Standard disclaimer: I do not own stuff. Just borrowing Bioware's toys for a while and will be putting them back when I'm done. Enjoy. :D
You're in the dressing room, painting on your eyes, when the manager barrels in and announces in front of everyone-
"Hey, Betty. A guy just came in and asked for you. He wants the grand tour. He's already paid in full."
Your name isn't Betty, of course. It's a stage name, a generic name adopted when you came here. Came here fleeing your old life of trying to make a difference for the ignorant, the cowardly and the ungrateful. Galactic destruction was imminent, lives were being lost with alarming regularity, and you were tired of it all. And one night you stepped off the Normandy SR-2 during shore leave and went AWOL. You didn't think it through, a fact that became painfully obvious when you first applied for a job and they requested your most recent references. You excused yourself from the interview and recused yourself from that planet.
Everywhere else you went it was the same. You couldn't get a decent job because you couldn't provide references and you couldn't get a lousy job because you were overqualified. At last you were down to your last bit of money, your looks, your body, and a skill that you never forgot, even if you were a medical student in times past.
And so you became a stripper, became "Betty."
You don't associate with your coworkers, which is just as well because they hate to see you coming. Even in a room full of Asari contortionists, you stand out. You don't grind on tables, you don't hover over sweaty crotches. No ... you dance on the poles, propel yourself through the air ten feet above the ground as men and women watch from below, utterly agape. How much does she cost?
You cost a lot, which is part of the reason the other dancers hate you so much.
Who the hell does that bitch think she is? ... her pussy made of gold? Ain't no booty worth that much ... she must be payin' for drugs or somethin' ...
They don't get it. It's not snobbery, it's simple economics. Your prices are high because you don't want to dance for strangers. Once people find out how much it costs to get you to come closer, they suddenly prefer that you keep your distance. Simple as that.
But now you've got a customer who wants the "grand tour:" a fire dance, a pole dance, a lap dance-and you afterwards, however he or she wants you.
The last time this happened you got a spoiled little rich kid who had clearly just taken his sparkling new card out of the plastic right before he came in. He popped three times before you could even come down from the pole, and he muttered something about "needing to go meet his friends" rather than face your open scorn. The manager was too afraid of the brat's father to let you keep the money. You barely made rent that month, had to skip a few days' worth of meals.
You're careful with your makeup. This type of show lasts an hour on average, but you're all alone under a limelight for at least twenty minutes of it. The light is unforgiving enough without sweaty makeup streaking and caking your face.
Smoky eyes with sooty corners, whore-red lips.
That's enough.
You slide into a silver sheath and clear heels. You brush your fingers against the tips of your hair. It used to be richly-layered brown at one point. It's a cheap, glossy black now. Your red roots are beginning to show again. You need to touch them up.
You'll do it tomorrow.
You take a final glance at your face. It won't look like this when you return. You leave the dressing room and the muttering starts immediately. "I hate that stuck-up bitch."
Your customer's at the bar. You can tell who he is immediately because of the radioactive orange drink in front of him. Any customer who wants a "grand tour" always begins with this drink. It warps the senses and makes the fire dance that much more eye-popping.
He looks up, sees you. You cock your head; he nods curtly. You're his and he's yours.
You ignite your tools, two luminescent balls attached to sturdy cord. Your arms work in widening circles; your body moves independently. You twist, you gyrate. You are a blur. Your customer is watching. So is everyone else's. Men are ignoring their dancers. Women have stopped acknowledging their dates' conversations. The eyes are on you, in lust, in envy, in admiration. Who is that? How do I get her to dance for me?
You're moving backwards, towards a roped-off corridor-the VIP room. The bouncer unhooks the rope to allow you to pass through and you swing the glowing balls concurrently, counterclockwise, slowly reeling them up. Your customer is following. He slams down the remainder of the drink and flicks the shot glass onto a deserted table. He passes through, the bulk of his torso blocking the entrance to the hallway and disappointing the onlookers trying to peek beyond his body.
This hall is quite dark. It is lit solely by tiny pinlights on the floor and leads directly to an open room decorated by gauzy curtains, a plush, overstuffed chair, and several twelve-foot high poles. Your customer plants himself in the chair and abruptly turns it towards the brass pole. He's made himself clear. He wants you on this one.
You continue the fire dance. The customer is over ten feet away, so there is no danger of striking him. You fully extend your arms and wield the balls confidently. You know how you appear to him-a dark silhouette lit by intermittent gleams of flame. The drink should be hitting him hard by now, but he is oddly silent. No gasps, no groans, no appreciation from him-just the inexorable weight of his gaze, pressing against your exposed collarbone. Despite his lack of audible excitement, you feel heat.
The bass is dull in here, but you can hear the music changing tempo, and carefully, you bring the flaring orbs back to your side. Your hand brushes against the wall for sensuality's sake, also to douse all of the other unneeded lights.
You place a hand on the pole, stabilizing yourself within the circumference of light. You strut. You drag your heels reluctantly, pouting. You lift yourself confidently into a one-handed spin, showing off the muscles in your right arm, your back, your slender legs. You touch down momentarily-a butterfly lilting to earth before throwing itself into the sky again-and launch yourself into a fluid spin. Your hips lead; your legs follow. You arch proudly. He shifts. He's sitting forward.
You spin. You twirl. You mince, manipulating your body. He's watching intently. You can see the tension in his shadowy form. You hear a quiet sigh, and the brush of a palm against fabric. His hand's probably in his pocket now. That didn't take long.
You face the pole; you drop into a full squat, legs apart. The dress is just short enough to show him what he wants to see.
There is another sigh. You feel his fingers rustle the hem of the dress. Technically they're not supposed to touch, but anyone paying this much money gets to flout the rules.
Still, though, you stand quickly. You grasp the pole, tighten your thighs, and climb. Seven feet, eight feet. You lean back, letting him look up and down your dress simultaneously. It crumples against your face and heaps at your shoulder. You're removing it; he's reaching up to take it from you.
Now you're exposed. The lamé bra and hot pants that you wear are meant to be torn from your body and thrown aside quickly. He waits as you right yourself and climb higher. As you approach the ceiling, you invert once again and push your body into a full split, right next to the light. That makes him moan, and stand. Even from this distance, you can see him fumbling to open his pants.
Great, another early riser. Maybe this one won't try to weasel a refund ...
You gently turn yourself yet again until your body faces away from the pole and use the friction of your shoulder and the strength of your left hand to lower yourself back down. This move is difficult, and dangerous to perform so high in the air. You, however, mastered it months ago, slowly unfolding yourself like a budding flower.
The man is stepping into the light, arms raised to catch you as you come down.
You time it perfectly, your thighs arcing against his body. He's so damned built, you can feel his muscles through his clothes. His hands hold you, control you, allow you to slide through, greedily palm your wet skin. Your eyes slip closed as you take a moment to savor the feeling of his erection sliding across your lower back, and your nipples stand out, begging for the caress of his lips.
With a sigh, you open your eyes and find yourself staring at your former boss, Commander Allen Shepard.
He's staring back at you, his face a mash of desire, because he's holding a nearly-nude woman in his hands, and carefully-controlled anger, because that woman is you, his former executive assistant. Twice you open your mouth to say something and realize that there is nothing you can say. Finally you try to turn yourself upright, lower your legs to the ground, something.
He's having none of it. He's holding you, his arms pinning your thighs to his sides, his hands cupping your bottom, fingers kneading. Stirring up heat. His erection is still covered, still against your back.
"Could you-" you manage to choke out, and writhe in his grasp. There is no escape. He's pulling the hot pants off. Resigning yourself to the inevitable, you reach up with your right hand and grip the pole. Relax ...
For a second, he smirks. Then he dips an index finger between your parted lips, waits for the swish of your tongue, removes it from your mouth and slides that finger between your other parted lips.
You gasp, because his finger is bigger than yours, and it hurts.
The finger doesn't entirely withdraw. It strokes, gently rotates, moves aside as a second enters. You rock against his hand, growing warmer, wetter. You can't get away, and even if you could you might not choose to go. It's been too long since you felt the touch of another hand besides your own. And Commander Shepard is clearly familiar with the female form.
The strange sound in your ears is your own hoarse moaning.
"Nngh," he grits out between clenched teeth. He moves in closer, setting you back on your hooker-heel clad feet, and kneels between your spread legs. You watch him dive onto your muff. His eyes are closed. The spotlight bleaches out his skin completely. He is a ghost in black civvies, hands framing your hips, his mouth worshipping you.
Your back arches helplessly, and your body bends like a bow as you strain forward on the tiny slope of the shoes, seeking more of this.
The hot pants are in the way. So is the little triangle bikini top. You want him. You can't say so, though. He's the one paying for the experience.
He stops when your knees buckle and holds you until you can stop trembling. He wipes his mouth absent-mindedly and gets to his feet. You realize it's your turn, your turn to be on your knees, your turn to have your mouth filled. The thought sends a jolt through you. The very idea!
... but he's not your commander, he's just a guy with enough money to pay you to suck him off. At least that's what you tell yourself as he skims that last layer of clothing back and you're presented with his organ, already slick with precum. It smells; it smells of clean clothes and soap and musk and a faint tinge of salt, and makes you think that he dolled up just for you.
He coaxes your mouth open and enters.
He's too big ... he won't fit, you think to yourself, but already your tongue is lapping away and your head is bobbing, and he's sucking in his breaths as if they hurt, exhaling involuntarily. You look up; he's looking down, but his eyes are completely unfocused. He's holding the pole with his left hand. His right hand drifts, dreamlike, towards your badly-dyed hair and firmly pulls backwards, almost too late. The warm streaks hit your cheek, ooze down your neck.
Shaking, you wipe it off. He still has his hand in your hair. His eyes eventually stop swimming.
"Shit," he finally mutters. "Don't they have a better place to fuck than the floor?" He shoves his still-rigid member back inside his clothes and shakes his head as if he's trying to clear something away.
"Let's talk, Ms. Chambers."
"With all due respect, this probably isn't a good place, sir."
"No, it's not. At all. I'd prefer to speak with you aboard the Normandy."
"I left for a reason, sir."
His eyes are frightening under the intensity of the light. "And that would be? To prostitute yourself? That's called going from bad to worse."
The words sting like the bite of a whip. Was that supposed to be motivation? Or just more of his usual thoughtlessness?
"I brought presents," he says, abruptly changing the subject.
Sure enough, there are two boxes neatly stacked right next to the chair's side. From the general shape and size, you guess that the bigger one is a pair of boots. The other, by that logic, is likely your old uniform.
"You tell me if you want to put it on again," he says, nodding.
"If I put it on? ..."
"Then you'll report to the Normandy immediately for debriefing."
"And if I don't?"
"Then we'll have to finish here, in the storage space of a dirty club. I paid in advance, after all."
... oh, that hurts. You look away. For the first time tonight, you're brutally aware that you're sore and will be for days. The bastard was so rough.
"I can't force you to come back, Ms. Chambers. But you were worth the time and the money I spent to find you again. At least I believe so. Maybe Timmy doesn't agree." He snorts to himself.
"You ... you looked for me?"
"Personally."
You blink. The Commander himself tracked you down personally. You're so used to being a cog, an interchangeable part, that to hear this admission from him is humbling.
Perhaps life on the Normandy wasn't so bad after all.
... and you hate every bitch in this stinking hell-hole, anyway.
He enters the bathroom while you're making the final adjustments to your clothes and scoops up your limp ponytail. A quick flash of silver, and eight inches of boot-black hair tumbles to the tile below. Your new cut won't win any prizes for style, but it'll make regs and that's what counts.
He walks back out of VIP, heading for the dance floor. You leave through the fire exit. You already know from experience that the alarm system won't ring. When he comes out of the front doors, you are by his side.
Goodbye, "Betty."
It occurs to you while the two of you wait for the transport vehicle that you are not wearing any underwear. And that Commander Shepard is still visibly erect.
His mind is in the same gutter. As the two of you board the vehicle, he takes the opportunity to announce how disappointed he is in you, and how he will be obliged to handle your disciplinary action personally. You will report to his quarters at 2000 hours sharp.
"Yes sir, Commander Shepard," you say, and suppress a smile.
fin