;she makes people pour their hearts out (she's the safest place on earth)
[ There are rules all clients must follow.
No brawling inside.
Cash upfront.
No touching.
Disobedience is met with force and the prompt removal of whatever remains of the transgressor; their security is not one to hold back, you see. Got a bit of a temper, a bit of an attitude, a bit of a protective streak. Plenty popular with the talent, as a result, and although not one to give out praise, the boss would readily admit to anyone willing to hear that it was one hell of a bargain for sure, all things considered.
Bit of a rough start, sure.
But one hell of a bargain.
Now it has become routine. The stage will light up, saturated in bright neon blue; the temperature will drop next, swirls of cold and frost accompanying the dancer. She is not the most beautiful girl employed, nor the youngest. But her disdain lures them all the same, eager men hanging by the edges of their seats, waiting for a sight of sentiment, a display of weakness; a single trace of humanity for them to exploit, for them to drag her down a little. Something to sink their teeth into.
Amell simply dances.
She isn't really there, you see. The body is, twirling with practiced grace, adorned in silks and something that passes as silver, the choker enforcing her servitude tight around her throat. Men throw money at her feet, gifts; sometimes she'll look at them, sometimes she'll descend upon their seats to indulge some indignity, to obey the instructions of the man calling himself her owner, for she has no means to resist that particular compulsion.
It doesn't matter. She isn't there.
A man feels bold today. He holds out his hand around the time of her descent; clients are not supposed to touch, but the talent can tease as they see fit, so long as it turns in a profit. The sweat on his palm freezes before her hand even touches him, and he's shaking; from the cold or his own want, she can't tell, doesn't really care, but he's saying something when she takes claim of his lap, panting so badly she can't really understand him.
Not that it matters, anyway.
Expressionless, she simply lets him feel her, taking the glass by his side to pour its contents into an open, willing mouth. Some of it spills on her skin, but she is moving away already, a restlessness taking over. Money has been offered, and their thirst has been fanned. It is enough. A little more by the pole, and then she can come back. It can stop.
The man disagrees, though.
A clammy hand closes around an ankle, pulling on her, clawing at the skin and silks. His friends are either laughing or calling him out of it, some panicking while others are making their way for the exit, but he's either too drunk or stupid to pay them any mind, eyes fixated instead on the unfeeling eyes of the woman in front of him, his hand now pulling firmly on the fabric, wanting it gone.
You poor idiot. ]
... You shouldn't have done this.
No brawling inside.
Cash upfront.
No touching.
Disobedience is met with force and the prompt removal of whatever remains of the transgressor; their security is not one to hold back, you see. Got a bit of a temper, a bit of an attitude, a bit of a protective streak. Plenty popular with the talent, as a result, and although not one to give out praise, the boss would readily admit to anyone willing to hear that it was one hell of a bargain for sure, all things considered.
Bit of a rough start, sure.
But one hell of a bargain.
Now it has become routine. The stage will light up, saturated in bright neon blue; the temperature will drop next, swirls of cold and frost accompanying the dancer. She is not the most beautiful girl employed, nor the youngest. But her disdain lures them all the same, eager men hanging by the edges of their seats, waiting for a sight of sentiment, a display of weakness; a single trace of humanity for them to exploit, for them to drag her down a little. Something to sink their teeth into.
Amell simply dances.
She isn't really there, you see. The body is, twirling with practiced grace, adorned in silks and something that passes as silver, the choker enforcing her servitude tight around her throat. Men throw money at her feet, gifts; sometimes she'll look at them, sometimes she'll descend upon their seats to indulge some indignity, to obey the instructions of the man calling himself her owner, for she has no means to resist that particular compulsion.
It doesn't matter. She isn't there.
A man feels bold today. He holds out his hand around the time of her descent; clients are not supposed to touch, but the talent can tease as they see fit, so long as it turns in a profit. The sweat on his palm freezes before her hand even touches him, and he's shaking; from the cold or his own want, she can't tell, doesn't really care, but he's saying something when she takes claim of his lap, panting so badly she can't really understand him.
Not that it matters, anyway.
Expressionless, she simply lets him feel her, taking the glass by his side to pour its contents into an open, willing mouth. Some of it spills on her skin, but she is moving away already, a restlessness taking over. Money has been offered, and their thirst has been fanned. It is enough. A little more by the pole, and then she can come back. It can stop.
The man disagrees, though.
A clammy hand closes around an ankle, pulling on her, clawing at the skin and silks. His friends are either laughing or calling him out of it, some panicking while others are making their way for the exit, but he's either too drunk or stupid to pay them any mind, eyes fixated instead on the unfeeling eyes of the woman in front of him, his hand now pulling firmly on the fabric, wanting it gone.
You poor idiot. ]
... You shouldn't have done this.