Fredrica's ch2 pt2

You hadn’t sprinted like this in a long, long time. You were actually grinning to yourself. You never really questioned why in the world someone was breaking into the backstage of a burlesque pizza parlor, but then again, crime was a senseless act much of the time. Plus, you had to prove you had the stuff to work this job.

While it was probably excessive force, as soon as you laid eyes on the intruder, you rushed and tackled him to the floor like a linebacker. You pulled out your light and shined it on his face. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING BACK HERE?” you asked in your gruffest voice.

The middle aged man, looking terrified, sputtered out, “I-i h-have an appointment! A private pizza party!” He squinted his eyes to avoid the bright beam from your flashlight. You paused. You recognized this man. It took you a moment to fish his face out of your memory, but when it hit you it hit you hard.

“Mayor Nowser…?” you breathed. The man under you flailed at your identification. You got off of him and he scrambled to his feet. He quickly fished into a pocket of his coat and tossed two crisp $100 bills at you.

“You didn’t see me.” He said, dusting his coat off and heading toward the dressing rooms quickly. You sheepishly grabbed the money and got to your feet. You looked the cash over. It was real alright. Before you could ask anything else of him, he had disappeared from you line of sight. You were about to continue after him, when you felt something cold and metal on your shoulder.

“He always forgets the alarm code for that door,” The tall vixen-bot stated behind you, tapping her hook next to your neck. You turned to face her, shoving the cash in your pocket. She regards the action, but says nothing of it.

“You guys do private parties…?” You asked.

She put her weaponized limb back at her side. She was in her default pirate costume again, eye patch and all. You thought it was silly to change out of an outfit then back into one every hour. If you were a performer you’d probably do like Chica and hang out mostly nude most of the time. But that was her decision, and you weren’t going to judge it. Foxy responded to your question, “We do them all the time. However, the Mayor is a regular. What he calls a ‘pizza party’ is something else entirely.” She waves at you to follow her as she moves ahead and leads you along.

She suddenly grabs you, luckily with her hand and not her hook, and jumps, snagging her prosthetic on a loop of rope. Some kind of mechanical hum kicks in along the ceiling, and the rope begins to ascend higher. You freak out and squeal like a baby. All she offers to you is a monotoned “Shh.” The rope pulls the both of you up to a catwalk, its path branching and offering an overview of the entire backstage area. She dumps you onto the metal bridge and you clamor back into a standing position, holding tightly to a handrail. Fuck, you forgot you’re afraid of heights. She moves along the catwalk and once more motions you to follow.

Quietly, you make your way along, above the darkened backstage. Foxy suddenly stops and points her hook down. You look in that direction to see you’re directly above the main dressing room. There’s no ceiling, so everything going on within is visible, sort of like a game of The Sims. You squat down, bracing a rail, to get a better look.

The Mayor is seated on a beaten up couch in the corner of the room, and on his lap is Chica, in one of her lavish outfits, laughing softly at something the politician said to her. She’s got her arms around him and after whispering something to him, she kisses his cheek. The man kisses her back and cops a feel of her rather pronounced bosom. She playfully swats his hand and calls him naughty, you think you hear, insisting ‘ladies first’. She gets her hands on his belt, and you’re pretty sure you’ve seen enough. You glance up at Foxy, and she looks equally done with the scene going on below. Before you get an eyeful of the Mayor’s cock, the animatronic beside you takes you back to her makeshift elevator.

Once you’re on the floor and out of earshot, you have all sorts of questions. “Are they…? Do they…??” You stammer.

“Yes. Weekly at least.”

“And he pays for it…?”

“In bribes to the owner as to not release the footage, yes.”

“Do all of you...?”

“No, just Chica. She enjoys it, and it makes the owner money, so Mama has no reason to tell her no.”

You stay silent for a moment, and Foxy starts to walk away. You’re tempted to stop her, but your mind can’t possibly think of anything to ask, at least not anything you deemed fit to ask a lady you just met, regardless of occupation, and being a furry robot.

“I will remind him to use the code when he leaves,” she says as she makes her exit, “He won’t forget.” She pauses and cranes her head back unnaturally to give you a solid stare. “By the way, your tackle could use some work. You need to use your shoulders more.”

You nod, then drag yourself back to your office. At least you didn’t see the Mayor dicking a robot chicken today, but you probably wouldn’t be so lucky in the future.