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A ritual of magical sex.

"

Gerald raised an eyebrow. "...And if the drunks want to see a little nudity?"

"They're more than welcome to, if they're not shitfaced drunk. People know better by now than to aggravate our security team."

"I should think so." Gerald said briskly. "Well, if you don't mind... I would like to watch some of your better entertainers-you'll understand if I forgot my pocketbook of course. Bill it to a tab, Grifford will take care of everything."

"Unnecessary Gerald - Grifford's already taken care of us enough. I think that will do. Just have fun, and keep it in line with the ladies."

They laughed once more, together. Braun excused himself.

O O O

He knows damned well this wasn't a check in. He's probably got every camera, and guard here watching me to see if I'll do anything wrong-and even if I did, what could he do? He knows who I am, and he knows who I work for. He may not know what we do, but he knows that it's serious.

The girls up here, if it is at all possible, are much prettier than the girls downstairs.

Up here they go by names like Rose, Crimson, and Lust; but I'm neither interested in Crimson, or Lust-not today-today I am here for Ammielle.

A guard approaches me casually, though his shoulders are slumped and his head is a little bowed.

I know he's not that old-I know his body language-his standing like most men who know me would stand in my presence, a position of submission. He's armed with a glock and a baton; a stun gun, and chemical spray - mace, I think.

This guy would look as tough as a soldier if he weren't so slouched. He has come to direct me away from the cells, and into the "Warden's Office".

So that's what that was.

I thought it would have been Braun's office for sure, man, oh man: was I ever wrong. The Warden's Office: the upper level VIP room. A lush, private den for the rich ones.

Private dances to a more personal nature, without the distraction of other patrons watching you; without the sounds of cat calls, whistles,flushing toilets, or a combination of any or all of them.

One pole in the center and a circular stage surrounding it. The pole is polished brass it looks like, though it could be gold the way it shines under the lights.

There's two huge, lavish, half-circular couches set up around the stage, a space between them so that the higher-class scum here can get in and out.

There are guards in each of the corners of the room, which is dark, other than the spotlight on center stage.

The first out to dance: Her name is Marisal. She looked to be someone born into an exotic culture, dressed like a gypsy. She may have been Turkish.

She may have been Mexican...

I couldn't tell you, and I'm damned good at calling roots. I'm looking at her, and she's looking back at me, and she is gorgeous, that's what she is. When she dances, her hips move, and the entire world seems to sway with them, the seductive swivel of her body, her belly, her legs and her hips.

She is amazing.

Through the entire dance, she never once removes an article of clothing; she doesn't even allude to it, and I find myself wishing that I had my pocket book.

Her dance, so full of the mystery of a woman, is like the perfect antidote for the empty-girl I saw when I first came in here. Her dance is Nirvana; it's Paradise-it's the Garden of Eden-and before I know it, her song is over, and she's standing there with a smile.

It could have been a smirk, a grin, or a simple gracious smile-the mystery in that puzzle alone makes me understand why this one makes the big bucks, while the girls downstairs are whoring their hips off to cheap trance and air.

She graces off of the center stage, brushing past me. She smells of everything good that I have ever known in my life, with her skin like shimmering iridescence.

I feel captivated by the spell of her mysterious dance. As she steps down, I see her heading for the corridor that would lead down the stairs.

I wonder if she'll dance again, downstairs, with the cheap girls, cheap crowd, and the cheap trance and techno that I

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