Getting Her Ass In Gear
Xchab stared as Copper rummaged through her monster pack, agog at the tiny, lustrous, threatening clothes she was pulling out. And the velvet Royal Crown sack of exotic American cosmetics.
Winston, oscillating crossways in his hammock with head hanging over one edge and hair whisking the floor, took in his inverted view of her preparations. “Game face time? Combat-ready?”
“You got it.” She whipped off her clingy sheath, and stood naked in her big black boots. A fairly racy sight even without the fuck-me duds laying around her feet. “I need more cash than I can get spinning fire. This time of year, you know?”
Xchab, never ceasing to find new aspects of the redheaded usurper to stoke her resentment and awe, gazed wide-eyed at the tight-muscled, hourglass body. Smooth, fluid, and pale as milk from a pitcher, speckled with a firmament of strawberry polka-dots, crotch shamelessly shaved into a flaming rooster crest.
Winston watched her pull on a red G-string so minimalist as to be redundant. “Your Einstein’s visible there, Cher. Best tuck in a few strays. Hitting BlackJack tonight?”
“Yep, my standing invitation still stands. Cross my crotch with silver and I’ll tell you a fortune.” She sorted through more of the gladrags, sniffing some suspiciously. “Those Plaza 21 places don’t earn as much as Chilly Willy’s back in the day, though.”
“Nobody can climb a pole like you, Red. Especially upside-down.”
“See there? We don’t all look alike when you stand us on our heads.”
“Don’t start up with that redhead racism, now.”
She dropped onto a stool, the thong barely covered by a sequined black cheerleader-style mini-skirt, and fussed around with some breakaway tops. She chose a red one with glittery gold piping that would reveal the taut bottom portions of her cantaloupe-half breasts with the slightest shrug. Then unlaced her clunky Docs and kicked them off. Nabbing Xchab’s all-condemning eye, she tossed the boots to her. “I think they’re about your size. Find out.”
The complex image conflicts that had been slapping her silly since Copper’s arrival imploded under the seductive beckoning of the ugly footgear. Glancing at Winston, who was staring at the peak of the roof with stoned detachment, and Copper, who was leaning over the multi-purpose hand mirror painting herself in hussy colors, she caressed the boots, smelled the blend of leather, sweat and rancid drugs, then pulled them on. They fit! That single fact was like a flare of new awareness painting the inside of her head. These ultradig shoes fit her rough indita feet! It was her first indication that she actually might actually be able to step into the world that tantalized her from behind the thick, inbred curtains that surrounded her world and bloodlines. She laced them up, each movement as freighted with mythology of cool as any other absurd fetish. She eyed the others furtively before shyly standing up.
She felt taller, wirier, more towering and together. She took a step, marveling at the way the weight didn’t drag down her stride, but seemed to power it into a more assertive, possessive kind of movement. Suddenly, bidden by an impulse she didn’t see coming, much less understand, she jumped as high as she could, her hair flying up to brush the roof fronds. She bent her knees as she fell back to the deck of the island, then slammed them straight, maximizing the impact of her first stomp. Immediately she felt the lash of embarrassment, quickly looking for reproach from the two Americans.
Copper glanced up at the source of the slam-bang and smiled. Turning to catch Winston’s eye she said, “RomperStomper Room.”
Winston nodded sagely, “These boots are made for stalkin’.”
“And that’s what they’re gonna do.” Copper stood up and walked towards Xchab her barefoot height about the same as the Mayan girl’s Doc-augmented stature. For the first time, she didn’t shrink from the redhead’s presence, just eyed her balefully, unconsciously tapping a black, steel-capped toe.
“Now try this on for size.” She held out a slinky black knit sheath that Xchab first saw as a child’s dress before her shocked realization that she was being told to wear the thing. She did her first real comparison of the two female bodies in the room: she was shorter than the gringa bitch, but her build was stronger and more solid than Copper’s whippy frame. Her breasts were larger and plusher. And, unlike Ms. Redpubes, she had an ass on her. But that little thing?
“One size fits all, kiddo,” Copper said as she handed her the tube. She sniffed it before realizing it looked hick to do so: the sleazy, clingy fabric smelled of musk, sex and illicitness. And, for some reason, money.
As she vacillated, Copper rolled her eyes upwards and made “come on, have it off” gestures with both hands. Xchab might resent her, but by no means had enough gumption to say her nay. Fixed in the redhead’s basilisk stare, she pulled her loose Walmart shift off over her head and stood naked in the big boots. Copper sized her up, nodding in what might have been approval. “Not bad,” she mused. “Not too shabby at all.”
“Hands, off, ya damned rustler,” Winston growled ferociously from his swinging dangle. “She’s just a kid.”
“That why you’re jumping her formative bones, old-timer?”
He laughed and motioned at the black dress. “Hate to spoil the Puss In Boots shot, darling’, but slip it on.”
With no idea what either of them was yammering about, she wriggled into the black tube. Copper gave her a hand as she squirmed, Winston growling, “Okay, no grabass, hear? Two hand touch above the waist.”
Copper laughed and gave a light slap on the ass that slid smoothly off one very tight, very nicely molded buttock. Xchab started and shied, but Copper grabbed the hem of the sheath and tugged it down, then back and forth a little to settle everything in.
Before Xchab could even check herself out, Copper took her by the shoulders and spun her to face Winston. “Roll over, ya old goat. This deserves your upright attention.”
He rolled over in the hammock, lifting his head to take in the sight of his little sidewalk aborigine converted into a dark-skinned, tough-assed pillar of tight black gloss. From behind her, Copper reached around and adjusted the top hem downward, grabbed her dangling hands and moved them into fists akimbo at the waist, bumped her knee into a slight flex.
Winston applauded like a seal, whistling. “Incredible. You’ve totally ruined her. Where are the Matrix glasses?”
The center of approval and friendly hilarity for once in her life, Xchab mashed her gears trying to wear it all. She was not used to the feeling that she looked good. She was unused to the whole feel of the jump-up boots and insinuating grasp of lycra, of attention of this kind from another woman. She looked down, craning to see as much as she could of herself. She hooked her thumbs into the top hem and tugged it up a little. Immediately Copper smoothed it back down to reveal the faintest meniscus of her coffee-colored aureoles.
“Winston!” Copper snapped, “Can you get your ass up and be useful? True male role of serving feminine beauty and power?”
Chuckling, he crawled off the hammock and wandered out into the darkness. Xchab, alone with Copper for the first time, not to mention this whole First Time avalanche that was flushing her mind, stiffened. But he was back carrying an aluminum window he’d scored and never figured out how to use on a open-air proposition like the island. He draped a dark brown sarong behind it and set it on the rickety table, carefully leaning it against a bamboo roof support. Copper slid a crate of dishes forward to block the lantern light off the glass and pulled the future-shocked Xchab into a full, if somewhat dim, view of her possible new self.
She stared, transfixed. Some trick of smoke and mirrors had made that ModGod chick look like her! She explored her appearance with a mixture of shock, horror, and a racing, visceral thrill. She put her hands on her hips and leaned forward, from off the pedestal of the clunky boots, and growled like a jaguar at the slick, sheeny, with-it slut in the looking glass. Copper cracked up. “By Jove, I think she’s got it.”
But there was the hair, Xchab realized after some contemplation of her image. It was still long, black, coarse, indita hair. She reached up and grabbed it, bunching it behind her head so she could only see a tight cap around her head. Copper gently pulled her hand away. “Don’t even think about it, girlfriend. You’ve got killer hair. Just needs a more-core attitude.”
If the dress and boots had remodeled Xchab’s self-image, what she saw in the glass after Copper’s do-over stripped her threads, popped her gaskets, and blew her doors. Fast and deft, Copper had gathered most of her anthracite cascade behind her into a single braid as thick as her wrist, but bound with a chrome watchband a foot from the bottom to create a wide fox brush capable of dangerous swishing and brush-offs. But it was the middle two inches on top that held her attention: gelled into punkrocker rigidity, but not the usual vertical crest. Instead, it swept back in a ridge like a cock’s comb, separating into porcupine spikes to the rear as it gradually descended to meet the braid. The obsidian fin of a sea-creature, the cruel wing of a rapine bird, the mane of some equine alien. As she stared at the foreign creature that had clawed its way out of the shell of her old tribal self, Copper shook up a can of spray paint and quickly frosted the needle-sharp tips of her crest with bright gold.
“Gonna knock those dudes at BlackJack on their butts,” Copper told her, critically surveying the results of her trashy rebuild.
So another terrifying/tantalizing jolt rocketed through Xchab’s shell-shocked psyche. She knew what BlackJack was, had worked the lines outside with her bangles and beads until the unwanted male attention had driven her into retreat. It was a place where nasty, illegally-immigrated Brazilian and Columbian putas danced naked on men’s laps and faces. It suddenly dawned on her that Copper wasn’t dressing up for fun, but profit. And was dragging her into it like the sex recruiters the old biddies in the village had always warned her and her sisters about.
She backed away, shaking her head and almost stumbling in the unaccustomed Docs. But Winston was smiling and waving her out the door while Copper showed that not-to-be-denied look. Besides, she was wearing her clothes. Apprehensive and not facing the reaffirmation of the glass, she retreated into her sullen Indian shell and gave a blank half-nod. Copper took it as given, pulled a loose beach shirt over her stripper/hooker getup, and headed for the door.
“You kids have a good time and play nice, now,” Winston murmured from back in his hammock and marijuana stupor.
Suddenly Copper stopped and turned to rummage through her pile of semi-clothes again. She came up holding something that looked like a chrome egg necklace and tossed it to Xchab. Who saw it was a garment for Chaac’s sake; stiff, reflective silver fabric fashioned into a form-defining lid for the female genitalia–complete with a little pre-molded cleft–and connected to a forked loop of woven black cord slim as pencil lead.
“Slip into that, sportster. And we’re on our merry way.”
Xchab stared cowlike again, drawing an exasperated scowl and “get on with it” gesture. She steadied herself against a pillar while slipping the straps over the big boots and tugging up the sub-G-string. Actually there was something wickedly winning in the feel of it rolling up her thighs.
“Nice girls don’t let their pussies out into public view,” Copper chirped as Xchab made the final, uncomfortable adjustments of the shiny new hair up her ass. “Certainly not for free.”