The Neglected Nude
Life isn’t easy being a nude colored bra, especially during a lingerie sale. I’ve been around the block a couple of times, this isn’t my first rodeo. I hang here, with plastic pinching my straps together, waiting, just waiting to catch someone’s attention but it’s almost impossible when I live in a symposium of sex induced fabric.
I don’t have a bow or lace to catch a young ladies attention, all I have is a sturdy wire and the ability to look invisible under a white cotton shirt. Even being invisible is no longer an attribute, thanks to the new neon trend that has hit the country. Apparently showing off a neon bra under a white shirt doesn’t make you a slut anymore. My old nude color begs to differ.
Sigh. My neighbors are hussies, made with lace and see through fabrics. Some of them don’t even have full cups! At least with me, I will hold in your tits with all my might and even after multiple rounds in the dryer, I will come out clean, wrap around your body and give you the best support that I can. It’s what I was designed to do.
My best friend is a pair of granny panties. Mauve, two racks below, believes we are a girl’s best friend but she is delusional because we all know, panty line equals act of crime. Mauve is unaware that she will only be caressed by a whoo-ha when a lady receives a visitor from the uterus devil and is writhing in pain while shoving her face with ice cream. That is no life to live.
Men, the nude colored bra’s mortal enemy. I watch them wander around the store with heat in their eyes and bulges in their pants. Their fingers caress the delicate lace of my neighbors and envision how the flimsy fabric will look on their lady of choice. When they get to my section, the section that basically says, “taco shop out of service,” their face sneers at the repugnant yet economical under garments. As they walk by, my sturdy bra hooks flip them off. They are the reason why Mauve and I can’t find a pair of ass and tits to bring us home. Men are the bane of our existence. That is why I don’t have a front clasp, pay back is a bitch to all mankind.
As I watch my neighbors be plucked away by nearly perfectly round tits, I see a lady walk toward me wearing a regular t-shirt and jeans. This may be it. I perk up and try to angle my cups in the light to show off the light sheen of my fabric. She stops in front of me and I lose my ability to breathe as her hand reaches out and presses her fingers against my cup. Wow, I haven’t been touched like this in a while and the way she is squeezing my padding has my bra straps loosening.
I must have pleased her because she picks me off the rack and my double stitched seams scream for joy. As I am carried away, I wink at Mauve and send her a telepathic message that I will make sure my lady considers what Mauve has to offer as well.
The dressing room, it’s the mecca for all bras. When you make it to the dressing room you are halfway there. This is where you have to really strut it, this is your one chance to seal the deal, to make sure that even if a man comes in to check on the fit of the bra, he is not deterred by my color but enticed by the way I prominently display those bubbling sacs.
Taking a deep, cottony breath, I prepare myself. She is so gentle as she carefully removes me from my hanger, she would be a good owner. She takes off her shirt and that’s when I see it, my kin, another nude colored bra but this one has seen her days, she has lived a long fulfilled life. I salute her out of respect for holding on for so long as she is dropped to the bench in the dressing room with ease. You must always respect your elders.
As I am placed on the lady’s arms, I take in the scene in front of me so I know how to adjust properly. In that instant, I know I am in for a challenge because…she’s lopsided. There is nothing wrong with a wonky pair of tits but as a bra, you have to know how to adjust. It wouldn’t be my first uneven challenge but in the past I have failed. In the workshop, they talk about the possibility of uneven breasts but until you’re exposed to them, you never know how you will react, how you will adapt. I have to nail it this go around, I don’t have an option.
She sets me in place and hooks me in the back. This is where it matters. I press against her skin just enough that she realizes, she needs to readjust, perfect. She scoops her hands inside of me and props her breasts up so they are readjusted and now sitting pretty. I tighten my straps just a little bit, something I learned from my red lace neighbor, Cinnamon, so her breasts lift higher, giving her great cleavage. Once everything is in place, it’s time to hold still.
I freeze in place as she twirls in the dressing room going from side to side as her hands are on her hips. I stay tight as she leans forward and bounces her chest up and down as she discovers my elasticity. I ignore the tickle of her nipples against my fabric and instead introduce myself to the little pegs, hopefully my new best friends. They seem pleased with me, with the way I feel as they start to harden under me. Mission accomplished, hello nip-nips!
I watch as the lady nods her head and smiles. I think I did it. I think I have a new home. As I am delicately taken off her body and replaced by the Colonial of all nude bras, I see its wing fly in the air, as if it’s passing these lopsided tits off to me. I flap my wing back as I land on the bench just to let the Colonial know that I am ready to carry on the torch.
As I am placed back on the hanger, slight panic runs through my body but I notice it’s not the same way I was found, meaning, I think I found a home. We walk past my old rack and I look down at Mauve, she looks sad with her dreary color and sensible crotch coverage. Without thinking, I unleash myself from the hanger and fall on top of Mauve.
She looks at me as if I’m crazy but I know, I can’t leave without her. We’ve been through so much together and it wouldn’t be right to leave her behind, no pun intended.
The girl bends down to pick me up and I place my hook through Mauve so when I am pulled up, so is Mauve. The girl looks at Mauve and runs her hand over Mauve’s high bikini line and then down to the sale tag. It’s our only hope of Mauve coming with me. The girl nods her approval as she takes one last look. Sold!
Without looking back, Mauve and I are carried to the register. I puff my cups out as we walk past the demi bras and teddies. They scowl at me but I don’t let them bring me down as I am placed into the pretty pink paper that we have always dreamed of going home in. I pat Mauve on the crotch with my hook and smile down at her, we did it.
In a sea of lace, neon and silk, we are finally going home. We might not be sexy, we might not be able to make a man’s cock twitch with excitement but damn it, we are the reason why my old lace neighbors are able to be seen by the men. We are the ones who make woman look amazing under their clothes with our wired support, invisible lines and ability to erase back fat. If it wasn’t for me and my friends, spanx, granny panties and control tops, our lace neighbors would be out of business.
Life as a nude colored bra isn’t easy but when you find your person, your pair of tits, you are not shoved away in a drawer for special moments, no, you get to eat away at those nipples almost every single day.
Title: Becoming A Jett Girl
Author: Meghan Quinn
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: July 1st, 2014
How did I start the Lafayette Club?
Well, I’m in the business of saving tarnished souls. I hand pick girls from the street who have no options left in life and give them an opportunity they can’t possibly refuse.
They come to work in the Lafayette Club which is full of EXQUISITE DEBAUCHERY, where influential men come to conduct business and lap dances are considered a fine art.
The girls are trained, they are morphed, they are educated, they follow the rules of the club and they know to submit to me. They live by my motto, no relationships, no love, just sex.
They are never touched, only by me, they are never completely naked, only with me, and their personas are entirely anonymous. The only person who knows who they truly are, is me, Jett Colby.
If these girls were ever seen on the streets of New Orleans, you would never know they were a Jett Girl.
“Where the fuck are my titty tassels?” Lyla announced, as she dug through her locker.
She was always losing her tassels. To be honest, I didn’t know why she used them to begin with; they were more eighties porn than New Orleans strip club, but she swore they drove the men crazy. I wouldn’t know, since I was always stuck on drink duty, but that wasn’t my choice.
“Seriously, Goldie, have you seen my tassels? I’m on in five,” Lyla pleaded.
“I haven’t. Maybe you should try something other than mini curtains hanging off your tits, huh?
Maybe wear…oh, what do they call it…a bra?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Lyla asked, as she shimmied her naked tits in my face and I tried to smack her jugs away.
There was a reason why Lyla, my roommate, was center stage at Kitten’s Castle every night. She was drop-dead gorgeous. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a little lady wood every time she was up on stage. She was one of those mixed breeds who lucked out by having parents with perfect genes. Her skin was a deep brown color, her eyes were light green, and her hair was pitch black. Exotic could be a word to describe her, but I would also say fuck-me-in-the-ass beautiful. Yeah, that pretty much described her.
Lyla gave up on the search for her tassels and threw on a white cropped T-shirt over her naked breasts.
“I’ll just do my wet T-shirt routine tonight. There’s a bachelor party out there that has a lot of money to spend,” she said, while wiggling her eyebrows.
“When is there not a bachelor party out there?” I responded. “It’s New Orleans for fuck’s sake and we work at one of the most premier spots for men to get away with murder when they’re away from their own personal finger huts. You know, since the lighting is pretty much non-existent in here.”
Lyla crinkled her nose at my statement. “Hey, I like the fact that the lights aren’t very bright in here. I’d rather not have a spotlight shining up my Britney while I’m dancing on stage.”
“Easy for you to say; you’re not the one delivering drinks in the dark. I swear, Marv is trying to kill me out there.” I slammed my hand on the vanity and said, “And when the hell am I going to get my chance on stage?”
“Down girl. You get paid well.”
“Yeah, but I get groped every time a pass a hairy and horny man and, as we know, that’s pretty much every guy in this dump.”
“You got to work it, bitch, if you want to get the hell out of here, so stop complaining and put your garter belt on. We have some willing customers out there with some fat wallets.”
I huffed and waved Lyla off as she raced out to the stage to get ready for her act.
I looked into the mirror and studied the reflection that looked back at me. Ugh, I hated that my life had become an uphill climb of trying to pay off bills and debt that were, unfortunately, not even mine, but that of my dead parents. Every day, I have to practically sell my soul to skeezy men just to make sure I don’t go hungry and I can pay off the stack of bills that are piling up on my counter.
I’ve spent the last nine years of my life trying to climb back from the hole that Hurricane Katrina put in it and it hasn’t been easy, especially since I have no degree and no job experience.
That’s why I’m currently sitting in front of a rusty old vanity with piss poor lighting, outlining my azure colored eyes with cheap-as-fuck eyeliner and praying that only one man tries to stick his thumb in my ass tonight. It was a common occurrence amongst the pervs.
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