Lillian Holley, Gun Moll - Part 3

"Now for a little entertainment from our newest gun moll, Lillie Holley."

Lillian emerged from a back room with a sneer, greeted by the cheers of this illicit speakeasy. Prohibition may have ended, but nothing topped the underground establishments of organized crime. Especially when they had women like a disgraced sheriff with her tits out to liven the mood.

In high heels, stockings, garters and panties, she furiously stomped toward center of the room, breasts flouncing violently with each step, and observed many familiar faces. Dillinger's gang had added Baby Face Nelson, Homer Van Meter, Tommy Carroll and Eddie Green, largely on the merits of watching her performances. Unknowns had joined with grins and crossed arms, many sitting on the floor right up front for a front row seat.

Lillian stopped at the head of this throng of men. She clicked a heel. Set one arm aside, rack jiggling obscenely with a pair of shiny brass sheriff star badges pinned on her nipples. The real deal occupied her left. On the right, a copy made to match. She used to wear it with pride outside her jail cells, clipped on the top of her long black dresses, but these days it brought only shame.

"Is this what you're here to see?" She shuddered in disgust at their approvals. Always, she had to ask. It was a rule of the gang to remind her of where she stood in their hierarchy. "Fine. Let's get this show started."

Her knees bent. Lowering herself, she slowly swayed her hips. They moved into a sexy roll, rising up her topless body along with her hands which danced over her tits. She gave them a squeeze. Thrust her crotch forward. The aggressive move included a fake moan. Then she bent over, turning, waving her pantied ass as she reached back and dug into its panty line to yank out the only prop she would have.

The wood gun. How she hated it. Grunting loudly, she whipped it into view and hopped to face them again. She spun it by the trigger for the toy it was. Strutted around, showed her goods, shaking her bare knockers like a trick pony. Their hollers were too much. Sliding the gun between her bosom, past her belly, she rubbed her slit through the fabric.

"I'm a bad girl," Lillie said, trying not to heave or kick someone in a rage. "Real bad, but there's only one thing that does it for me."

She gently slipped the wooden barrel inside her. It didn't satisfy. Not only because she loathed every inch of it, but its length went nowhere. She acted otherwise to appease the men. Pistoning the pistol as far as it would go, she dropped to her knees and spread her legs, for the front row to gaze. Other women would notice how empty her wails sounded, and how exaggerated the wrinkles looked in her contorted face, as her trainers Billie Frechette and Virginia Hill said many times. Women weren't her audience. Men were, and these men wanted to believe what they saw, ignoring her obvious baleful glares throughout.

"Yes. Oh, yes. That hits the spot."

Her wooden tone fit her partner perfectly, as she arched her back and lifted her bust to newer heights. Her breathing brought an enticing raise and fall. Light gleamed on her badges. A small part of her delighted when a glare blinded those who sat closest, but deep down she knew it was little consolation for the image of her stuck in their heads.

Her free hand ran through her hair. She bit her lip, peering between her boobs, ignoring her dual badges of shame to look at how wet she wasn't. Down there. The rest of her had worked up a sweat, mistaken by the men for a sign of lust.

So her night went on, every second imagining her own great escape from this prison of prostitution they'd put her in.

She needed an opening, and to bide her time. Swap out the polished wood gun for cold hard steel buried in her cheeks when nobody was looking. Until then, she would give these criminals exactly what they wanted from her.