A Rebel’s Dangerous Kink

pole-dancers

The main lights went down all over the club, except for the spotlight on the stage. A voice over the loudspeakers blared, “Ladies and gentlemen, Showgirls is proud to present our featured dancers, the most erotic show on earth!”

Two gorgeous young women in stiletto heels strutted on stage: a tall, thin blonde the voice announced as Candy, and a voluptuous brunette called Heather. Their outfits were a welcome change from the trashy lingerie worn by the opening act, most of them skraelings, who had performed their “bump and grind” previously.

Short, tartan skirts barely covering their asses, and white shirts with the waists pulled up and tucked between their collars showing off their toned stomachs, with knee high fishnet stockings reaching to their thighs. The look was sexy schoolgirl; innocents gone bad; their nubile bodies briefly illuminated by flashes from the spotlights on stage. The mix of modesty and seduction was pure eroticism.

The audience erupted in hoots and hollers, with vulgar and vaguely threatening cat calls and chants. All except for two men seated near the back, their modest applause subdued only enough not to arouse suspicion. Their mission, deep inside System Territory, entailed far too much risk for mere titillation. The younger of the pair was stocky, bare faced, dressed in denims and a Ben Sherman button up. About mid 20s, he leaned over to his partner and whispered, “looks like our women are still the most desired of all on Midgard, hey Trevor?”

Trevor, a wiry man with lean muscles nearing 40, with a close cropped full beard, snorted, “yeah, the few that are left.” As the crowd noise subsided, a pulsing techno beat blared from the speakers, and the two girls faced each other on stage, just within touching distance, their bodies undulating in a sensuous wave in time with the music. Their nubile charms were undeniable, one sugar, one spice, an ideal blend of feminine beauty. Candy was a classic Nordic beauty, her long silky tresses the color of the sun, swinging freely around her shoulders. Her think waist balancing out her perfectly symmetrical hips and breasts. Her luminous skin and perfect legs and ass enough to evoke an aching lust in any man alive.

undercover-agents

She was the Goddess of Love, Desire, and Lust;, Aphrodite reincarnated in the flesh, an echo of an ancient pagan fertility rite. But if Candy was Aphrodite, Heather was the Vestal Virgin, her trimmed brunette locks framing a delicate rounded face. A petite nose and deep eyes hinted at a demure modesty, her thin figure, a nubile nymph, just past puberty. Every inch of her flawless body a reminder of the passions of a first sexual awakening. Girlish innocence, eager yet fearful, a curious invitation to ravishment and initiation into womanhood.

Staring into each other’s eyes, their bodies wordlessly flirted with each other. Hands resting on each other’s hips, they gyrated suggestively, a primordial siren song to consummate a carnal lust. They traded the role of dominant and submissive, one pursing, the other retreating, then reversing the roles to the beat of the music, alternately one a hunter, the other prey, building an erotic tension like a circuit of energy. Aphrodite at first the sexual predator, her hands roaming over Heather’s back and ass, and elsewhere, lightly, as if by accident or chance, before sliding to her breasts and shoulders.

Curious fingers breaking taboos while retaining the plausible deniability of innocent exploration.

Heather played her role perfectly, the demure ingenue unsure whether to resist, or submit; tantalizing caresses forbidden to one’s own sex. Trembling like an eager but unsure schoolgirl, Candy’s escalating intimate intrusions on her anatomy provoking a flight or fight response. Hypnotized like prey in the gaze of a predator, the allure of modest innocence submitting to an immodest desire and an impudent violation of her apparent inexperience.

The young man, with far less experience than his older companion, leaned over to Trevor and asked, “do you think they are enjoying this? I mean, really turned on by another woman?”

“Eric, this is for money, these girls aren’t lesbians.”

“You’re probably right, but why are you so sure?” Eric replied.

Trevor explained, “men are voyeurs by nature. A woman’s body is erotic in itself. But a man’s jealousy is aroused by other men pursuing his woman. Two women simply doubles the erotic effect, with no challenge from a rival male. In this day and age, they likely had no inhibitions in the first place. Then there is the certainty of at least some sort of drug addiction which would have overcome any resistance anyway. I’d bet all the money I have it’s just an act.”

“I guess you’re right,” Eric agreed, then smirked. “Uh, how much money could you actually afford to risk on that, anyway?” Eric knew that Trevor donated most of the spoils of their raids into System Territory to impoverished Kinsland families. He was known to live so modestly it bordered on primitive, even by Kinsland’s wilderness standards. Unlike other KD veterans who had already captured a wife – or two or three – Trevor had never taken a break from his guerrilla activities to indulge in the pleasure of a woman’s company. Even now, Trevor’s eyes roamed the club, Eric following the lead of his older partner, glancing furtively for their assigned target.

club_owner

Mostly feigning interest in the act, the pair scoped out the crowd, looking for the owner, one Harry Silverstein. Sympathizers and supporters in the area had fingered Harry Silverstein as a likely target for retribution and plunder. In addition to disaster insurance fraud, Silverstein owned a chain of strip clubs, brothels and did a lively business in internet pornography. It was well know he was connected to semi-official cocaine importation networks that reached the heights of the intelligence establishment, which likely procured the bulk of his fortune, not to mention the services of these girls. Due to the semi-legal nature of his businesses, it was certain he had fungible hard assets at the ready, likely in his home and office, off the books, hidden from the tax man, and ready to transfer across the borders should political winds change. The pair knew the dirty business of the “persuasion” that would be necessary to convince Silverstein to reveal an easily transportable stash of off the books hard assets.

Silverstein didn’t appear to have arrived for his evening’s entertainment yet, so the avenging duo settled back to wait for closing time.

bensherman

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