Specialty Acts…
Bouncing Beaver Strip Club
Miami Beach, FL
R yan Colt kept his gentlemen’s club spotless. It was a pet peeve of his to not have anything dirty around him. The clinical term for his condition was OCD, but for him, it was just plain good manners. Other clubs could do what they wanted - not wash down their poles, not bleach their floors, not clean their windows or spot clean their furniture - but his shit was always on point.
As he stood in the men’s bathroom inches behind the cleaning girl with a Guns and Ammo magazine rolled up in his right hand like he was about to discipline a dog, Ryan felt the sudden need to teach the maid some manners. God, he wanted to clock her right in the back of her head, knock some sense into her the way he did his other girls. But she was untouchable. She worked for a legitimate business, had family and friends. Someone would make a stink. And a stink was something he couldn’t afford.
“You still missed a spot,” he pointed out, while the Latina woman scrubbed the white porcelain toilet for the third time since his lecture had begun. He could feel his blood boiling right beneath his starched white collar. Fucking idiot. Anyone could see that piss drop from a mile away. He could practically smell it. She was just being lazy. Like all other women, this one needed to be on a short leash.
On her knees, she scrubbed up the urine and dipped her brush back in the blue plastic bucket. “Sorry, Mr. Colt,” the woman said, glancing back at Colt’s knuckles that had turned white from squeezing the magazine so tight. Did he mean her harm? He had never struck her, but she had heard the stories about him like everyone else who was in his employ. Ryan Colt was a violent man with a short temper.
Spittle shot from his mouth as he over enunciated his words in frustration. “I pay you to keep these bathrooms clean. This isn’t a fucking third-world troth. Every fifteen minutes, you bring your fat ass in here and make sure that it is spotless.”
“Yes, Mr. Colt,” she answered again, trembling at his close proximity.
Ryan looked behind him, beyond the stall door, at the men’s bathroom attendant. “Joe, you make sure to keep an eye on each stall. If one gets dirty, you send for her to come back in here and clean it up immediately. My patrons expect a certain level of hospitality. Don’t make me say it again.”
Dressed in a cheaply-made black suit, the Cambodian man, Joe, stammered out his response, equally frightened by his boss’s irritation. “Yes, sir. I will, sir.” He wrung his hands nervously, reminding himself to start looking for a new job tomorrow.
Ryan bent down to the woman’s ear as she cleaned and jutted out his jaw. He could tell that she was afraid, but it only made him angrier. If she hadn’t been such a slob, she wouldn’t be in this position. This was her fault. Not his. His breath hissed against the side of her face. “If we have to have this conversation again…”
Her eyes focused on the back of the toilet and her heart nearly stopped. Swallowing hard, she waited for the threat.
“You’re fired,” Ryan whispered.
The bathroom door flew open, unmuffling the sounds of music from down the hall, and a drunk young banker stumbled in on the conversation. He paused, seeing that he was interrupting something tense. “Whoa.” He blinked fast and pulled at his tie. “I can come back if you guys are busy.”
Ryan’s red-hot demeanor quickly changed. He rose and turned around, pulling at the bottom of his vest. An eerie smile swept across his tanned face. “Not at all, sir. Please, help yourself. We’re just doing a little upkeep. The other stalls are at your service.” He stepped out of the bathroom stall away from the cleaning lady.
“Are you sure?” the drunk man asked. He glanced at the woman still on her knees in the stall and the attendant standing in the middle of the floor like a scared child and frowned. Someone was in trouble.
“Positive,” Ryan answered as he waved off the appearance. “Please. I insist.”
“Okay, if it’s no imposition.” The drunk man stumbled into a vacant stall and closed the door. The sound of his urine hitting the water in the toilet reminding both the cleaning lady and Joe of their transgression.
Walking over to the marble-top counter, Ryan turned on the sink and let the water run until it was scalding hot, then slipped his hands into the stream. He looked at himself in the mirror, gray empty eyes staring back at him, and leaned in to check his teeth. Before he could finish washing his hands, Joe passed him a white cloth for his hands.
“Thank you, Joe,” Ryan said curtly. He wiped his hands dry, making sure to use the cloth to dry up the water that had splashed on the counter, then discarded it in the trash. After one final glance at his flawless head of black wavy hair, he left his staff to their jobs.
Emerging out of the bathroom refreshed, Ryan headed out into his club to check on the girls. In a slow, even stride, he walked through the long hallway, illuminated by red receding lights and adorned with gold-framed posters of headline strippers.
In the main room, the lights are dim, a disco ball is reflecting its colorful glimmer over the span of the area, the house DJ is working the turntables, and the place is packed. Two bachelor parties are roaring on both sides of the club, a few drunk regulars are at the bar, and the main stage has a hodge-podge of upscale businessmen lurking below with fists of hundred-dollar bills. His girls are working hard. Half-nude never looked so good. He handpicked all of his dancers - brought them in, fixed them up, trained them to do one thing – make him money.
“You want a drink, Mr. C?” his waitress, Lana, asked, holding up a tray with one hand. She was new to the business, still in college and not a part of his stable, because he didn’t ever work his waitresses. She was petite, on the skinny side with short, curly fire red hair and thin red lips to match. Wearing a short skirt that barely covered her backside and a pink garter belt around her thigh, she pushed up on her tip toes to speak to him.
“I don’t drink on the clock,” Ryan reminded as he moved closer and looked down at her shirt. “It’s poor form.” He pulled her close, cupped her perky breasts, and slowly moved his hands down the torso to pull her tank top down. “There. More cleavage.” As soon as he touched her, he saw the alarm in her eyes. “More tips that way,” he winked.
“Sure thing,” she said, stepping back. Her smile was forced now and she wished that she had not spoken to him at all. “Well, gotta go. These drinks aren’t going to deliver themselves.”
“Bye, bye.” He watched her walk away amused. They all feared him, all of the dancers, the bartenders, the bouncers, right down to the cleaning lady. And he liked it that way, in fact it made his dick hard. A tight ship was not an easy accomplishment. People had to know there were consequences for not producing.
“Coming to the main stage, gents, is the one and only, mysterious, magnificent Eddy,” the DJ announced over the microphone, changing the music to draw the men’s attention.
Ryan didn’t like her half-ass introduction. He’d need to speak to the DJ about his lack of enthusiasm or vocabulary tonight before his shift ended. Folding his arms, he leaned against the wall and watched. Eddy was his girl. He had bought her four years ago from a pimp in Tampa who had to thin out his stable. While she hadn’t come easy or cheap, he eventually broke her of her slouching and smoking marijuana. Drugs were a necessity in the game, but nothing turned away a client faster than a cigarette or marijuana smoke. Now, she only popped pills for the long nights.
One of the bouncers walked up to him while he was watching. Looking in between his boss and Eddy, he finally spoke. “You’ve got a guy in your office. Says it’s important.”
“Who is he?” Ryan asked, eyes still on Eddy.
“A promoter. I think he wants some of the girls for a party.”
Ryan pursed his lips together and narrowed his gaze. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”
Eddy stepped out on the stage like she owned it. She had her long black hair pulled away from her face and cascading down her back. Glancing over her captive audience, she locked eyes with Ryan for a moment and then resumed her performance. He had never seen eyes so big and brown in all his years. She had finished him before with just those eyes. Her skin as black as night, flawless and smooth. Her lips so soft and plush until men fantasized of what it would be like to have them wrapped around their cocks. She ran her long, silver nails down her torso as she swayed to the purple pole at the front of the catwalk. The music was hypotonic combined with her naturally wide hips, legs thick with carved muscle, tight calves and heavy, natural breasts large as melons. Eddy was a star.
The men were already throwing money on the stage, begging for her to take off her black leather corset and black thong. When she twirled around the pole with one leg hooking around the pole and the other extended toward the crowd, Ryan finally pushed off the wall and headed toward his office. If he stayed, in the mood he was in, he’d pull her off stage and fuck her right there on the catwalk. Instead, he would do it later, when the club closed.
***
The silver-haired, slick mouthed, Mickey Shelton sat in the back office of the club patiently waiting for Ryan to arrive. He sipped on a cocktail brought to him by the overweight bouncer and texted on his phone, but he was quietly irritated. How dare this guy make him wait longer than five minutes. In his business, that was just disrespectful. For goodness sake, he was Mickey Shelton, and he had personally come down here to throw this Colt character good business. The least the guy could do was not leave him stewing in his Armani suit like some jackoff.
He glanced at the time on his phone and shifted in his chair. “Should I come back when this guy is less busy or what?” Mickey asked in a thick Boston accent.
“He’ll be here in just a minute,” the bouncer said, standing by the door.
“It’s been a minute, actually ten. I just want to know.”
The knob twisted and the door swung open. Ryan stepped inside and glanced at the stranger. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, smoothing a hand over his tie. He walked over to Mickey and offered a hand. “Ryan Colt.”
“Mickey Shelton.” He shook the man’s hand without standing. Fuck this guy.
“How can I help you, Mr. Shelton?” Ryan asked, making his way to the chair behind his desk. He had promoters in here all the time trying to get him to showcase their girls, but he wasn’t interested in sharing his stage. All his dancers belonged to him. He owned them like he owned his clothes. Bringing in free-thinking girls might muddy the waters and give his ladies some bright ideas about leaving. There was also the issue of undercover cops and pimps trying to poach on his territory. But still he gave the man an audience just to see what he wanted.
Mickey crossed his right leg over his left knee and rested his hand on his black dress shoes. “I was told by some very important people here in Miami that you were the man to see about girls. I represent the fighter, Igor Klenchvenko.” He paused for a second to let that sink in. “We’re throwing a huge party for his muckity muck investors at that new club on the strip, High Tide, next Saturday night. These folks who are coming are going to want some entertainment, specialty acts, pretty but not cheap. You know what I mean?”
Ryan curled up his lip and gave a knowing shrug. “I think I know some girls like that.”
Mickey’s finger rubbed over the arm of the chair. So far, he was not appreciating Ryan’s smugness. “I need more than a few girls. That’s why I was told to come to you. I can get one or two, maybe even ten working girls off my fucking Rolodex. I need an army. Most of the escort services around here don’t have that kind of manpower.”
“How many…exactly?” Ryan asked, pulling out his black book and opening it slowly.
“I’m thinking thirty would be a nice number.” Mickey raised a hand in clarification. “These investors are very influential. I need girls that make a man’s dick stand to attention as soon as they walk in the room. No fatties. No stretch marks. No princesses. Okay. I need fun girls who do it all without question. I need dancers who can command a room. And I don’t need any of them quoting prices before they seal the deal. That’s why I’m here. I want to arrange with you to cover the whole bill now. You know, keep it classy.”
Mickey finally had Ryan’s full attention. “Thirty of my girls won’t come cheap. As you say, these specialty acts are expensive.” He looked at his long list of girls, thinking of quite a few that would be perfect for Klenchvenko’s party. This could be a new market for him, if he played his cards right.
“Throw me a number,” Mickey said arrogantly.
“How many hours?”
“Ten at night until ten in the morning. So, twelve. I’m sure my guys will want to take the merchandise away from the party and play with it for the night. You can pick them up after.”
Ryan rolled his neck and threw out a number. “180.” He threaded his fingers together and pressed his thumbs against each other.
“Thousand?” Mickey asked, brow furrowing. It was a bit steeper than he had expected. “That’s a bit expensive.”
Ryan was a great salesman, and he knew when it was time to apply a little pressure. “It’s normally a thousand an hour, but I’m cutting you a break. I’ll only charge you half because you’re buying in bulk, and I want your future business.” He stood up and walked over to sit in the chair beside Mickey, now that he knew the man was serious. “My girls are very skilled and very beautiful. They rival anything you can find in Miami. The thing that makes them worth it is that nothing is off the table. They’ve done it all and seen it all. If one of your gentlemen want to choke one my girls until she’s nearly dead and while he’s fucking her up the ass, the only thing she’ll say after is thank you. If someone wants to piss in a glass and have her drink it, the only thing she’s going to say after is thank you. If…”
“I get it.” Mickey pushed out a breath. This fucking guy. “When I said specialty, I was thinking more along the lines of role playing, threesomes and piggyback rides. But whatever.” He pulled out his wallet and fished out an American Express Centurion card. “Bill me for the entertainment. Invoice it as Go-Go dancers or some shit. Whores won’t really go over well with the accounting department.”
“I’ll do it myself. Wait here.” Ryan stood up and walked back over to his desk to pull out his card reader.
Mickey picked his glass back up, happy to mark one more thing off his list. “One thing though. Klenchvenko can’t know about it. He likes girls, sure, but he’s a boy scout. If he finds out we brought in pros, he’ll lose his shit.”
Ryan picked up the phone to call in authorization on the card, but paused to give his full attention to Mickey. “The arrangement won’t be uttered outside of this room,” he assured.
“Oh, and some of my guys really like the Russian blonde type. You got any of them? They’ll probably play well with Igor being a Russian himself.”
Ryan had several girls fitting that description. “I have quite a few Russian girls who are beautiful, fresh off the boat and ready to party. When we’re done here, I’m going to send you a link for an app to download. I’ll give you the password as soon as I’m done processing your order. What you’ll need to do is go through the app and pick the thirty girls you want.”
“Wait. You’re telling me you have an app for your girls?”
“I try to make things very easy for my clients. But you will need this password and it changes every day, so once you pick them, you won’t be able to go back in and access the app unless you contact me.”
“That’s pretty high tech,” Mickey said, impressed. This guy had his shit together.
Ryan picked up the phone and dialed American Express. “We do what we can. Now, if you’ll excuse me for just a second, I’ll get you processed and on your way.”