Bruce Flores
Daddy_s plaything
CHAPTER ONE
From the backstage wings of the Lucky Nuggett lounge-stage Victor Redgrave studied Sherry Trent (that was her stage name) as she held the boozed and gambling-weary Las Vegas audience spellbound. Even at sixteen, his daughter Sherry had stage presence that some veteran singers might envy. Guitar in hand, her fringed, white western attire so tight-fitting it had the male members of the audience open-mouthed, Sherry held the entire audience in a near-hypnotic trance. Charisma, some critics called it. Victor knew it was sex-appeal. Whatever it was, Sherry had it – in spades – that and an incredible vocal talent that had raised her Nevada price to four-thousand dollars a week.
Sherry possessed a rare if not unique combination of qualities that ensured her success. To wives in the audience she was as naive and wholesome as a TV margarine commercial, while to male viewers she was sex personified. Yes, there probably wasn't a normal male in the audience who secretly didn't want to fuck Sherry Trent, ravage and devour every curve and swell of her ripe, young body. But their chances of realizing this dream were next to impossible, for Victor Redgrave, Sherry's business manager and father, had been taking care of that department for some time now – in fact, ever since Sherry was twelve. With regularity. Their relationship made Lolita look like something out of Alice in Wonderland.
Sherry had just finished a haunting, slow version of the ballad Brown Eyes with the stage dark and a single spotlight on her; now she was finishing her final forty-five minute act of the night with a bright, up-tempo rendition of Wabash Cannon Ball. The audience was clapping its hands in time to the music. After Sherry's soul-rendering Brown Eyes, there probably wasn't a dry female eye in the crowd, nor a dry male crotch either. Sherry pranced about, inviting the audience to join in, her stage-smile fixed but sincere as her rump wagged and her breasts bounced. Happy, fast dosing tunes were common with any act. In Sherry's case they were nearly essential. They gave the hard-ons of the males a chance to fade away.
The black, velvet curtain began descending and Sherry blew kisses to her "wonderful audience" and thanked her accompaniment, The Sunbeams, for a terrific job. The Sunbeams were a semi-competent trio who traveled with Sherry wherever she played and, thanks to Victor's sound business principles, earned the minimum rate of pay. They were Rex, on guitar; Joel, on drums, and Phil, fender bass. Thanking them at the close of the act always drew out the applause, which was a good tactic, but they might as well have been The Moonbeams or any other kind of beams because they didn't matter.
Sherry Trent was the whole show.
The stagehands quickly moved the risers out of the way in preparation for the next act and Victor led his slightly perspiring daughter out the stagedoor and into the coffee shop of the Lucky Nuggett for a snack before retiring for the night. Sherry greeted the small group of fans who had assembled outside the door, signed a few autographs, and then she and her father settled into a booth and ordered the dietetic special which consisted of a hamburger patty and cottage cheese and hardboiled eggs and other high-protein foods calculated to keep an up-and-coming star from getting overweight.
"Good audience," she said to her father as she sipped her nonfat milk. Victor drank Sanka.
"Yes," he agreed, "for a week-night they were nice and responsive. The closing number was a little too fast, though. I'll have to speak to Rex about that tomorrow. Aside from that, every thing went fine." Sherry seemed tired. When their food arrived, they ate in silence. Then Victor paid the check and they went to Sherry's dressing room where she changed into street clothes and went upstairs to Victor's room. They always rented two rooms wherever they went, but Sherry always stayed with her father… Now Sherry watched herself as she shed her clothes until she was completely naked. She liked to view her firm, young body in mirrors wherever they stayed, which was all across the country. She liked to palm her high, full breasts and run her hands over the curve of her hips and thighs. She knew she was sexy and men wanted her and she was pleased that she was a success at the age of sixteen.
"Daddy?" she called to her father in the bathroom who was still humming her closing number, the Wabash Cannon Ball, as he prepared to draw her bath. Never taking her eyes from her reflection in the mirror, she heard him turn on the water faucet and the sound of running water.
"Yes, love?" he said.