Disappearing Acts
Chapter 3

Copyright© 2005 by MasterDavid

Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - An illusionist is betrayed by those closest to him. Yet, though they think they have the upper hand, the lessons he learned from his adopted father may still allow him to prevail.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Romantic   NonConsensual   Rape   Violence  

Lost in my thoughts, I didn't see Martin pull out his cell phone and dial a number. It was his voice that brought my eyes back into focus when he said, "Yeah, I got him. He's sitting across from me now, nursing the busted lip I gave him a few minutes ago." He tilted the phone away from his mouth, grinning as whoever was on the other end jabbered into his ear. Then, to my surprise, he leaned forward, extending the phone to me. "Hey, lover-boy! Your blushing bride would like to say something to you!"

I hesitated for a moment, then reached for the phone with the wariness of a mouse who wants the cheese but whose gone a few rounds with the mousetrap. Martin held on the phone until he was sure I had a good grip on, and then leaned back into his chair, his face a picture of smug satisfaction. I held the phone to my ear, but for a few seconds I struggled for words. Finally, I managed to control my voice enough to say a decently civilized, "Hello, Sherree."

Perhaps she was stunned by the calmness in my voice, or perhaps she too had to struggle for control of her thoughts and emotions. Whatever the case, I heard her take two deep breaths on her end of the phone before she managed to say "Peter... ," followed by silence.

A few years earlier, I'd been doing two shows a night at the Bellagio, building my reputation through a series of mostly sold-out extravaganzas billed as "An Evening with Peter the Great." The feelers had started coming in from the TV networks, and the Bellagio was talking long-term contract, perks, the whole nine yards. Every night following the last show, I made it my custom to walk back to the elevator with a few of members of my staff along a certain route, signing autographs for anyone who asked. I thought it would help me build a reputation as something more than an unapproachable asshole, and it gave me a chance to look over some wonderfully willing female flesh as a bonus. That particular night was no different then any other... until she came up to me, holding out a piece of paper for me to sign. She had some curious mix of showgirl and innocent in her eyes, and as I looked into them, they shimmered and seemed to change to a different color depending on the angle of the light. She laughed as I said, quite honestly, that they were the most beautiful pair of eyes I had ever gotten lost in. She tossed her head as she laughed, and her short curls of (natural, I found out later) blonde hair captured the light and shone it back into my face.

At that moment, I became infatuated with her. Now, let me pause for a moment to say that, as a "name" entertainer in a place like Vegas, I've had more pretty pussy thrown my way than most normally horny men could even contemplate, let alone be offered, and I've sampled my fair share. More to the point, if I wanted a woman, I usually had very little trouble coaxing her into my bed. Most treated as what it was, a night of fantasy sex with a famous and somewhat notorious womanizer. The few that became clingy or tried to make an issue of it were told in no uncertain terms that a) there was no way I was ever going to be a one-woman man, and b) if they ever tried to say anything or imply to anyone that it was anything other than a mutually consensual physical coupling, they'd be in court or financially beholden to me for the rest of their quite stressful natural lives. Thankfully, only once has it come to that.

I think that girl is living at home with her parents, now, working as a waitress and hoping like hell I never try to enforce the slander judgment that basically blackballed her from ever showing her face in Vegas again.

Just goes to show that there's more than one way to make a nuisance disappear.

So I looked into those eyes, and got an eyeful of that hair, and did I mention the part about her showgirl looks and innocent temperament? It took only a few moments for my libido to shake itself loose from its cage and start putting the moves on her.

She smiled that wonderfully warm smile of hers, said she was flattered... and then turned me down and walked off.

She couldn't have baited me any better. I was like a shark that smelled blood in the water; my natural instinct was to seek out whatever was bleeding and gobble it up. I had one of my personal assistants (showbiz talk for bodyguard and lackey) follow her, telling him to find out everything he could about her by morning.

The next day, a small folder was waiting for me at the table where I always ate brunch. When I opened it, her face stared back at me from a glossy black-and-white photo much like you'd find in the portfolio of many aspiring actresses or entertainers. Under the photo, a printout from the hotel's records noted her name (Sherree Coulton Jermaine), her occupation (showgirl), and the fact that she'd been employed by the hotel for six months prior to the night we met. Underneath that were DMV records and a credit check, mainly showing that Sherree Jermaine had been living in Nevada for most of the past six years, had worked as an entertainer (another way to say stripper/showgirl) for most of those years, and that she had struggled mightily to keep her head above water financially for that entire period, occasionally missing a payment or skipping a bill when there was more month than money available. Nothing about any of the information raised my hackles. In fact, her history looked like what I assumed 98% of the rest of entertainment industry's mass of unknown, underemployed understudies' records must look like.

Which is why the next night, I was in the wings at her show at the Bellagio. Some marketing genius had given the thing the title "La Grande Belle," though it was really just 45 minutes of barely-clothed gamines parading around in something akin to Busby Berkley set to a hip-hop beat. They slinked, they bent, they posed, and they sweated — all in service of some choreographer's idea of a subtle simulation of sex.

Sherree was good in the show. Not great, which is why she was basically a chorus girl, but not bad either. She had the moves down and looked great in her outfit, but there was nothing that made her stand out in the crowd. She twirled and slinked and pranced with the rest of them, but once she was offstage, you didn't remember that she'd even been there. If she was auditioning for a part as one of my stage assistants, she wouldn't have been asked back for a second interview.

 
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