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Feb. 9th, 2017 09:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
navigatoridolDeep in the heart of the city is a place you need to know about to get into. It's out of the way, about a half mile from the real ritzy neighborhoods, a quiet unassuming three-story building built out of dark brick. The storefront on the first floor sells tacky souvenirs. Most locals just ignore it. They don't know that the real entrance is down the alley next door, behind a simple metal door.
Not only do you need to know where the entry is, you need to know the password. Even if you know the password, you need to be on the list. If you aren't, you need someone who is to vouch for you. Only then do you get inside, and you're not done yet. You pay at the entrance, a four-figure fee before anything else. You walk through an advanced metal detector that scans for weapons or anything like that. (If they're toys, you need to pay a small additional fee, but it's chump change compared to the entrance price.) Then you take the stairs down to an elevator, big enough to hold just three or four people with the attendant, and go down to the sub-sub-sub basement. Here's what you came for.
The (literally) underground club is surprisingly vast for being underneath the city streets; a club of comparable size aboveground would be a hit destination. There are all sorts of seats on two levels, more exposed tables in the middle, booths next to the catwalks that line and span the room, and a handful of more private booths with a curtain that pulls around all of them. It's dimly lit, the spotlights on the girls performing on the catwalk and in suspended cages. The music is loud and driving.
If you're on the list, the bartenders greet you by name. The first drink is always free; you did pay that entrance fee. Anything other than that, though, you'll have to pay for. You're greeted by a hostess, wearing nothing but a thong (and sometimes not even that) who guides you to your seat of choice. All around you, the waitresses and other hostesses are equally bare. In the corner, there might be a waitress bent over a table, being fucked hard from behind. The driving music almost muffles the sounds of sex. Almost.
The real show is the dancers. Most of them start their performances off clothed, or in underwear; they never stay that way. On poles or on the catwalk, they gyrate and twirl, their dancing very acrobatic. Every so often, one of them is beckoned off stage; some of the girls finish their dance with a splattering of semen on their face or their breasts.
Rise's fortunate enough to still not need to go clean herself off right now, but she can still taste the taste of her last blowjob on the back of her tongue. It's midway through her late-night session, and she plays the tables, gyrating for one booth and then smoothly moving on to the next crowd. She'll pick up the tips they're leaving on the catwalk later; a performer never stops mid-dance.
She scans the tables, looking for a customer who seems to want a private show. Maybe a regular... someone who really catches her eye. She spots a woman in one of the kiosks, an older woman who sits with an air of dignity. Rise thinks she's seen her before, hasn't she? Time to make some money; she saunters that way.
Not only do you need to know where the entry is, you need to know the password. Even if you know the password, you need to be on the list. If you aren't, you need someone who is to vouch for you. Only then do you get inside, and you're not done yet. You pay at the entrance, a four-figure fee before anything else. You walk through an advanced metal detector that scans for weapons or anything like that. (If they're toys, you need to pay a small additional fee, but it's chump change compared to the entrance price.) Then you take the stairs down to an elevator, big enough to hold just three or four people with the attendant, and go down to the sub-sub-sub basement. Here's what you came for.
The (literally) underground club is surprisingly vast for being underneath the city streets; a club of comparable size aboveground would be a hit destination. There are all sorts of seats on two levels, more exposed tables in the middle, booths next to the catwalks that line and span the room, and a handful of more private booths with a curtain that pulls around all of them. It's dimly lit, the spotlights on the girls performing on the catwalk and in suspended cages. The music is loud and driving.
If you're on the list, the bartenders greet you by name. The first drink is always free; you did pay that entrance fee. Anything other than that, though, you'll have to pay for. You're greeted by a hostess, wearing nothing but a thong (and sometimes not even that) who guides you to your seat of choice. All around you, the waitresses and other hostesses are equally bare. In the corner, there might be a waitress bent over a table, being fucked hard from behind. The driving music almost muffles the sounds of sex. Almost.
The real show is the dancers. Most of them start their performances off clothed, or in underwear; they never stay that way. On poles or on the catwalk, they gyrate and twirl, their dancing very acrobatic. Every so often, one of them is beckoned off stage; some of the girls finish their dance with a splattering of semen on their face or their breasts.
Rise's fortunate enough to still not need to go clean herself off right now, but she can still taste the taste of her last blowjob on the back of her tongue. It's midway through her late-night session, and she plays the tables, gyrating for one booth and then smoothly moving on to the next crowd. She'll pick up the tips they're leaving on the catwalk later; a performer never stops mid-dance.
She scans the tables, looking for a customer who seems to want a private show. Maybe a regular... someone who really catches her eye. She spots a woman in one of the kiosks, an older woman who sits with an air of dignity. Rise thinks she's seen her before, hasn't she? Time to make some money; she saunters that way.
no subject
Date: 2017-03-21 02:25 pm (UTC)