Persephone in lace and leather.

The woman who steps on to the stage is … stunning. Golden-blonde hair drapes down to her chest and below her shoulder blades in smooth, delicate waves that swirl around her as she walks forward with a confident switch in her walk. You’re stunned she can move like that with the black, leather thigh-high boots she’s wearing, heels arched in wicked points your feet hurt just thinking about. Following up her long, toned legs, garters hold sheer, deep purple leggings elegantly to the fabric just above her panties, lacey, nearly see-through boyshorts with purple accents where it hugs her skin as her hips sway gently to the building music. Similar fabric stretches down to her arms until her fingers, hooked over her thumbs, but otherwise leaving them bare, then retreating into the flattering corset pushing up her breasts, the same leather as her boots with gold-dipped metals forming the straps and buttons securing the outfit.

Playful, deadly, bright hazel eyes scan out over the crowd of patrons, and between them and her finely-curved aquiline nose, she seems more like a monarch observing her worshipful public than a stripper about to launch into a routine. Of course, as you realize how intently you’re staring, then that you’re hardly alone, that may not be too far off. She grins, then slides her hand around the shining, metal pole that raises from the stage and locks into the ceiling at her approach. Beginning with one, lazy circle on the tip of her right heel, her other hand clasps the pole and begins.

With no apparent effort (though you can’t imagine NO effort), she lifts her legs entirely off the ground to the tune of the music, showing them off in long, graceful arcs as she pulls herself up to make sure they never touch the floor, even at their widest sweeps. Her chest bunches and pushes her breasts together as she does, her back curving as she tilts her head away at the zenith. Both legs spin upwards, then she twirls down to the base, landing flawlessly to be able to move into a crawl, approaching the edge of the stage. You can see people close to it simply showering it with bills, which disappear beneath the smokeshow that lays on it like a modest cloud, moreso when she rears back up on her knees, both hands flying above her head. One of them holds her corset, the see-through material hugging her arms and breasts just barely hiding the latter from being entirely exposed, and she releases the top moments before her hands come together above her, flying into the audience. The mad clamor to grab it is shockingly savage, well-dressed, dignified clients snarling and pulling before a woman in a stylish, amber jacket strikes a man clasping it and claims it for her own. You want to stare, to take in the sudden burst of surreal ****, but that would mean turning away from the dancer, and the thrumming running through you won’t allow that. You can, but when you turn away, your body regresses back to its semi-alive state you’re pushing it into, heart slowing, blood falling still, only the imitation of breath in your lungs. Looking back to her, you can feel the real thing. You haven’t felt like this since the first time you fed.

The blonde vixen dominating the stage looks like she’s absorbing the chaos as she stands with a three-circle spin, returning to the pole and wrapping her legs around it, sliding up. As she holds herself by one hand and one leg, the free hand and leg meet, taking off the long, high-heeled boots with dexterity you know you couldn’t match if you were sitting on your bed with full focus on those things. They skid off the edge as she sheds the leather aspects of her costume entirely, apparently some limitation to her enjoyment of the depravity since she isn’t risking putting one of those stilettos through someone’s eye.

Her feet land on the stage again, then she dips back, balancing on the balls of her feet. She spins, making sure the audience gets a thorough view of her chest and her backside through the arches she bends into while circling the pole like a languid pinwheel. When she reaches the front, she smiles, then tightens her grip before flipping upside down, pushing herself to the ceiling where her feet press against it tightly, then spinning down again, this time headfirst. You worry briefly this goddess of a performer is going to bust her skull open, but she flips back mere inches from the ground, rising up to raucous applause.

Done showing off her strength and flexibility, she descends into the crowd, occasionally gracing a client with her briefest presence. A stroke of the shoulders, fingertips making an appraisal of a tie, delicate, intimate inspection of a lovely necklace, some even feeling her sweep across their lap, teased by the extremely thin layer of cloth between her pussy or ass when she does, before she departs just as swiftly as she arrived. The garters loosen near a Wall Street-looking man, who seems almost paralyzed as she drapes them over his gawking face. While the all-too-mortal feelings are something now exotic to you, the moisture building in your underwear is considerably less foreign. The warmth of your blood rushing certainly makes it feel different, mind, but the arousal comes from a healthy respect for her showmanship, as well as what you’d describe as a combination of blinding lust and hunger. God, you want to bite her.

You freeze when she looks at you, all the way from the center of the room as she rises from the man preciously slipping her garters into his hands, eyes locking. A paranoid part of you tells you she heard your thought somehow, which is just bananas. Not that you assume there’s not something out there that DOES do that, but the idea she’d be focusing on you in the first place seems absurd. She’s a nymph, you’re … you. But none of that stops her from carefully approaching you, sure to pay homage to other patrons in passing, their eyes following her in wonder, turning to jealousy as she approaches you.

You stand as she reaches you, then slides her hands around your hips. She sways against you, the smell of her perfume filling your nose with a sharpness scents besides blood simply haven’t. You want to reach out, pull her close, kiss her, feel her, taste her … but you remember the rules, as well as the mysterious owner who might have your hands chopped off and throw you in the sea for doing so. Even still, it feels agonizing not to act when she leans in, pressing her chest against yours, leaning over your shoulder.

“Nick mentioned you helped him,” she whispers to you. “I wanted to show my appreciation. Didn’t have to. But I saw you … and I got curious.” She spins, her hands landing on your waist again as she grinds back into you, forcing you to brace yourself on the bar. Her hair brushes across your face as her ass pushes up against your crotch, pulling you to her hard to make up for you having to play nice. Some of the patrons seem to be fuming at the attention while others are enjoying the show. You have to admit, it does make you feel sexy and strong and worthy. Chosen. It’s silly, but with the sensations of life humming through your body, the intensity is almost too much to bear.

You bite your lip, swallowing a ****, mewling noise as the song fades to a close. You risk just a little touch to slip a hundred in her waistband, where you can see a few others have been placed. No rancor or even an eyebrow raises as she pushes your hand up against her thigh for a moment, letting you feel her heartbeat and the promise of blood just beneath her milky, beautiful skin …

“Room six,” she tells you softly over her shoulder before she begins to depart. “If you’re interested, I’ll be waiting. And I know you’re interested.”

“Be right there,” you answer, more confident as the human feelings faded to a level you’ve become more accustomed to. Part of you misses the thrill, but you feel infinitely more in control without all that biology screaming at you … though even as a member of the walking dead, your wet panties aren’t getting any drier. Especially not watching that heart-shaped backside swing tantalizingly as the black doors part to her and she disappears behind the stage.

“Like I said,” the bartender mumbles to you as the clientele begins to return to normal, a more passive routine taking the stage as the smoke dissipates, money thrown on to it vanished, “don’t think you need to worry about memorable.”

“No shit,” you answer, turning to face him. “Seriously, how much is privacy, because she just gave me a room number, and I will spend all night kicking myself if I don’t go back there. But, y’know. Money.”

“If SHE invited you, it’s not an issue,” he explains. “People beg for her to take their money. And sometimes she does, if she’s fond of them, for one reason or another. But when she tells someone she’s waiting … well, you know how it is with heroin.”

“I … don’t have the slightest idea what heroin is like.”

“First time’s free.”

You walk swiftly to the bathroom to check your phone before you make a decision, needing to see if tomorrow’s been locked down. You can’t just go off and fuck strange strippers while you’re trying to stop horrible tentacle monsters.

Andy: Oh, tight. I thought there weren’t any in the city anymore. Some of them are Grade-A bastards, but I’ve only heard about that. You get ‘em out on the limits sometimes, but usually, nothing you need to DO anything about.

Andy: One in the city is surprising, but yeah, my place is solid. And you’re not wrong, I’m pretty sure your campus has a “no landmines,” policy.

Eva: Hey, Andy, this is Eva. First, really need to know where those are if we’re coming over. Second, Jaq, just making sure you’re still okay.

Eva: But I’m proud of you for getting headway on this! I was starting to feel like I was going crazy. I’ll also check out “banes,” though that’s generic enough I doubt I’m gonna’ make any meaningful discoveries.

Andy: Okay, my place. Jaq knows the way. And they won’t be ARMED, I’m not a total psycho.

Andy: Well.

Jaq: I’m fine, Eva. Just … super hungry now.

Jaq: Eight o’clock was the time I was given, that work for both of you?

Andy: Yup.

Eva: Of course.

Jaq: Okay, I’m about to have dinner. Eva, see you at home. Andy, see you tomorrow.

Locking your phone, you walk back on to the main floor, then look to the lush, red door that reads “Rooms I-VIII.” Room six.