Cattycorner from the Port Authority, three glorious floors of girls. I liked to stroll through the main floor, then go upstairs. Live Models Working Their Way Thru College 25 Cents.
My first times in the shop, I didn’t see the staircase to the basement. It was loud down there, raucous. I crept down the stairs, poked my head inside.
All the noise stopped, the girls looked at me.
One girl had the slender waist of a teen, her shorts far below her navel. Cut shoulders, slender, muscled arms. The silence humbled me. I plodded ahead.
Someone laughed, a deep hearty sound, and the boisterous celebration resumed.
I felt relieved. Free to look around: Sweaty breasts, narrow hips. Platinum wigs. Halfway through the hall, a girl put her shoulder into my back, pushed me into a booth.
I laughed to mask my alarm.
She mashed her soft breasts into my chest, cupped my cock in her hand. I wanted to kiss her, taste her breath, her tongue—but she held back.
Which confused me, until I got to the end of the hall.
Where a muscular black girl grinned—
lowered her panties, raised her skirt
—and showed me her cock.