Meredith's Private Dancer

Characters: Meredith McCorr, Priscilla Kitaen (Voodoo)
Rated: PG-13
Summary: Meredith heads out to a strip club with some friends while she is in New York City, and encounters a very special dancer; they make quite the impression upon one another.
OOC Date: 2017-11-25
IC Date: 2017-11-25
Where: Private Eyes club, Upper East Side, Manhattan, New York City

New York City is the Big Apple, one of the largest and most powerful, most affluent cities in the world. And Manhattan is its most affluent borrough. Frankly, Priscilla Kitaen couldn't afford the nightly rate on a cut-rate postage stamp on the Lower East Side in Alphabet City. But as a headliner exotic dancer, she can work in that borrough, and she is. The Private Eyes club is one of the swankiest, highest-priced and classiest clubs in all of New York City, and tonight their headliner is none other than the sultry siren of sensuality, the magical and mystical Voodoo.

The club, as a high-class joint, runs on a reasonably simple premise: every dancer does at least three sets, starting around dinner time in the evening and running until three in the morning. Each dancer in the rotation does a fifteen minute performance on the main stage, followed by a tour of the lounge, taking table dances - small stages positioned right above singular tables seating at most six - upon request, and working their way around to gather up requests for private dances, held in VIP lounges on the second floor.

A table dance usually runs around a hundred dollars, and VIP dances usually run around two-hundred. Some dancers will make things work for less, while others will push for more. But the biggest rule of all is that no one touches the dancers. Of course, most of the dancers tend to relax that rule, especially in the VIP lounges. But one of the ways that Private Eyes stays the upper class establishment of its reputation is by protecting the dancers and assuring a safe environment. Of course, they also enforce other rules on the dancers accordingly.


Dusk rolling in on a Saturday night means all the nighttime creatures come out to play. Case in point: Meredith McCorr, famous actress turned relentless hedonist. The party starts once her eyes open, and whoever she crashed out with is whoever helps get the party rolling again. Right now, Meredith enters the Private Eyes with a crew of young gentlemen known to hipsters and chic listeners as up-and-coming New York rappers. These kids are maybe 20, 21 tops to a man, and dress in high-end brand-name wear. It still doesn't make it any less weird that among their ranks is a single pale redhead in a party dress.

The group takes a large table and set about conspicuously consuming: bottle service, arranging dances, all the rest. Meredith seems content to just drink expensive champagne and soak in the atmosphere, but at some point, she must be getting jealous of her friends.

"I want a dance," Meredith declares. "In the VIP lounge. Who's the best dancer here?" The way Meredith asks, she could be asking about which paper shredder in Staples gets better reviews online. She's tranquil to a fault. "Give me some cash," she says to one of her rapper friends, looking him in the eyes. "I want to make it rain, too."


Of course, when Meredith looks that rapper in the eyes, he coughs up the dough without hesitation; that's just the way it work. As for who is the best dancer, that's a matter of opinion, and those opinions vary.

But as Meredith is getting handed a huge wad of cash the music changes, the lighting shifts, and in strolls the next dancer. And as talented as the others may be - and they are, no doubt - none can really hold a candle to the sway generated when the mystical and magical Voodoo takes the stage. There's just something about the woman; in indefinable ways, she is just the hottest thing one has ever seen. If there's even a little bit of someone that finds women attractive, she takes it to the Nth degree. She's athletically agile, graceful and powerful, yet supple, curvaceous, her features an exotic blend of the best features of almost every major racial group on the planet.

Yet none of that fully explains the aura that washes out over the crowd when she starts dancing. She feels it, and then Voodoo ramps it up and she feeds it back. And there just isn't much in the mortal realm that can be hotter than this. And she's not even trying; this is just who she is, how she is naturally.


Meredith takes the money, but just as that happens, Voodoo takes the stage. Meredith keeps one hand on her money, and with the other, a fingertip rubs idly at the lip of her champagne glass. She watches, like everyone else.

A few minutes into the dance, Meredith signals over one of the girls roaming the floor. Whatever they talk about, Priscilla can't hear from the stage — but she might catch sight of the manager of the place being brought over by the dancer a moment later, having a brief conversation with Meredith, whose eyes meet his the entire time. Meredith looks very happy, and the manager looks happy, too.

Meredith then turns back to watch the feature dance, but she seems maybe a bit distracted. A minute or two before the set ends, Meredith gets up and excuses herself, with the money she took from her friend and also an entire bottle of Moet in hand.

By the time Voodoo makes it backstage, the manager is waiting for you: "Take a minute then get up to the VIP Lounge. There's someone there waiting for you. Special request. Trust me, she's gonna make it worth your while."


The mulatto dancer eyes the manager and shrugs. "OK. Fair enough. Which room?" Once she has the number, she nods and waves him off. Then she sits down, having no more care for her nakedness than any of the other dancers back there as she cracks open a bottle of water she pulls out of the fridge herself, then empties one of those flavor packets into, closes, shakes, and drinks it slowly but methodically, rejuvenating through the application of cold, flavored and enhanced natural water.

Unlike some, that's about the hardest Pris ever bothers with, despite the ready availability of such things in her line of work.

After she finishes her water, Pris moves to one of the costume racks, slides a few hangars back and forth, and then selects one, taking the time to get herself gussied up into a new costume. She checks her heels to make sure everything is in order, and then cheek-kisses some of the other girls, wishing them luck on their sets as she sets out to the back stairway up to the second floor, then down the hallway to the right VIP lounge.

She nods to Marcus, the bouncer on the hall. "Everything OK?" Pris asks. He nods. "All good. Lady who came in with the boi rappers is in seven." She smiles and gives his forearm a little squeeze. "Thanks."

A moment or two later and Voodoo, now dressed up like a terminally sexy clubgirl, knocks lightly on the door and steps inside, closing it behind herself as she takes in the look of the other woman in the room. She recognizes her face, and quickly comes up with a name, but doesn't use it. "Hi. You asked for a private dance with me?" she asks, sauntering in.


Meredith is folding a $100 bill when Priscilla enters. It's purely beginner origami — a crane, or something similar to it in intention if not execution. When Priscilla enters, Meredith stays focused on manipulating the money, looking down at it while she carefully folds. "Hi there," Meredith says, the bottle of Moet open next to her. No glass, so she probably just took a swig from the bottle.

Meredith sets the folded money-bird down and then looks up. In person, she's prettier than in the movies, and it's all down to her eyes. Something about her green eyes draws people in just as potently as Voodoo's dancing. "You're Voodoo, right? I liked you on the stage. You're very pretty." Meredith speaks in a soft, low voice, like she's telling Voodoo a secret. Somehow, this seems okay and not weird, maybe? After looking Meredith in the eyes, really, things just seem… cool. Like things are going exactly how they're supposed to be going. "Do you want a drink?"


Pris smiles warmly, strutting into the room with the door closed, swaying naturally with the stride required to balance on those towering heels that seme to be ubiquitous amongst exotic dancers. "Hi." she purrs, a whiskey-toned mezzo-soprano voice with a largely indescribable accent, mixing Southern, Cajun, French and even Mexican; her voice is as much a hybrid as the rest of her. "Yes, I'm the dancer called Voodoo. I'm glad you liked the show. And thanks."

Pris responds warmly and positively as she moves over to the controls on one wall, bringing up the music, starting it playing, and then adjusting the lighting to the little stage set around the pole in the middle of the room, which is where she gravitates as her dancing performance begins. "So. You asked for a private dance." Pris purrs to her audience of one; in here, the music is not nearly so loud, almost more of a suggestion of music than the pumping, thumping, surging power downstairs. "Was there anything in particular you wanted?"

Slowly building, the same warmth, attraction and desire builds here as it was downstairs. It's just feeling, nothing more, and it's not compulsory. Just not easy to ignore, as it resonates with only what is naturally inside others.


Meredith leans back in her chair while Voodoo sets things up. When she's asked what she wants, the corners of her eyes tense just a bit, as if she's working hard to think of it, or maybe just how to put it into words. "I want something special," Meredith finally says, her voice only just audible above the music. "For both of us. I want you to have a good time."

Meredith's lips curl into a very faint smile, and she shifts in her chair. "I want something we'll both remember." She reaches over, drinks another swig of Moet right from the bottle, then holds it out towards Pris. Even for someone who doesn't drink, the look in Meredith's eyes seems to say that it'll be okay — and believably so.


"And what would be special for you? What would make tonight a night you would be happy to remember?" Pris inquires in that sultry voice, as she continues to dance. She hasn't started to strip, yet, because she hasn't yet narrowed down what Meredith wants, but she continues the performance. Proof enough of her skill and draw is how compelling and beautiful and alluring her dancing is while fully clothed, almost - if not quite - as if the stripping is superfluous.

"I always have a good time." Pris purrs, hanging upside down and twirling around the bar with effortless grace, almost as if she were levitating rather than holding herself up by one hooked heel and a bit of pressure from one athletic thigh. "If I didn't, it would show." All true, of course. She would not naturally project an aura of attraction the way she does if she wasn't 'in tune' and having fun.


"I always have a good time, too," Meredith replies, in a way that makes it sound like the idea amuses her on some level — like she's getting away with some kind of scam. Meredith leans forward in her chair. She's closer to Pris than she was, but not so close that they risk touching. "If you were me… and if I were you… what would I do… and what would you want? Because if you WERE me, what you'd want would be what I'd want, wouldn't it? I think that's how it would work." Meredith has the aura of someone whose sentences are covered in fog as they leave her mouth. She's just shy of a 'wizened old stoned philosopher' way of carrying herself.

"It's a weird thing, isn't it?" Meredith sits closer still. Her own party dress really doesn't cover more than Pris's club gear. She looks into Pris's eyes again, herself rightside up, Pris upside down. "Asking someone what they want. How do you know what they'd say would be true? What if I said I wanted one thing, but I really wanted something else? Would I be lying to you, or just lying to myself, pretending? What if you wanted me to want one thing, and I said I wanted another, but what I really wanted was what you wanted me to want?" Meredith reaches for her champagne bottle. "It's all really confusing, isn't it? What should I want?"


Pris has plenty of experience dealing with customers who are high, or drunk. But this woman's confusing, twisting words are at a whole other level, and the dancer cannot seem to make much real sense out of them whatsoever. Her instinct is to ignore the words and just do her thing, but interacting with customers is part of her thing, part of the way that she stands out as a top-flight dancer, and one of the ways she earns the biggest tips.

Pris doesn't actively avoid touching, and light brushes happen as she continues dancing. But oddly enough - in Meri's experience - she doesn't lose her place. She doesn't ask for or take alcohol. Many of the 'normal' ways that others interact with Meri's power and suggestions don't seem to be working the way they normally do.

Which is not to say that Pris is somehow unaffected. But the brain in her skull isn't fully human. It's a hybrid of human and two incredibly different alien species. And it is also a mind with a profound mental resistance to tampering or control, so much so that she is capable of shielding other minds with her own.

It's just weird.

"You should want whatever makes you happy." Pris responds, as the dancing continues. "I do what the customer asks, so long as what they ask doesn't break the rules." Beat. "Too much." Finally coming back to her feet, swaying sensually, Pris leans over Meri until the other woman will be completely surrounded by Priscilla's scent, the warmth radiating from her skin, and that aura of incredible sensuality she exudes like breathing. "So why don't you just tell me what you want? If you change your mind, we can change along the way. No muss, no fuss, and all the fun we can handle."


"This place has rules?" Meredith asks it with a seemingly genuine hint of surprise. Then again, famous people, who knows. "I don't really like rules," Meredith says after a moment of pause. She has another swig of champagne. "They're too confining… too tight." Meredith's fingertips run along Voodoo's hip, such a gentle almost-touch that it might not even qualify as contact on some scales.

Meredith doesn't make any further advance. She lets Priscilla dance over her, surround her with her scent, her power. Her eyes drift to Priscilla's here and there, but if this is an active attempt to manipulate her or just a normal human habit of making eye contact, there's not enough evidence either way to go to trial yet. She's quiet for a long few moments, just watching Priscilla dance. "I want you to come in closer. I want a lap dance." Meredith puts her bottle down. "Also, I keep wondering if your tits are real. I don't know if it's against the rules to ask that."


"Sure. Every place has rules." Pris answers, honestly. "Some enforce them well, some don't. But they all have them." Not that Pris is going to lecture the customer on the rules; someone else already did that, at least that's the way it's supposed to go. Meredith shouldn't be up here without having been told what the rules are. Of course, given Meredith, that may not be the case. These things do happen. But Pris assumes things are going along as they should, as she is used to them going. "Well, the rules are there for my safety, for yours, and for everyone else here. Nobody wants rules that get in the way of fun. But nobody wants to ruin the fun with the bad stuff that happens when there are no rules."

Who would have thought that Pris would be a stickler for rules? She's not, really, but they do exist for a reason. Variance from those rules by instinct or trust still starts with those rules. She smiles as she slinks in closer, the sash about her waist coming away in one hand, then looping around Meredith's hand, as she reaches to gather the other and then loop them up in a filmy scrap of silk. It wouldn't hold against even a normal person's concerted effort, but it would be enough for anyone to know they were held, know that they aren't supposed to reach out. "Lap dance it is, beautiful."

Pris starts the lapdance, all up in Meredith's personal space, touching her all over, but not being touched herself. The music changes to another song, and her patterns change to match. "They grew that way, if that's what you're asking, honey. No silicone or saline baggies to be found." she answers, when asked. And she makes a point of letting Meredith feel those particular bits of hers, against a bicep here, her own chest there, and so forth, to make her point.


FTB

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