucking her jeans from the dressing rack. “Sometimes I just feel cursed.”
“You’re just in a rut. We all—”
Bridget turned, preparing to step into her jeans, and collided with a stagehand. The beers he’d been carrying splashed over her.
She straightened up, lips pursed, hair dripping. The stagehand picked up his now empty glasses and backed away. The manager folded his arms.
“Sorry,” Bridget gasped. “So sorry. Oh my god. I’m just gonna go home. Sorry.”
They watched her scurry off.
“You forgot your jeans!” called the stagehand, too late. “Holy cow. Maybe she really is cursed.”
The manager shook his head. “Just a rut. If anything, it’s her roommate’s bad luck rubbing off on her.”
