Craved (Twisted Book 2) by Lola Smirnova Page B

the girls. ‘Please remember that touching is limited to the top part of your bodies. It’s going to be strictly monitored. Don’t think you can push it, girls.’
    ‘The fantasy dance is still a dance. It doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want. The cameras are still working. We will rigorously punish anyone who crosses the line. I repeat: the clients are allowed to touch your breasts, and the top part of your body. Touching of the bottom part, kissing on the lips and taking genitals out of pants are still strictly prohibited and will be fined.’
    I wipe the tears of joy off my eyes and touch my foamy bra.
    Oh crap…
     

17
     
    I head towards the stairs. Although it’s three in the morning, and we are about to close, my purse is shamefully burdened by only R400. The first floor is still swarming with clients. All the girls but me are making money – even the ugliest ones in the club. I tried. I pushed as hard as I could, smiling and cottoning on to these drunken fuckers, but the only result is my legs shaking from tiredness and freaking R400!
    Damn! It’s a Saturday – it's supposed to be a good night.
    I prefer to work downstairs, away from the VIP area. The whole ‘special clients’ story drives me crazy. The minute these bastards pay extra to become VIPs and their asses hit the leather seats on the upper floor, they turn into complete jerks. They feel so exceptional, that they demand more attention.
    As if blue blood has started running through their veins.
    I lose patience even before we get to know each other’s names. What’s more, for the last few weeks with the new boobie dance on the menu (which the club has offered to the VIP clients only, hoping to increase the sales of VIP passes), I’ve been trying even harder to stay away from upstairs. I don't think I could handle these bastards’ comments about my flat chest.
    I stop. Holding the steel railings of the staircase, I fight the desire to quit for today, go into a corner and complain about the unfairness of the world. But I sigh and wearily make my way up.
    A quick check, then I’ll call it a night: enjoy a cup of tea in solitude, and beat myself up for being such a useless stripper.
    The mezzanine is busy too, but all the clients are taken. No surprise – the last hours of the night are usually the most fruitful for the girls. The clients reach the stage of drunkenness in which they cannot resist. The girls, using the intoxication advantage, mop the legless clients up.
    Like adders, these girls wait for their venom to start working, then, unhurriedly, swallow their prey whole.
    I take a walk around and notice two gents sitting in the back corner. Nikita is talking to only one of them.
    I approach.
    ‘Hello guys, may I join you?’ I give my bestseller smile.
    ‘Yes, of course, dear! Would you like to have a drink?’ the one with Nikita replies with a heavy British accent, which, with his looks, and the overt displeasure on his face from Nikita’s brothel-like pressure treatment, leaves an aftertaste of snobbery. Regardless of his attempts – the expensive, vernal suit and the hair dyed to conceal the grey – he still falls into the seniors’ category. The other one is a very attractive, very drunk young man. From the not-so-trendy clothes of the youngster and the fact that Nikita is not sitting on his lap, I deduce that the senior is paying.
    I drop, offhand, on top of the young one and take pleasure in feeling his athletic body.
    ‘My name is Freddy and this is Mr. Brown,’ he mumbles timidly, while not so timidly sliding his hands under my skirt.
    ‘Nice to meet you. I am Julia’. I catch his hands a second before he gets under my panties, ‘You are not allowed to touch there.’
    ‘Call me Jonathan. How many times have I told you tonight?’ the senior reacts loudly, grimaces and brushes Nikita’s hand away off his ear.
    ‘Okay, this is Jonathan, my boss.’ Freddy leaves his hands under my skirt, now gently cupping my