The Real Gentlemen of New York

Mr. Morton’s driver parks the BMW down an alley, stepping out of the car first. We watch him through our tinted windows as he makes a small circle around the area, checking for any stray paparazzi or other unwanteds. He slips back into the car a minute later.

“Coast is clear, Mr. Morton,” he says.

The older man only opens the door then, stepping out of the car. I follow suit, making my exit on the other side of the vehicle. The alleyway is dimly lit by single sputtering neon sign, turning the bricks into a blur of misshapen reds and oranges.

There’s a small door tucked into the wall, painted in such a similar shade to the bricks that I nearly miss it at first. Mr. Morton casually gives it a couple raps. It opens a second later, revealing a dark corridor, the single attendant who opened the door for us dressed in a nondescript grey uniform.

“After you,” Morton says, and so I take the first steps into the dark building, wondering if I’ve made the right choice by following him here.

But I can’t leave, because of a simple fact that Elianne somehow seemed to understand. In order for my plan to succeed, I need to get Maddie Najbreit on my side, and getting the favour of the Chair of the Republican party will prove instrumental for that.

I travel down the dark corridor in silence, Mr. Morton’s heavy breath close behind at all times. In the distance, I hear the sounds of garish techno music thumping, and then, out of nowhere, the sound of men cheering. Flashing lights spill in from around the corner, and I can smell **** in the air, as well as its close companions, weed and tobacco. But before I turn the corner to see what lays in wait there, Mr. Morton lays a hand on my shoulder.

“The door to your left,” he mutters.

I pause, not having even noticed that there was solid black door there. I push it open, revealing a dark private room. Low atmosphere lights flicker on as I step in, Morton close behind. There’s a luxurious black leather couch lining the back wall, alongside a vanity table. There are, also, two stripper poles that dominate the centre of the room.

“Any preferences tonight?” the employee who followed us down the corridor asks.

Mr. Morton clasps his hands together and stares at me.

“Ass or tits?” he asks, the expression on his face dead serious.

The real question is, of course, which he prefers.

“Ass,” I answer, without skipping a beat.

“Good man,” Mr. Morton smiles. He sits back on the couch and lets out a content sigh. “Get us Robin and Dove for the night.”

The employee nods, and then frowns. “Sir, I’m afraid Robin is working the main stage tonight—”

Mr. Morton opens up his wallet and pulls out a sleek black credit card. He slowly places it down on the table, and then looks at the guy by the door meaningfully.

The young man gulps, picking up the card.

“The two of them will be with you in a moment, sir. We'll bring refreshments shortly.”

“Half the fun,” Morton says to me once the employee’s left, “is denying the rabble outside their fun. No reason they should get to enjoy a girl so pretty as Robin.”

“She a looker?” I ask.

My question is interrupted by the opening of the private room’s door. I can hear the crowd outside Booing, shouts of “We want Robin!” echoing through the strip club. Lights flash outside, a disembodied voice announcing the new string of girls parading onto the front stage, the drop in the song thumping loud in my ear. But all of that is an afterthought when I see the two women walking in through the door.

The one on the left is a petite white girl, her hair dyed a silver that borders on platinum blonde. She wears a sparkling dress filled with silver sequins, exposing the luscious curves of her body, an ass so glittery and round that you could mistake it for the sun. She alone would be enough to turn heads on the street. But her companion is a statuesque redhead that knocks even the silver girl out of the park.

Her sleek long legs, the impossible fullness of her ass on such a slim waist, that bolted on rack… Morton beckons for her to step closer, and there’s no mistaking his fondness in his eye, and the way he favours that view of her glorious rear.

“Robin’s worth her weight in gold, wouldn’t you agree?” he asks me.

“She’s a work of art,” I concur.

“You’d know something about that,” he chuckles, eyeing me. “And Dove’s not bad either.”

He turns his greedy attention back to the girls, who giggle at him. I seem to notice for the first time that they’re each carrying a tray full of drinks in their hands, and they make a dramatic show of leaning forwards as they place the liquor on the table, showing off their abundant cleavage.

“Give us a show,” Morton commands, cracking open one of the beers. “Show us what you can do on that pole.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Robin says, leaning forward to tug lightly on his tie.

Morton smiles and swats her hand away, and she prances backwards, leaping up and grabbing the pole with her hands. Her feet get a grip on it a second later, her back arched outwards, and like some kind of inhuman feet, she begins to swivel around it. Dove has the pole sandwiched between her legs, her body suspended horizontally through the air, spinning about the pole, her ass hypnotic in its motion. Their bodies revolve around the poles, mesmerising me with their grace and strength, and I find myself digging into my wallet for Benjamins to throw at them.

Morton is equally supportive, tossing a fistful of bills at them as the duo begins working the same pole, improbably not colliding with one another as they slide up and down its length, the acrobatics and the long swooshes of their hair a strangely seductive sight. I’ve got my own beer in hand, and I kick back, relaxing, enjoying the show before me.

“How’d you like for ‘em to get a bit more personal?” Morton asks, ribbing my side.