Dancing Undercover (closed means closed)

Alison joined the Houston police force when she was 18, thinking she was going to make a difference. She spent the next five years on bullshit patrol duty, writing parking tickets and pushing bums off park benches. It was dull, and she clung to the hope that someday, she'd get the chance to do something that mattered. Most of the cops in the station hit on her as a matter of routine, and she did her best to laugh it off. Still, she knew they'd never respect her until she'd proved herself, and she'd never prove herself on patrol.

She was starting to think seriously about a new career. Maybe going to college and finding a job where she wouldn't be surrounded by pricks all the time. Then she got called in to talk to the chief. The force in Galveston was looking for a girl to go undercover. A local gang had suddenly started to expand, flooding the streets with cheap drugs, grabbing up territory. There had been a few skirmishes with other crews over turf, and the cops were afraid an all-out war was coming. They badly needed someone on the inside, but none of their narcs had been able to get anywhere near.

They operated out of a strip club, and the police had tried to get one of the girls to feed them information, but the dancers were too scared of their bosses to even think about it. The only way it would work was if they could get a cop inside. A cop from a different city. Ali had the body for it, and everyone knew she was looking for an opportunity.

She couldn't help thinking she was being played, but she needed to make a move. She got a little money and checked into a motel with weekly rates near the club, did a little shopping to get outfits sleazy enough for her new identity, bleached her hair and took a few dance classes. One day, a week or two after the meeting with the chief, "Ali March" went into the strip club, looking for a gig. She wore a pair of short shorts and a cute pink top, with a string bikini underneath in case they wanted to see more of her body. She was going deep undercover, her badge and gun in her locker at the station back home. Her only contact with the police would be a guy named Harrison, who she'd never seen before. She would relay whatever information she gathered to him. At least until she was able to dig up something good, her life would be that of a stripper.

Raoul "Ray" Brighton
35
5'10", 190; fit.
Green eyes, jet black hair.
Various scars (to be discussed later).



I stand at the chain link fence, watching as a pair of my underlings drag a third man out of the trunk of an old beater and nearly drag him across fifty yards of debris-cluttered asphalt. Once upon a time, there had been a prosperous oil shipping company located here. Now, it's just 100 acres of unused asphalt and decaying businesses.

That makes it perfect for the purpose I have in mind. As the trio reaches me, my men force the enemy gang banger to his knees. He's sobbing and begging in Spanish, which I can normally understand but can't now because of the fear in the man's voice at the expectation of what's about to happen to him.

"You know why you're here?" I ask.

He continues to ramble on in Spanish, occasionally switching to a few words of English before returning to his first language.

"You shot up a safe haven," I say, as if he doesn't already know his sin. "Aphrodite's is a safe haven ... our safe haven. The pact between our gangs is that safe havens are to be just that..."

As I was talking, I was leaning in toward the kneeling man. With swiftness, I land a punch in the middle of his face. He nose explodes with blood, and he screams out at the pain of having the so sensitive portion of his body broken with such force. I finish the thought, "--Safe! How can we have peace if we can't obey that one, important rule?"

A gang war two years earlier had claimed the lives of more than 40 people, most of them innocent victims of drive by shootings, building fire bombings, or vehicular assaults. Peace eventually came, and with it the promise that each gang abiding by the peace treaty would have one location of their choosing in which they could always count on being safe from attacks.

I had only just recently taken over the Three-Three-Ohs, named for the cross streets of 33rd and Avenue "O", which were at the heart of our territory. I designated the strip club Aphrodite's as our safe haven for a couple of reasons. One, what guy wouldn't want the safest place he could hang out to be a strip club. Two, it sat on the edge of our territory, very near a section of Galveston that I had ever intention of taking over. Three, it was very near the frontiers of territories in the hands of a Russian Gang, an Italian Gang, a Chinese Gang, and two competing Mexican Gangs. And four ... c'mon, really...? Naked women who work for me! Number one should have been enough!

All kidding aside, number three was key in choosing the strip club as our safe haven, because unlike the other gangs in Galveston, the 3-3-O wasn't based upon race exclusion, but was based upon race inclusion. We currently had 44 sworn members, and of them there were 6 races, 9 nationalities, and 14 native tongues.

Our diversity is our power. Unfortunately, it is also the reason we continue to be the primary target of every other gang in the city, even after the peace. They don't like the way I recruited, which I understand. Some of my most important and worthy Lieutenants were once either in the opposing gangs or being scouted by them.

They also call me a traitor to my people. What people? I often ask. My parents' ethnic diversity has left me a Mutt. I'm not any one breed: I am all of them.

Which, of course, brings us back to the guy on his knees, still rambling on, asking for forgiveness and mercy for having violated the safe haven rule. I let him go on for a long moment, then pat him on the head and say with sincerity, "You are forgiven."

Then, I pull a pistol from the small of my back and pump a round into his forehead. His body jerks for a moment, then falls limp in the hands of my underlings.

(OOC: I was going to get him to the club, but I am out of time. You can either post more or wait until I post more tonight, but I have to get back to work.)

"Hey Allie!" the guy behind the counter says, waving at me. He's got that Gulf Coast accent that makes you think you're somewhere in the Caribbean, even with the giant Lone Star Beer light behind him. I slide onto the stool and smile.

"Francis," I say. "You know what I want."

"You want some of my sweet love, ain’t that right?" he says, and I roll my eyes. He's a short guy, with arms so pumped up they don’t hang right by his sides. He considers it his sworn duty to hit on every single woman that comes into the place, but it’s hard to take it personally when you see how thorough he is. Besides, he makes an amazing lemondrop.

Three weeks now, I’ve been in town. They stashed me in a motel a half mile from Aphrodite’s, but just a half a block from the beach. They swear they thought I’d like being by the beach. Like they hadn’t noticed I’m the kind who goes from bone white to lobster red without ever getting anything like a tan. Being that close to the beach means that I’m close to bars, coffee shops, clubs and so on, but everything is a little too Jimmy Buffet for my taste. Or maybe I’m just thinking that because it’s easier than thinking about the guys I’m about to go after. Nobody saw anything and nobody went to jail, but the last gang blowup in Galveston had claimed 40 lives. That was the kind of people I was going to be spending my time with, if this worked.

“Everything ok?” Francis says, setting my drink in front of me. It’s a reasonable question to ask someone drinking shots at noon on a weekday.

I take a sip and give him a smile. “Just nervous,” I say. “I’m going to see about getting a job.”

“You’ll do fine, boo,” he says. “Where you going?”

“Aphrodite’s,” I say, watching him for his reaction.

“Shiiiiiiiiiiiit,” he say. “With those tits? You just stand there and they’ll put you on the stage.”

It’s encouragement, of a sort. I pay him and walk out, shading my eyes in the sun, and walking in the shade back to the motel. I don’t go to the room, but climb in the jalopy the department gave me as my undercover ride, a 90 Ford Tempo. A year older than me. At least it’s only a half mile to Aphrodite’s.

When I walk in, I have to stand there for a minute while my eyes adjust to the darkness. The guy at the door thinks it’s bright enough that he needs sunglasses. His head turns in my direction, like a lizard.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he parrots. This is getting me nowhere.
“Who do I talk to about getting a job?”

He looks over his shoulder. Late afternoon, things are slow. One girl gyrates on stage,almost as energetic as the bouncer. A couple others sit at the bar, smoking. There are two customers. When the shift changes at the port it’ll pick up, according to surveillance. He finally finds the answer. “Ray.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“He ain’t here.” It’s a big speech for this guy.

“I’ll try again,” I sigh, and start to turn.

“Hey,” he says, and when I turn back to look at him the flash on his camera phone nearly blinds me. He points over his shoulder with his thumb, towards the bar. “Sit.”

“Is Ray here?”

“He’ll be here.”

I head to the bar, order a lemondrop, wondering if I’ve got enough mesh and spandex to make it as a stripper. I’m wearing a cute tank top and shorts, playing up my natural curves and sweet, innocent face. I could probably tell everyone here I’m a cop and they still wouldn’t believe me. I show the bartender my ID, and he pours my drink.

Ray Brighton:

I open the text from Willie to find the image of a woman who obviously hadn't been expecting her picture to be taken. As is his nature, his explanation is short: Wants to dance. Nice tits. Waiting.

I stare at the woman for a moment, wondering whether she fits my needs. I mean my needs because the job description includes spending time in my bed. If she's not the kind of woman I want to fuck, she's not the type of woman I want dancing at Aphrodite's.

I sent the equally simple response: On my way. Drinks on the house.

I look to the front seat of the Escalade -- to Gregor "The Blade" Dawidoff -- and ask, "You seen her before?"

When he turns to look back, I toss him the phone...



Gregor "The Blade" David
24
5'9", 195; muscular (body builder)
Hazel Eyes, Brunette Hair


I catch the phone and study the image. She's beautiful, but more importantly, she's familiar. I try to picture her in another setting ... in another outfit ... even in another position, namely under me while I pound deep inside her warm, wet pussy. I may not be the boss and have rights to the women who work for me like Ray does, but that doesn't mean that I can't fantasize.

"Yeah ... I know her," I finally say. I hand the phone back to him, explaining, "She's been staying at the Beachside Motel, that dump over off Seawall. Couple of weeks."

"Who is she?" Ray asks.

I lean to my left and half glance back as I shrug. "Don't know. We were picking up the protection payment, and the desk clerk pointed her out. The pic doesn't show it, but she'd got a really nice ass. Don't know anything more. You need me to check her out?"

I don't hear anything immediately, which tells me Ray is weighing the dangers. He's a careful man, even when it comes to pussies, which is what every woman is first to Ray. But his caution is the reason he's been able to hold the 3-3-O together despite the pressures from the other Galveston gangs ... from all of the other Galveston gangs. As much as some of the gangs despise one another, they hate the 3-3-O like mad.

"No," Ray says simply.



At Aphrodite, as we are walking toward the far end of the bar where the redhead sits, I see Ray lift his cell to his ear. He listens, speaks, then gestures me toward the potential employee. He doesn't have to give me instruction: I know what he wants. As he leaves the strip club -- gesturing some of the always present Muscle to join him -- I step up to the redhead and, after making eye contact, say simply, "Follow me."

I head to the back office, leaving the door open behind me. As she enters, I gesture her to close the door, then -- without hesitation -- casually say, "Take your top off. I need to see your tits."

I really should have found out when Ray would be here, I see that now. I should have thought all of this through more carefully. It's just that I have to get in and find out what's going on if I'm going to stop another war from flaring up. The fact that this place had been shot up two nights ago proved that. If I can't get the information, then I don't prove myself, and I've waste a bunch of resources, and I am worse than a rookie. I'm a failure. I take a sip from my third drink. Fourth if you count the one from the Spot.

I shouldn't be drinking this much. I'm supposed to be getting in with these guys, staying alert, but it's hard to say no. I'm sitting in a strip club, waiting for some hardcore gangsters to come in, so I can ask them for a job. Will they kill me if they find out I'm a cop? Definitely, but there's no guarantee it will be quick. The glass is empty again. The bartender raises an eyebrow. I shake my head. I need a little liquid courage, but I don't need to be falling down.

I take out my phone, send a text to Amy. Amy is a complete fiction with a 432 area code, way out in the west Texas desert. The phone it's attached to forwards my texts to Harrison, who is supposed to be my contact. I'll meet him when I start working, apparently.

Allie: @ a job interview. waiting on the boss.
Amy: o cool, what r u getting?
Allie: waitress
Amy: low cut tops ++++tips

Not that they were likely to check my phone, but the idea was to create the image of Allie as a little bit of a country bumpkin, going bad. I did grow up out in the boonies, and when I got drunk, my accent got thick and syrupy. Somewhere out in Marathon, I had a whole fake life. I even got emails from a pastor at a church I'd never even heard of, recommending a congregation in Galveston.

When I look up, another bodybuilder type, with pretty eyes is standing in front of me. I don't have to fake the startled gasp, or the nervous giggle that follows. No reason for me not to be nervous, right? If I take this job, I'm going to hell. I'm not so drunk that the irony of the situation is lost on me. I signed up for hell a month ago when I agreed to this assignment. I must have missed the 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here" sign.

"Follow me," the guy says, and starts towards the back, without waiting for an acknowledgement. I slip off my bar stool and follow him. I let my heels and the alcohol do the job of putting a healthy sway in my hips as I walk, and rack my brain. I've studied the photos, the rap sheets, plus I know this guy. I've seen him at the Spot. Gregor David. The mug shots didn't capture his eyes.

"Hi, I'm Al...." I start to say, as I step into the office.

"Take your top off. I need to see your tits."

"Allie," I finish, blushing. I mean, I knew I'd be showing somebody my tits today, but I figured there would be a little foreplay. But I guess they're not looking for girls who are shy about getting naked.

I pull my top up over my head, looking around for a second before I shrug and hang it over the back of a chair. I meet his eye and don't even bother to ask about the bikini top, but take that off too. I bite my lip, but pull my shoulders back to show off my double Ds. They're nice, with wide, pale pink nipples. Firm, but with the teardrop shape of natural tits, not like the silicon balloons so many of the dancers have.

Gregor David:

She doesn't hesitate to remove her bra, and the breasts she reveal are amazing. My cock had already been awake, but at the sight of her large, firm tits, it begins to harden rapidly. I'm pretty sure I already know the answer, but I ask anyway, "Real?"

She answers me, and I spend another long moment simply ogling her: face tits, and every thing. I begin to stand -- to turn on the office speakers into which the dance floor music pipes -- then remember the erection that my current sitting position is hiding. Instead, I pull out my phone andturn on the media player.

"You got the body," I tell her as a tap through songs. I find a song popular over which a pair of the dancers recently engaged in a cat fight -- each wanting it exclusively for their own act -- and start it. The volume is barely enough to carry over the bar noise and music playing in the distance, so I tell her, "Come closer. Dance for me. Show me how you're planning on getting our customers' dollar bills into your G-string."

This is the easy part, I tell myself, but it's really not. It was easy in the mirror in the bathroom of the motel, but I was alone, kidding around. I never really thought about doing it in front of a guy I never met before. I know it sounds stupid, I mean, I'm here to play the part of a stripper, and I've never thought about stripping for a stranger. The thing with me and men has been keeping them at a safe distance. I've never really had to make an effort before, but this guy is clearly expecting something.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I listen to the music, and my head starts to sway. I stop my head, let my hips keep the beat, rocking side to side. My only real boyfriend ever would have called this a real boot-knocking beat. I open my eyes, looked at Gregor David, and begin to run my hands slowly up my belly as my hips rocked.

"They're real," I say, smiling. letting my hands cup my breasts, lifting them up. My hips start grinding in a circle, and I slide one arm under both tits, making a shelf, the other sliding back down my belly. I let my tits hang, running my fingers through my hair. The trick, I've learned, is to think about fucking. It's hard when I'm thinking about this killer watching me, keeping my story straight, keeping my balance.

I let my lips part, my eyelids flutter closed as I pop the button on my shorts. I bring my hand over my face, fingers gliding along my lips. I lick my middle finger and pull the zipper down, looking Gregor in the eye. Then I turn, looking at him over my shoulder as I slide my shorts down slow.

I've never interviewed for a job before. My first job was with the 3-3-O, as a scout for corner drug sales. I wouldn't know the first thing about being interviewed. But I have no problem interviewing, particularly when the interviewee is a sexy woman taking her clothes off for me.

I watch Allie sway and grind and grope. I give her a polite smile of appreciation, my gaze shifting from her face to her body and back. Then, she unbuttons her short shorts and turns to begin shedding them. I can't help but take a deep breath at the sight of that firm, athletic ass slowly and playfully revealing itself.

Allie's body is really something. Really something ... sounds like something my grandfather would say, I think, realizing that in fact that's where I'd gotten the phrase. Really something doesn't begin to describe her. She's different than so many of the other dancers. She's well rounded and impressively stacked, but ... she's also obviously fit and athletic, as if her previous job or jobs had required more energy and effort from her than simply swaying her features about on a stage.

One day, I would learn that that fit appearance had been gained during and following her time at the Police Academy. But that day wasn't today. No, today, all I knew was that she had a body that would earn her a lot of money at Aphrodite's ... and would send me off to a private place occasionally to pound my pud.

The strip club was topless only, but as Allie continued about and turned to show off the tiny triangle of fabric in her groin, I was tempted to tell her to remove it, too. That would be pushing it, of course. And while she might feel obligated to do so to secure the job, I had another reason for not asking the red headed beauty to get naked: Ray.

The 3-3-O's leader fucked all of the dancers at one point or another, usually just a few times when they first came on with the club or a few times each year, when he had a itch that needed to be scratched. And while many of the girls went on to entertain gang members out of their own lusts or for additional compensation, above and beyond their pay and tips, here was one thing they all had in common with one another: Ray was always the first gang banger to have them ... each and every one of them.

That meant that I didn't dare ask Allie to shed any more clothing ... because I wouldn't be able to stop myself, even if she had no interest in opening those delicious thighs to me. Even at a gang strip club, raping an interviewing stripper was considered bad form.

Suddenly, the music on my phone stops and a text ring tone sounds. I look at it, then say, "Interview over. I ... have something to do."

I stand and look at her beautiful form, smiling. "The job's yours. Come back tomorrow night ... sixish ... we'll get you set up for work."

(OOC: You can take her a few seconds ahead or all the way "home" and back again tomorrow. What ever you need her to do.)

It’s taken a few minutes, but when I turn to face him again, wearing just my bikini bottoms, I’m finally feeling it. I shimmy my hips and then slide my hand between my legs, rocking my hips. I’m no long Officer Alison Davidson of the Houston PD, but Allie Davis, dancer. It only takes one look to know he likes what he sees, and it gives me confidence to bend down again, pointing my ass as him and shaking it. That’s where I am when the music stops, and then I’m just me, a little confused, completely at the mercy of this thug, trying to bluff my way into a club run by a gang that has the Galveston cops running scared.

He looks at his phone, and I stand there, trembling. I’m scared, nervous, weirdly turned on. The moment seems to stretch into an hour, and I start to think maybe I’m supposed to do something else, fill out an application or something. Or maybe this is his boss telling him I’m a cop, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life in agony.

“Interview over. I have something to do.” He stands up, and I stare at him. That’s it? He doesn’t want to know where I came from? What my previous work experience is? We spent a lot of time the last three weeks making sure that stuff will hold up, and it didn’t seem to matter. I pick up my shorts, wondering what the fuck I’m going to do now. "The job's yours. Come back tomorrow night ... sixish ... we'll get you set up for work."

I could hugged him, except I‘m practically naked and now that he’s standing I can see he had really enjoyed my audition. I blush and looked away, stepping into my shorts and by the time I get my bra on, he’s gone. I know I’m grinning as I walk out of the office and back across the club. The guy at the door gives a smile. I think. When I turn to look again, his face is blank again. I go back to the car and drive back to the motel, texting Amy that I got the job.

The rest of the night, I’m at the Spot, with Francis. I’m still there when they close and he invites me to an after hours club. I know I shouldn’t, but after weeks of preparation, I’m finally in business. And Hell, I’m a stripper now, I have no business coming in before dawn.

*

Everything hurts. I roll out of bed and crawl to the kitchenette, where I drink a large glass of water, and then another. Then I look at the clock. It’s 4:30. It must be PM, because there’s daylight behind the curtains. I go to the bathroom and let the shower pound me until I can think straight. I need food, and coffee, and I need to get ready to go. Make-up, hair, cheap perfume, and lotion to make my skin soft and silky Everywhere. I put on a lacy pushup bra, a matching g string, and the 5” stiletto heels I bought. A sheer black babydoll, that my pale skin shows through. Over it, I wear jeans and a hoodie. Only the shoes betray me. I run to the Spot, or stumble quickly, more like it, and am glad to see that Francis looks as tore up as I am.

“When are you going in?” he says, looking worried.

“Like, ten minutes. I need food, and coffee.”

“Shit,” he says, shaking his head. He comes around the counter and hugs me. He whispers in my ear. “You don’t want to eat before work, This’ll take care of you.” I feel his hand slipping into the back pocket of my jeans, and I push him away. I know what he left there.

“You’re the best,” I say, and head back to the motel.Technically, I’m only permitted to take drugs when it’s absolutely necessary to maintain my cover, but as I take a small hit of the white powder, I remember doing lines off someone’s bathroom sink last night. No wonder I feel like I got run over. The coke does its job, though, and at 6 oclock, I pull my little car into a space across the street from Aphrodite’s, ready to rock.

I know I have to play it cool, and I take a deep breath. Chill out. I feel like running and screaming, but I stroll across the street and into the club instead.

Gregor David:

I look up from the meeting taking place at Ray's private table in the back of Aphrodite's to see the silhouette of a heavenly figure just inside the open front entrance. I know in an instant that it's Allie, based upon the time of day, the girl's on shift, and those unmistakable hips. My cock twinges a bit at the though of having those hips firmly in my hands as I pound the young beauty from behind as she's bent over a bar room table.

I lean to my left toward Ray, which catches his attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the he, too, is looking toward the slowly closing door. He goes quiet, then signals over one of his underlings. Nodding toward the now dark entrance and the barely visible new employee, Ray tells the man, "Take her to the dressing room. Have Rosa set her up with what ever she needs."

Ray means a make up station, locker, and access to the community wardrobe, of course, even if the underling doesn't. Each of the girls has her own personal space in the dressing room. Ray insisted on it and -- after extorting the club out of the then-owner -- he had the dressing expanded into an adjacent room to give each of the dancer's the room she needed.

It hadn't been an act of benevolence. Ray simply found it easier to monitor the girl's possessions if they had one place just to themselves to leave them while working. And it had paid off in the past. Once just after taking possession of the club, items in a dancer's purse had exposed her as a plant for a rival gang.

And recently, a seemingly unimportant sales receipt had been linked to a coffee shop popular with the Galveston Police Department's Gang Task Force, exposing the Aphrodite's waitress as either a cop or an informant for the cops. I was never able to find out which was true. Of course, the GPD was never able to find the body, either, so ... I guess we're even on that score.

Of course, I shouldn't think that way, as if that particular game was over. Ray has little doubt that the GPD is watching the 3-3-O and the club in particular. Which is the reason why, after Allie left her yesterday, she was never for a moment out of sight of at least one member of the gang.

"Let's take this up later," Ray tells the two men sitting across from us. As he glances toward Allie -- now being escorted by on the way to the back -- he says, "I have some important business to deal with."

One of the men at the table -- Vincent Thompson -- turns and catches sight of Allie's tight, round ass as it passes by and laughs. The other man -- Julio Valdez -- catches sight of the new dancer, too, and chuckles, "Business before pleasure ... especially when it is pleasure."

The two men laugh and begin making playful offers to Ray for Allie's services. If there are two men in Galveston -- or the all of Texas for that matter -- who know a nice piece of tail and what it's worth, those men are these men.

Vincent Thompson's legal ventures center mostly around legal pornography, including but not limited to video sales and online streaming. But its his illegal ventures, including under age porn and video that earn most of his millions for him year after year.

Many people, including myself, abhor Vincent Thompson, but he's an angel compared to Julio Valdez. There is nothing legal about what Valdez's business. His Central American and Mexican operation use the high seas to smuggle in people from all over Latin America for sometimes as much as $40,000 a head. The young girls and boys and attractive younger women are often enslaved and either sold as sex slaves in the Middle East, Europe, and even here in the US; or they are used in non-consensual, rape, torture, and even even snuff flicks, then killed, with their corpses disposed of in ways I can only imagine.

If I had my choice, I would put a bullet through each of their skulls, but not before castrating each of them and shoving their family jewels down the throat of the other! But I don't have my choice. I work for Ray, and Ray wants to get deeper into the illegal sex industry, where there are millions of dollars to be made by a man not afraid to get his hands dirty ... or bloody.

The four of us shake hands and promise to get together again soon, after which Ray orders more drinks and food. Once we are alone again, he demands, "Tell me."

"We found nothing to tell us she's anything other than she claims, a woman willing to flash her body for tips," I tell him. "She spent the night at The Spot ...
Frankie the Muscle's place. We got a key to her room from the night clerk and went through it--"

"And...?" Ray asked expectantly.

"And nothing," I answer, not sure whether he is -- or even I am -- disappointed or not. Found some personal stuff that I looked into more today." I pull a piece of paper from my pocket and unfold it. "She's from some coyote squat of a town called Marathon. I had to look it up. Found some hand written notes ... phone numbers ... a church bulletin with hand written notes of encouragement from, apparently, the preacher or minister or--"

"Phone?" he asks.

"When she's on stage..." I respond, knowing that the one word sentence meant. "...I get it. Brick is hear. He'll get past the password, assuming there is one, and we'll see who she talks to ... texts to."

We sit in silence for a while, watching one of the skinny little Asian dancers with an 18 inch waist and store bought Double Ds grind her pussy against the pole before us. I peek toward Ray and see that he's no longer impressed with this particular dancer. They don't usually last more than a couple of months at Aphrodite's, unless -- of course -- they're doing one helluva number on Ray's cock when their off stage.

"You'll like her," I say.

"What?" Ray asks absent mindedly. Then he realizes my meaning, and asks, "What's her name?"

"Allie. Allie March."

I can see the wheels'a'turning, and a moment later Ray says, "Angel. Angel May."

"Angel," I repeat, standing to leave.

"Stay on her, Gregor," Ray says with a serious tone. "I want to know everything there is to know."

"I will," I say, "and you will."

I cross to the DJ and give him his instructions. When Rosa comes to the booth and tells the man what songs the two women have chosen and that Allie is ready, the man gets on the microphone and says in a dramatic voice, "Tonight, gentlemen ... we have something special for you. Making her debut on the Aphrodite stage, the fiery temptress ... Angel....... May........!"

From the bar, I can just barely see Rosa making urgent gestures, presumably to Allie...

The shift change really must make a difference, because at six, Aphrodite’s has a good crowd. It’s not quite packed, but the sun’s not quite down, either. I see a cluster of guys by the stage, and an asian girl shaking her implants at them. The guys are nothing special, though, Joe Sixpack and his cousin Jose, and a few of their buddies. There’s a fat guy in a rumpled suit at the bar who I recognize from ads on late-night TV. Used cars or discount legal services, I can’t remember which. A few more scattered around, alone or in small groups.

I hesitate for a moment. I’m high, and even though my brain is picking up details at a million miles a second, everything’s actually happening in slow motion. I take a few steps, and then this guy in a wifebeater with a 33 tattooed on his left temple has his hand on my arm. I pull away, out of instinct, and my eyes zero in on his as I stiffen my fingers to punch one out. Then I remember my job.

“You new girl. Come with me,” he says, scowling. “Your dressing room.”

I force myself to give him a little giggle. “Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

He doesn’t seem to care if I’m sorry, or nervous, so I shut up and follow him. I look around as we wind our way back. Velvet drapes and diffuse lighting make the place feel like soft and warm, but I know it’s anything but. Front door behind me, stage straight ahead. Bar to the right. There’s a door behind it that probably leads to a store room. To the left, curtains cut off the VIP section. We head to the left hand side of the stage. On the far side, I catch a glimpse of Gregor, sitting at a table with three other men. They’re all looking my way, and I flash them a smile as I try to place them.

I know Ray, of course, and one of the others is - shit - Julio Valdez. He was never mentioned in any of the GPD’s files on the 3-3-0, but he’s legendary. If white slavery and forced prostitution has a poster boy, it’s him. That changes things. If he catches me, I’m not just dead. Death will be what I pray for. I want out, right fucking now. But it’s too late. I’m in.

Just before he steps up onto the stage, my guide cuts into a patch of shadows created by a clever arrangement of lights. I follow him through a beaded curtain into a narrow hall. No velvet drapes on these walls, no soft, warm light, no polished brass or dark wood. This is drywall and plywood, with a bare bulb in a steel cage hanging from the ceiling. At the far end is another curtain, that must come out on the other side of the stage.

An older woman, dark-haired in a loud red dress comes bustling down the hall.

“Vete para la verga, cabron!” she barks, and my guide chuckles and heads back out. She shakes her head, stalking towards me, a scowl on her face that makes me sure she knows I’m a cop. Her hand comes up, and I think she’s going to slap me, but instead, she touches my cheek softly, almost maternally.

“Que linda,” she says. “So pretty. You come in here now, ok?”
She leads me through a walk in closet full of obscenely skimpy outfits. Anything a stripper would ever want, and I try not to think about how many girls had worn them before. I’ll wear my own, thanks. She ushers me into a tiny room. I’ve seen bigger closets, but it has a mirror and a shelf for make up and a stool, and a rod to hang a few outfits on. It’s tiny, but it serves.

“This is just for you” she says, and she taps the door, where a bracket for a padlock has been bolted to the frame. “Bring lock. You keep your things here if you want.”

Just then a bleach blonde with a horrifyingly dark tan looks in.

“Hi, I’m Candy,” she says, and grins. “Next door. We’re going on together in a little bit, so we should pick our songs.” She’s wearing cowboy boots with a fringe and a blue jean miniskirt that doesn’t hide her sparkling g string.

“You get ready, now. Then songs,” the first woman says. “You have question, ask Rosa.” She taps her chest. She must be Rosa.

I take off my hoodie and my jeans and stand there in my skimpy lingerie and heels. Candy grins and gives me a thumbs up. Rosa pouts her lips out as she looks me over and nods.

“OK, so what song you want?” She asks. I guess that means I’m ready.

“Song or songs?” I say.

“We get two, but I really like to start with Honky Tonk Badonkadonk,” Candy says.

“Right,” I say. Suddenly, I realize Julio Valdez isn’t going to be the worst thing to come out of this assignment. Still, if we each got to pick a song, I can pay her back. “Do you think they have Marilyn Manson’s cover of ‘You’re so Vain?’”

“Is on the ‘net?” Rosa asks. Candy looks at me like I’d just fucked her boyfriend. Maybe next time we can work something out that we both like.

“Should be,” I say, and looked at Candy. “So how do we do this?”

“You go left, I go right,” she said. Does she know she’s putting me closer to Julio Valdez. Probably. I smile and wonder why she was twitching her head. Then I realize I’m supposed to go on. As I come out into the shadowy spot by the edge of the stage, I hear the DJ, introducing for the first time, a fiery temptress named Angel May. A twangy guitar starts playing, and on the other side of the stage, Candy climbing up on to the stage. Rosa by the DJ, staring at me and waving her arms like a madwoman.

“Bitch, get up there,” the asian girl whispered.

I’m Angel May.

I hop up onto the stage and grab the pole. I start swaying my hips, trying to shut out the song. Everything but the beat. I can’t see shit except Candy, a few feet away, already rubbing the other pole between her tits. She looks like she’s having the time of her life, and I paste a happy grin on my face and peel the babydoll off. I glance over at Candy, and she’s crawling along the edge of the stage, collecting dollar bills. I step up and bend down for the boys, letting them slide their money over my tits before they slip it in my bra. At the middle of the stage, I squat down in front of the rumpled suit, smiling like I just got laid. He seems to like it. He shows me twenties, but it’s a one that he sticks in my g string.

“He’s saving the big bills for the VIP,” Candy whispers, when we come together and trade sides.

I work that side of the stage, and then retire to hump the pole for a little. I wait until Trace Adkins is done to take my bra off. There are limits. At last, my song starts, and let the puppies out. Candy looks traumatized.

I’m back on the left and the suit is licking his lips as I fondle my breasts. As sleazy as it all is, I can’t deny that I like the attention. It’s exciting to be allowed to encourage it for once, instead of shooting every single pass down, because I can’t date the guys I work with. I use my ass like a metronome, keeping time as I dance on my knees. Rumpled suit slips a twenty in the g string, and I press his face between my breasts before I hop up and move on.

At last, the song ends, and Candy and I are done. I collect my bra and babydoll, and step down off the stage, the opposite side from where I started. Rosa is there, she takes my clothes and makes a shooing gesture. “You go work the room now!”

I start to make my way around, collecting tips from the guys that were hanging back, flirting a little, mostly letting my near nudity do its job. I’ll end up at Gregor’s table.

When I get there, though, he’s not there. I’m alone with Ray Brighton.

"Hi there," I say. After all, Angel May and Allie March don't know who the fuck he is. "You having a good time tonight?"

(OOC: OMG! I have a new favorite music video. That is hilarious!)



Raoul "Ray" Brighton:

The instrumental back ground music played between acts ends and a familiar Trace Adkins song begins. Candy, probably the best cock sucker ever to kneel between my thighs, steps out to the stage, garnering her due share of applause and calls from the regulars. She's always been a favorite on the stage, in the Lap Dance booths, and -- for those special customers -- in the gang owned motel next door.

The new girl gets her own share of attention, too. There are two kinds of strip club patrons when it comes to new dancers: those who like the new meat simply because its new meat, and those who will undoubtedly come to like the new meat once it learns to shake in such a way as to stiffen a cock for the entirety of two full songs. In the end, though, both types of patrons enjoy a bit of expansion down below. Erections are a good thing for a strip club owner. It's hard to put your money back into your pocket with a swollen cock in the way, so ... might as well give it to the girls.

Allie -- Angel May -- looks nervous, as I expect. This isn't the job for every girl. So many women who enjoy the shakey-shakey of Galveston's night clubs think that, since they already get their dance partners hard, they can come here to a strip club and do the same thing, this time getting paid for it.

Far from the truth. Wearing skimpy clothes to a night club is, surprisingly, much different than wearing virtually no clothes at a strip club. The night club grinding can get down right nasty at times. But doing all of that wiggling about the stage with howling, leering, horny men clutching dollar bills that they want to stuff into your bra or G-string -- thus touching even for a moment the soft flesh of a body to which they likely would never have access -- is a totally different world, and not all women can handle it for 7 to 8 minutes at a time, 3 times a night, 4 nights a week.

The country song fades away and is replaced with...

I turn to look at Gregor, who is smiling broadly and shaking his head lightly. He leans toward me and says, "Gotta be the new girl's choice."

"Yeah," I say, the surprise obvious in my voice. "I don't want to hear that again."

"I'll see to it," Gregor says immediately.

As I watch, Allie's act becomes more relaxed ... and ... noticeably more erotic. My cock doesn't usually react to the stage acts. This is just business for me, and I see -- and enjoy -- far greater eroticism than simply watching a woman shake her titties and ass on the stage. But watching Allie stiffens me.

It might be because she is new to me. Or it might be because ... well, she's simply hot. I can see the two of us in my back office with her performing those moved upon my naked groin, and I make the instant decision that I will be fucking her soon. One might think that was just a gimme: the gangster owner of a strip club is going to fuck all of the strippers in his employ. I don't fuck them all. Only the ones who seriously get me hard.

Or -- in some cases -- the ones who need to be punished for something they've done wrong. I recall the waitress who was recently terminated from employment here for her connections to the GPD. Fucking her was enjoyable on a number of levels. I don't usually do that -- rape a cop -- but only because the opportunity doesn't arise that often. Who knows ... maybe again one day.

As the last song is coming to an end, I lean toward Gregor again and say, "Never mind. Keep the song."

I meet his gaze, and I can tell that he knows I'm turned on by this woman. Ironically, I think I see the same thing in his eyes. He smiles, chuckles, and says, "The crowd seems to have liked it, too."

I shoo him along, wanting to meet this Allie March alone.

"Hi there," she says as she steps up to the table, once again dressed but barely. "You having a good time tonight?"

I look a bit off from her just as Candy sidles up close to her. She begins pulling some of the bills from Allie's bra and G-string, telling her over the music, "Pull the excess--"

She takes the drink tray from Allie's hand, puts the bills into her palm, then sets the tray back onto her hand. "--and keep it hidden. You want the guys to see enough bills to remember you work for tips, but not enough bills to make them think you don't need more."

She looks to me and smiles, asking, "After the show, Ray?"

I smile to her, but then look to -- and conspicuously ogle -- the new girl. "Not tonight, Candy Cane."

Even though I am still looking into Allie's eyes, I can see in my peripheral that Candy's smile has faded. She half turns and mumbles something I don't hear to Allie, then heads off to work the room.

"Yes," I say to Angel May, "I'm having a good time, but ... I'd be having a better time if you gave me a lap dance between your second and third sets."

(gee, which one? )

I'm just about to try to make an impression on Ray Brighton when Candy comes up and starts taking my money out of my g string. I'm about to slap her when she starts talking.

"Pull the excess and keep it hidden. You want the guys to see enough bills to remember you work for tips, but not enough bills to make them think you don't need more." I look at what she's left in my g string. About ten dollars in ones. There's a lot more in my hand. I still want to slap her for interrupting my move with Ray, but at least she's not ripping me off.

"Thanks," I say, grudgingly, but she's already looking at Ray as if he were a big, juicy steak. Which reminds me, I haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday.

"After the show, Ray?" Candy simpers. And Ray smiles at her, but he looks at me.

"Not tonight, Candy Cane." I could kiss him. Is he the head of the 3 3 0? Yes. A dangerous criminal who would kill me in a heartbeat if he guessed what I was? Yes. More importantly, though, he was letting bubble-tits know he chose me. Childish and petty? Maybe, but who else is going to take an assignment like this?

"Yes," Ray says "I'm having a good time, but ... I'd be having a better time if you gave me a lap dance between your second and third sets."

I nod, my mouth suddenly too dry to speak. A lap dance. I got drunk and gave one to a giant teddy bear once in high school. Never to an actual person, though. I know the basic idea, but this is one of those moments where I find myself thinking I could have spent a lot more time practicing for this.

"OK," I finally manage to say, and then I start to walk away, in a daze.

My next set isn't for a little while, and I walk backstage, my eyes wide. Candy's there, scowling, and I give her a smile.

"Who is that guy?" I say. "I mean, I don't want to step on your toes, or anything."

She shakes her head. "You're a novelty. He likes to try the new ones."

"Right," I say. Her claws are out. Her top is on. I start to put my bra on. I don't need her wanting my blood, so I make another stab at mending fences. "Maybe next time we can find some songs we both like?"

"Next time," she says. "We'll see. Next set you're with Kyu. She's banging the DJ, so she'll get her songs." She pulls her skirt up and walks back out. I head back to my dressing room. It looks like someone had been in here. That was expected. The phone is clean of anything that would link me to the police, and has plenty of crumbs heading out towards the desert. I'd have to go back to Houston to find anything that suggests I'm a cop, but I still shiver at the thought that they just came in and checked me out like that. At least they didn't take my coke.

"What you doing?" Rosa says, interrupting. "You go. Get man, go to V I P, make money!"

I really don't want to do that, but what choice do I have. I throw the babydoll back on, and walk back out to the club. I look around, and see rumpled suit making a beeline for me me. I smile at him when I feel a hand on my waist.

"How bout you and me get a little one-on-one time, baby," the big man says. He's got a ten gallon hat on and a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate. He's got broad shoulders and a nice shirt, but there's a beer belly straining the buttons.

I look at rumpled suit, wondering what to do, when cowboy says, "Eight days in a week, I'm a steak and potato man, but I can't say no to a little red snapper now and then."

"OK," I say, blushing. "You want a dance at your table, or you want to go up to the VIP room?" This is Harrison. My only contact with the world outside of this character. Or, he's some asshole who accidentally got the signal word for word, but it didn't seem likely.

"Let's head up," he says, and fortunately, he knows where to go. He hands the bouncer at the door to the VIP rooms a stack of cash and we find a little booth. He pats his lap, grinning, and I straddle his thighs. It really shouldn't feel this good. I start grinding my hips, slowly.

"I've been in here about twice a week for two months, take off your bra," he whispers. His hands clamp down on my ass. I'm pretty sure he's not supposed to do that, but what am I supposed to do? I reach back and unsnap my bra. He licks his lips, playing his part to perfection. His part being drunk, horny businessman who falls for a stripper. I'm not sure he's faking it. When he pulls me against him and buries his face between my tits, I hear a sharp whistle.

"Yo, hands off," Sunglasses says. "You good, Angel?"

"I'm good," I say. Other than being treated like a piece of meat by the guy who's supposed to be my safe contact? But we can't sit back here and have tea, either, so I guess this is the gig. Sunglasses nods, heading back into the club.

"Oops," Harrison laughs, and then whispers. "I'll find out your schedule. You'll let me know what's going on. Turn around."

I turn around, pressing my ass into his lap, feeling his appreciation. It really shouldn't feel this good. I grind against him, and his hands cup my tits.

"Hands," I whisper.

"Come on, baby, don't be like that," he says, loud, drunk. But he lets go as I lean back against him. Too soon, Sunglasses is back, tapping his wrist. Harrison's time is up. He slaps my ass as I walk out, knees weak. I go back to the dressing room and take a quick sniff to pick me up and try to dull the gnawing in my belly. It's time for my second set.

Kyu turns out to be the stick thin Asian with the implants, and she dances as though I'm not even there. She picks a couple of pretty standard 80s songs, Rumpled suit turns up halfway through Pour Some Sugar on Me, but he's only giving ones. I'm doing better with the Latinos, who seem to like pale and curvy, but mostly I'm thinking about Ray.

After Purple Rain, I circulate through the club, starting on the other side this time. I keep a few bills in my g string, and palm the rest, and the stack is pretty thick by the time I finish, on the far side of the room from Ray. I hurry to the dressing room and stuff the cash in my pocket. I'm jittery, from coke, hunger, nerves, and I'm about to go out to the table when Rosa stops me.

"Put the tatas away first," she says. I look down. I'm getting tired of putting my bra on just to take it off, but overall, things could be worse. I leave the babydoll behind though, and head out to Ray's table, smiling. Just a new girl eager to make an impression on the boss.

Ray:

Sitting in my office taking a call, I see Allie heading into a VIP room with a customer who began showing up a couple of weeks back. The dancers gave the regulars nicknames, and the massive hat he wore atop that big head of his had earned him the nickname Fat Hat.

I'm always suspicious of new faces, of course, so I had Gregor check him out. Nothing out of the ordinary came back: local job, local car, local address. And the fact that nearly every time he came here, he tipped well and -- more often than not -- took one of the dancers to a VIP room for a lap dance told me he probably wasn't a cop.

The Undercovers were usually pretty stingy about spreading their money around, but this guy had been tossing about bills of every denomination. So, he was either a cop from a Department with a goof for an accountant, or just a man who liked to pay women to rub their tits in his face.

It's that thought that causes me to rise and wander out onto the floor. I see Allie leave the VIP and head toward the back rooms. I step up to the curtain behind which Fat Hat is still seated and study him for a moment. I enter, which causes him to flinch and stiffen. The man has quick reflexes, which I find odd considering he'd seemed to be drunk when he wobbled to the room with Allie.

Then he smiles politely and asks, "Can I get another drink back here. Drying out, Cowboy!"

I step closer to him, hovering over him. His expression becomes a bit less congenial, but ... I don't know ... he seems wasted and at the same time doesn't. I lean over the little table in the middle of the room, set my gaze firmly upon his, then say with a firm tone, "You need to learn ... to keep your hands ... off the girls."

Fat Hat's smile fades.

"Do you understand?" I continue. "The girls can touch you all they want, but--"

"Hands to myself, yeah," Fat Hat responds, his expression showing what I think is sincere regret. "My bad, Cowboy. It's the booze, you know?"

I stand tall, looking down upon him with a hard look. Then, certain that he is no threat to the girls -- and that he is nothing more than I think he is, a horny drunk -- I smile broadly and say, "You're good, friend. No harm. In fact..."

I step back to the curtain just as Candy passes by. I snatch her by the wrist and pull her inside. I whisper to her, "Make sure he cums."

She rolls her eyes, then heads inside to service Fat Hat as I say, "On the house, friend. My treat." I try my best to mimic his accent with, "Y'all just promise that you and your dollahs will keep comin' back, heah?"

He laughs, acknowledges me, then happily takes Candy into his lap as I leave, giving him one last peek through the curtain. I return to my private table, where Gregor is waiting.

"Nothing," he says.

"Nothing?"

"Phone is clean," he tells me. "A couple of dozen phone numbers in the contact list. Mother, siblings, couple of food joints ... The Spot is in there, as is Aphrodite's. A couple of numbers out west in Marboro Man--"

"Marathon," I correct him, then realize he was making a joke about the famous cigarette icon. I laugh, admit he got me, then ask, "Anything else."

"There was some coke. Not much ... 'nuff for a couple of more snorts."

"Get her some more," I tell him, standing and gesturing one of the other dancer-waitresses to take drinks to my private VIP room. "Make sure she knows it's the good stuff. Don't want her OD'ing before she shows us everything she's got."

"Will do."

I head to my VIP room, the only one with a solid door. I wait until Allie enters, look her up and down conspicuously, then lean back into the comfortable, curved couch, inviting her to take a seat atop of me.

"Show me what you got, girl," I say with a slight smile.

Ray isn't at his table, and for a second, I stand there feeling stupid, until Rosa appears. She gives me the kind of patient, long-suffering smile you give a child who doesn't know what she's doing is wrong, and points to a door I hadn't noticed.

"You want Ray, he in his room," she says. She's not asking me if I'm looking for Ray. She knows. Either he said something, or it's what happens here. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, getting my shit together. I can't shake the shakey feeling, but I can chalk it up to being nervous my first night. All I have to do is go in there and be what he wants, and let it go from there.

I knock, and then push the door open to look in. There's no way I could have heard him reply over the noise of the club. He's kicked back on a curved couch, in his own little room. It has a door, and I can't even hear the music when I close it behind me. He's got his own thing playing. I stand there, hesitant, a little shy with him looking me up and down in my lingerie, but only for a second. Then I walk towards him, hips swaying, a hint of a smile on my face, the kind that makes guys think they're winning.

I step between his feet, my knees together, between his, and I smile, I sway a little, finding the beat to his song, and then I reach back and unhook my bra. I hold my arm over my breasts, hiding them as I slip the straps off of my shoulders, and then I turn. I let the bra fall away, and then I lean down, pushing my ass back into his lap. I grind a little, and then lean back, letting my head rest against his shoulder, letting him smell that cheap, slutty perfume.

"Hi, boss," I say, giggling. It's a little absurd. I'm almost naked, rubbing my ass in the man's lap, but I'm not sure what I should call him. I could try to act like I know what I'm doing, but he knows this is my first night. If they've checked me out, he knows I'm about three weeks out of a Praise Jesus life in the boonies. The hope is that he'll enjoy watching my awkwardness enough that he won't care if I'm not the greatest dancer in the world.

Not that I won't try. I turn myself around, so I'm facing him, straddling his hips so I can press my breasts to his face, my hips still rocking to the beat. Then I sink down into his lap, where I can measure the success of my dancing by what's pressing against my pussy. It's a little frightening how much I'm hoping to feel something. It's been a long time since I've had a boyfriend, though, and when you're wearing nothing but high heels and a g string, humping a guys lap, you're going to find out if he thinks you're hot or not. I tell myself I only care because the mission sort of depends on me getting close to him. It doesn't have anything to do with him being movie-star handsome. I don't even believe it when I think it.

Not that it matters. If I don't have to fake liking him, that just makes it easier. When I need to hate him, all I'll have to do is remember how many bodies he's left dead on the streets, how many kids have gotten strung out on the drugs he brings in, how whole neighborhoods in Galveston live in fear of this man and his gang.

I realize I'm getting lost in my thoughts. My hips are still moving, but I'm staring into space. I bite my lip and look up for a moment. Just long enough to think an Our Father. Then I give him an awkward little smile.

"Sorry," I say, and start grinding like I mean it. Nervous, ashamed, a little excited and a lot afraid. And I'm not even faking it

Ray Brighton:

My polite demand of show me what you got, girl begins, and I am instantly impressed. She had a beautiful body -- a naturally beautiful body -- and smooth moves. I can see the nervousness in her occasionally, but that can be expected. She's new ... and I'm not just some customer.

As she moves her firm, round ass back into my groin, I give my first instructive suggestion, "Make the pre-game longer. They pay for ten minutes. A longer pre-game means less lap time. A guy only needs a couple of minutes.

She turns to face me, and I get my first up close and personal look at those tits. They're nice -- firm, gravity defying, with large nipples hardened by the chill in the air -- but what will lead more of the customers to want them pushed into their faces ... will make more of the customers want to pay to have them pushed into their faces is that they are Mother Nature's gift, not some Doctor's. More than half of my dancers sport implants, and while those dancers tend to draw more attention out on the dance floor, they get less time in the VIP rooms, which means less money for them and me both.

By the time she straddles my thighs and presses forward against me, my cock is a hard rock. Few dancers have been able to stiffen me this way with a lap dance, and Allie had managed it before she's even contacted my cock.

"Keep your tits to yourself," I say. The words are harsher than my tone, so I clarify, "They know they aren't allowed to touch you at all ... hands on the couch or arm rests at all times. You get Regulars by giving them more than they've paid for ... and they become Regulars by getting that special treatment. Touching, kissing tits, suckling nipples ... that's where the big money is, but you won't get it if you let some new prick maul you the first time."

As she continues, Allie dons a far off look in her eyes. I give her one last piece of advice, "Keep your attention on the customer. He has to believe that you want to do this as much as he wants you to do this. He's not just paying to cream his shorts. He's paying to imagine he's creaming you."

I can feel the pleasure building inside of me. I know that if I allow this to continue, she'll make me cum. And I don't do that ... not in lap dances. I grasp her hips and urge her back away from my groin, saying, "Good."

As she moves back to her feet, standing over me, I tell her, "You're going to be good at this ... lots of money."

I reach into my jacket, laying next to me, and withdraw two one hundred dollar bills. As I hand them out, I tell her, "I hear you're in that fucking dump over by the beach. Get out of it. Gregor'll find you something nicer ... an apartment. Give your room number to Rosa, and my boy will find you tomorrow to go home shopping."

I look her up and down one last time with a long, obvious leer. When I look back up into her sparkling eyes, I finish, "You're going to be happy you came to us ... April May. I'll be sure of it."

I'm a little worried that I'm making so many mistakes, but he doesn't seem exactly angry about it. More like he's trying to teach me. I'm grateful for the advice, but it's embarrassing to have this guy telling me how to give a lapdance. I mean, obviously he knows, but I feel my skin prickling as I blush. In fact, I pretty much want to crawl into a hole in the ground and hide for a few years, until I settle into his lap.

If what I feel is any indication, I'm doing pretty well overall. I press down on it, and my eyelids flutter closed. Yeah, despite my amateurish performance, he's enjoying himself. I rock against him, and I start to wonder how these girls do it. I mean, not every guy who gets a lapdance will have Ray's looks, but it feels good knowing I can do that to him. I'm starting to forget about my mission when suddenly, he grabs my hips. He pushes me back.

I stare at him, eyes wide, confused. What did I do wrong? But then I see the look in his eyes, and I blush fiercely. At the same time, I smile. Maybe I did Candy a favor. I slide off and stand up, my knees shaking, my whole body so tight I'm about to snap.

"Good," he says, and I grin like I won the lottery. "You're going to be good at this ... lots of money."

Then he hands me two crisp hundreds. I know how much money he has, and two hundred isn't a big deal for him, but it is for me. He knows it. My eyes open wide and I take them with a look of disbelief that I don't quite have to fake. Then he tells me they're moving me. This is unexpected, and I stare at him for a few seconds before I shake my head and give him a shy grin.

"Thank you so much, Mister... um ...." I bite my lip, look down at the tent in his lap. I blush. "Thank you."

I get the feeling I'm dismissed, so I grab my bra and put it on, and then go back out into the club. I want to lie down, and I'm fucking starving. Candy grins at me like she knows something I don't, and I head back to the dressing room to take a little bump. It picks me right up, and I can see how people get hooked on the stuff.

When I go back out, rumpled suit finds me. I take Ray's advice. I chat with him, and stay focused on him. We have a couple of drinks, and then he asks me to the VIP room. I pretend I'm on a date, and that I'm in my underwear as part of a game. I dance for him, I flirt, I tease and laugh. He's playing it cool, but I can see his eyes nearly popping out of his skull. A few minutes in, I take off my bra as if he'd been begging me to. I figure we have about three minutes when I glide into his lap, and I start to move, slowly at first. I keep my arms up and my hips twisting until the bouncer calls time, and I give him a regretful look.

He pays for another ten minutes, and I start off grinding. It only takes another minute or so before he gasps and goes stiff, and I feel him pumping through his pants. I slide out of his lap and sit beside him while I catch my breath. He's staring at me like I turned day into night. He doesn't need to know how close I was to getting off with him. When it's time to go, he tips me another c note.

My third set is with Elena, another girl with a natural curves, but dark, latin, and fierce. I think we make a nice contrast, and the place is full now. We do well, and after I finish the set, I go back to my dressing room. I'm starting to crash again, and I don't want to hit the coke again.

"Is there anything else I need to do?" I ask Rosa.

"Just settle up and you good."

Settling up included tipping out the DJ, the bouncers, Rosa, and paying a stage fee. I nearly choked when I realized that I was paying for privilege of being a stripper. I ended up losing almost half my earnings before I even got out the door. I still walked out with quite a bit more than I made on a given day as a cop, and I had a feeling things would get better once I stopped tripping over my own feet.

I fell into the bed in my shitty motel room without taking my clothes off, and passed out.

Gregor
Noon, the next day:

"Wake up." I hesitate, seeing Allie stir and turning her head -- still smashed to the pillow -- in my direction as her eyes begin to flutter open. After she reacts to me standing in her motel room, I point toward the closed door and say with a harsh tone, "You have to lock up when you come home. Do you know what kind of a fucking neighborhood this is?"

In reality, Allie had locked her door. But since the motel is under the 3-3-O's protection -- meaning if they don't do what we say we burn them down -- I can get any key to any door any time I want without question.

"Pack your things, you're moving," I tell her, turning and heading out the door as I add, "I'll be in the café across the street. Throw you bags in the Escalade. It's unlocked."

As I cross the parking lot, I can't help but smirk a bit at the inconsistency of what I just told her. She needs to lock her door because it's a bad neighborhood ... yet I can walk away from a 2014 Escalade with the doors unlocked and not worry about it. The difference, of course, is that to the neighborhood thugs, Allie is just another pussy waiting to be raped; while the Escalade is 3-3-O property and, therefore, sacred ground. Fuck Allie, you get off: fuck the 3-3-O and you get dead.



I wait until Allie enters the café to wave the waitress over. "Coffee, the Special, and anything the lady wants."

I've never felt this awful in my life. Some gangbanger is standing over me, telling me things that I'm not really listening to, and my stomach is a tight little ball of pain. My mouth feels like the inside of a sock, and every time my heart beats, it feels like someone's kicking my head.

"Pack your things, you're moving. I'll be in the café across the street. Throw you bags in the Escalade. It's unlocked."

I nod and sit up, but before I can say anything, he's gone. I take a minute to just breathe and assess my situation. I'm still dressed in the jeans and hoodie I wore to the club last night. I'm even still wearing the heels. I haven't eaten since the day before yesterday. I look in the mirror and see that I'm still wearing the make up from last night, which is now looking like I'm trying to get cast as the Joker.

It was Gregor that was in here. He's waiting across the street, but I can't even stand without it hurting. I have to eat, but I can't go across the street looking like this. I slowly strip off my clothes, muscles as stiff and sore as if I'd run a marathon. I step into the shower and let the hot water pound me, gulping it down, feeling my body soaking it up like a dry sponge in water.

I don't stay as long as I'd like, because Gregor is waiting. I throw on lipstick and mascara, a little powder, and dress in a pair of jeans, a long sleeved t shirt and sneakers. I throw everything Allie owns into two big duffel bags, put on my sunglasses, and stagger out into the parking lot. I'm so weak, I can't carry them both very far, so I take one and then go back for the other.

The sun is killing me. I want to go back to bed, but I can smell the Spot's kitchen and my stomach twists so badly I almost fall down. Crossing the street feels like climbing Everest, but I make it, and I collapse into the booth opposite Gregor.

"Chile cheese burger," I tell Danielle, the waitress. "Salad instead of fries. Orange juice." She looks worried, but a glance at Gregor helps her decide not to say anything. I've been playing my part here, and she knows me as a sweet girl from the west who's looking for a little fun. It's nice to see that she thinks I'm out of my depth with Gregor. I hope she's wrong.

I take the sunglasses off and give him the best smile I can manage.

"So," I say, and I can't think of anything. I close my eyes and try to remember what he was telling me when he woke me up. "What's happening? We're looking for an apartment?"

Gregor:

She's a mess. Although I haven't suspected it until now, I am beginning to wonder if she is an addict. It's good sometimes to have those working in the sex industry -- be it stripping or whoring -- strung out, because it gives you a control that they simply can't break. But ... Allie seems -- seemed -- such a sweet, innocent thing ... well, at least for a woman willing to dance naked or grind around in a stranger's lap for money.

I don't know why I am so interested in her being sweet and innocent. Sweet and innocent does nothing for the 3-3-O, or for me. I guess ... I guess it would just be a nice change.

"We have to find you a place," I say, telling her nothing she doesn't already know. "Question is, do you want another dump ... something you can afford on stripping wages ... tips ... lap dances."

I don't normally offer what I'm about to offer to someone so new to the organization, but I ask, "Or ... do you want to branch out into some more lucrative areas ... make some real cash?"

I frown at his question. I'm really not sure what to make of it. 'Allie' sure as hell wouldn't know what he was talking about, and I'm sure I look as confused as I feel, and I'm starting to panic that I'm about to fuck the whole thing up. Then the food comes and I eat. It's so good. It's greasy and messy, and I hang my head over my plate so I don't end up with chile all down me, but I don't care.

I'm full after half the burger, and I push the plate aside and sit back. Between that and the shower, I'm feeling downright human, and I peek at Gregor over the top of my sunglasses. It's ok. My eyes don't catch fire, so I take off the sunglases andhhok them in the front of my shirt. Then I giggle. He spends every night at Aphrodite's I'm thinking I'll tease him with a little cleavage.

"I'm so sorry," I say. "You must think I'm a train wreck, but I swear, I'm usually not like this. I went out night before last to celebrate getting the job and I never got around to eating yesterday." Do I really care if this thug thinks I'm a fuck up? I do. I really can't explain why, though, and it's not important. He's offering me a way in.

"So, um, what do I have to do for the more lucrative branch?" I look at him, wide-eyed, my fear and my hope paralyzing me. I want to say yes, but what is he going to ask me to do?

Gregor:

I watch -- slightly amused -- at Allie devour a good portion of the chili cheese burger, eating as if she hasn't eaten in days. Ironically, she then explains that I'm not that far off in my assessment of her hunger. When she asks me about the other money making possibilities available to her, I casually look about the café to ensure than there is no one within ear shot before looking to her and explaining my offer.

"Sometimes we need a woman to do things for us," I begin softly.

I don't explain who we is, but I'm sure that she has heard or will soon enough hear rumors that Ray, I, and many of the others she will meet in the days to come are 3-3-O. There isn't a business within 10 city streets that isn't either owned by, controlled by, paying collection to, or somehow otherwise connected to the 3-3-O in some way. Information like that doesn't remain secret very long, even to a girl from West Texas who's only recently moved into town.

I look around again for eager ears, then continue, "Deliver a car for us ... pick up a package ... deliver one, or deliver a message. We have friends south of the border we do business with. Sometimes we need someone to take something to them or bring something back. It's all safe..."

That last part is a lie, of course. It's anything but safe, and sometimes it's downright dangerous. People get hurt. People get killed. Of course, that's why we use underlings -- and strippers -- because losing one doesn't really matter much in the grand scheme of things.

"For instance," I say, leaning forward and reaching into my shirt under the table. "I have something I need taken across town to a friend of mine. I'm busy. Can't get away. But ... if you were to take it to him, I could ... oh, I don't know ... pay the deposit on your new place. Couple'a'hundred bucks, it usually runs."

I sigh with relief. He's not asking me to kill anyone or fuck anyone. Just deliver something. Guns, drugs or money, I assume, or the means to get one or the other. I nod my head. Not only does a couple hundred bucks for going across town sound like a pretty good deal to Allie, the poor, innocent little country girl, but it gets me inside. Just a little bit, maybe, but it's a step.

"It's not, like, anything ... bad, is it?" I say. A stripper, yes, but a good girl at heart. I lean towards him and whisper. "I mean, I don't want to know, but ... do I need to hide it? Should I do this before I get an apartment? Will I have time to get ready for work?"

I have a lot of questions, as it turns out. I know this delivery is a test. I know I'll do exactly what I'm supposed to do: bring it where he says, don't look, don't ask any questions. The more he thinks I can't think for myself, the more likely he is to think for me. And when he does that, I'll start to learn how he thinks, and that will lead to getting the really good information.

"No ... no, of course not," I lie with an innocent smile. "It's just ... well, it's my friend's meds. He doesn't have health care, so ... I help him when I can. Scripts can kill your wad without a good health care plan. Go Obamacare."

I laugh at my little joke as I inconspicuously reach around the end of the booth and toss a bag of Oxy onto the seat beside Allie. As I jot the address on a napkin, I mention quietly, "You ...probabaly don't want to advertise what you're doing. Technically, given Scripts to someone else is illegal, but ... it's the right thing to do, right?"

I hand her the address to go with the Oxy. I don't know if she has any history with anything beyond her coke use, but the thousand plus pills in the bag is enough 'weight' to get her thrown in jail for a year, even for a first offense.

"I'll call ahead," I tell her. "Let'em know you're coming. Allie ... these guys can be a little ... twitchy ... so ... just drop the package and leave. 'Kay?"

I gesture the waitress over as Allie responds, pay the tab -- leaving a tip that gets me a suggestive smile from the hard working young thing -- and walk out with Allie ... putting her career of crime into motion ... or so I think.

The bag has a little heft to it, and it's big enough I'm glad I'm not trying to hide it in any of my sexier clothes. Gregor's done with me, it seems, and I slip the bag under my t shirt, down the front of my pants. I get the rest of my burger in a go box and walk out with him. I look at him as we walk back to the motel parking lot, wondering what he's thinking. Does he believe in Allie? I'm trying to figure out the right angle.

Before I can say anything, he hops in his car and drives away. I get in my car and it starts on the third try. Pretty good for this piece of shit. I look at the address and groan. Across town, in the mazy streets by the port, where nobody hablas Ingles. I twist and turn my way over, staying on the side streets, because I don't even want to see a cop. Only a few people on the force are trusted with the knowledge of my assignment, and I know from working with them what even good cops will try with a pretty girl carrying a bag full of illegal pills.

I get to the place and ring the bell. There's an iron gate on the door, bars on the windows. The door opens and the first thing I see is a the barrel of a 12 gauge aimed at my face.

"Quien eres?"

"I'm Allie. Soy Allie. Gregor sent me!" I don't have to fake the fear in my voice. Gregor wasn't kidding when he said they were twitchy, and he opens the gate and beckons me in.

"Wire?" he snaps, when the door slams shut behind me.

I reach for the bag, but he slides the rack back and I nearly piss myself. The place is empty. No furniture except a blanket wrapped around a girl who's shivering. Maybe she's ODing, or withdrawing. Maybe something much worse. Two more guys lounge on the floor, weapons in easy reach, watching me.

"Bag," I say, holding my hands up.

"Muéstreme sus tetas," he says.

I close my eyes, but I don't want to get shot. I pull my t shirt up to my chin, baring my chest, and I see the others smile. The guy with the gun presses it between my breasts, balancing it there while he takes the bag from my waist with his free hand and tosses it to one of the others. I'm clenching my teeth as he looks inside.

"Bueno," he says, and I take a step back.

The shotgun stays on me, the guy shaking his head, grinning at me.

"Gregor's waiting for me," I say.

The grin fades.

"Aphrodite's?" he says, sounding a little disappointed. The girl in the blanket moans and lifts her head.

"Aphrodite's," I say, and he pulls the gun back, resting it on his shoulder. He looks over at the girl, and then back at me, and the grin returns.

"Hasta la vista," he says, and uses his chin to point to the door.

My hands are trembling as I try to get the keys in the ignition, and I'm actually about to cry when the car won't start. Cop or no, that was a shit situation. When the car finally starts, I lay rubber as I pull away. It's not easily done in a twenty five year old Tempo. I'm halfway back to the motel, before I start breathing right, and that's when I realize I don't live there anymore, and everything but what I'm wearing is in Gregor's car.

I pull into the parking lot of a gas station and rest my head against the steering wheel. I seriously think about driving back to Houston, but I can just imagine what the guys would say. I can just imagine writing parking tickets for the rest of my life. I tell myself to shake it off. I had a bad moment, but I'm ok now. I tell myself a few times before I can pry my fingers off the steering wheel and call the club.

"Aphrodite's," purrs a seductive voice I don't recognize.

"It's Allie," I say. "The new dancer. I'm looking for Gregor...."

"He's not here, hon." The voice is no longer seductive. Just bored. "You're on tonight, so you'll have to see him then."

"I need to see him before work," I say. "Please, can you have him call me? He's got all my stuff...."

"I don't want to know," the woman says, and hangs up.