The distorted beats from Marilyn Manson's “Tainted Love” was a familiar and welcoming sound to Yassine, a man who had heard every dance song, every sexy ballad, every sensuous melody meant to entice and hypnotize Abyss' wealthy clientele. Though he loved his establishment and the reputation it awarded him, some nights felt like repetitions of others, some tantalizing dancer's choreography ripped straight from every other entertainer that worked along New York city's rainbow-lit streets. Maverick, however, wasn't every other entertainer. There was something wholly seductive about him in a way other performers lacked, and the response from the mix gendered crowd proved as much. Maverick was enticing, Maverick was provocative, Maverick was...<i>extremely flexible</i>. Yassine's thick eyebrow crept up his forehead in interest as Maverick thrust and gyrated, swirled and undulated. They were moves Yassine had bore witness to before, but they were executed with such alluring<i>talent</i>and<i>grace</i>, it was obvious to him just why Maverick was one of Abyss' most requested dancers.<br/><br/>Yassine sat back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other while long fingers lightly caressed his own lips. To the layman, Yassine did not look like the typical male witnessing an enticing erotic performance. His body gave nothing away. He did not lean forward with eagerness, nor did he hoot or holler or beg for Maverick's attention. He watched with intent, as if he were judging Maverick's performance as opposed to merely enjoying it, mentally scoring the young man with a set of strict requirements only known to Yassine. Despite this outwardly display of neutrality—perhaps mild amusement at best—the Iranian entrepreneur found Maverick's expert gesticulations to be nothing short of delectable. He was a beautiful creature, with creamy white skin decorated with a collection of bright and colorful tattoos, taut muscles slicked with oil, and a shock of blonde hair Yassine could imagine running his fingers through. Though he never admitted as much, Yassine had always harbored a certain fondness for pretty, young white boys. Maverick had that “all-American rebel” look, or maybe “boy next door goes bad.” Both were highly arousing as far as Yassine was concerned.<br/><br/>Back in Iran, Yassine had been forced to keep his homosexuality hushed under penalty of death. Though he carried with him a secret far more disturbing than his penchant for fucking other men, escaping the social prison of his homeland had been his number one motivator to immigrate to a more accommodating country. New York had everything Yassine could have ever wanted: money, opportunity, a thriving nightlife, and a sea of horny young men who swooned and easily fell for Yassine's silky Persian accent and hard, athletic body. It wasn't difficult for him to find an easily manipulated and pretty thing to warm his king sized bed at night, but as the nights wore on Yassine found himself becoming more and more selective with his tastes. Maverick was a sweet treat he had yet to sink his teeth into. Though the floor was carpeted with cash, it was clear Maverick was intent on dancing for<i>him</i>. Whether the boy was doing it because he wanted a taste of Mr. Mohsen, or he was just interested in the man's money, Yassine cared very little.<br/><br/>As the song continued on, Maverick's moves become more sexually aggressive, more suggestive, and it pleased Yassine to see such tenacity in one of his employees and potential new toy. Pale lips sipped slowly on his martini, watching, admiring, until a musical crescendo exploded through the speakers and Maverick bucked his hips in Yassine's direction, encouraging his patronage. The quiet man smiled, setting his glass down on the small circular table before him and slipping his hand inside of his jacket, finding hidden pocket in the silk lining. He pulled out a supple leather wallet, a soft brown reminiscent of milk chocolate, and slide out five crisp one hundred dollar bills. He beckoned the dancer forward with a curling of his index finger, leaning ever so slightly so he could slip the cash into the strap of Maverick's g-string. His fingers lingered there against the hard bone of Maverick's hip, eyes looking up along the oiled up physique in front of him. With a soft grin, Yassine nodded, silently instructing Maverick to continue on with his dance. The boy had been tipped for his efforts, and he'd get more if he did what Yassine wanted.<br/><br/>Before the set was finished, Yassine stood, straightening his jacket and spilling the last drops of martini down his throat before stepping away. Maverick's performance had not only reinforced Yassine's preference for the boy, but it had also confirmed for him that he would be perfect for the private party. No more scouting would be needed on Yassine's part. He spared one last look at the dancer before turning away and striding toward the office back behind the bar, where he was sure his manager would be, looking over schedules and numbers for the night.<br/><br/>Katya was a hard woman, beautiful but stern. An entertainer for many years, Katya still wore a look of sensuality on her painted face, and despite no longer needing to dance to make her money, she kept her body tight and fit, wearing clingy pantsuits to accentuate her curvaceous form. The Russian Doll, as she used to call herself, sat at a wide wooden desk in a leather-backed chair, a stack of cash in front of her as she counted the money from the bar. She was good with numbers and quick on her toes, cleverly removing money from the till every few hours and comparing earnings with reported sales. Not only did it make her work easier at the end of the night, it allowed her to handle discrepancies swiftly. Katya's dirty blonde hair fell in brassy curtains around her sharp face as she looked up at her employer, setting aside her counting for the time being.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#59b300">“When Maverick is finished, I want him sent to the VIP room.”</span><br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffa64d">“Your room?”</span>she asked bluntly, ensuring she was understanding Mr. Mohsen's intentions.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#59b300">“Yes. If he has anything else scheduled for the night, cancel it. Move dancers around. I do not care what you do, just make it so we are uninterrupted. I am clear?”</span><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffa64d"><br/>
“Of course, Mr. Mohsen. Would you like anything sent to room?”</span>she inquired, consonants jerking off of her tongue.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#59b300">“The usual.”</span>With that, Yassine exited, heading to his personal room in the far side of the club beyond the stages. He paid Katya well to know his preferences and to execute them without hesitation, and it only took a few minutes before a bottle of Dom Perignon Luminous was brought into the elaborately decorated private room. The bottle was hideous as far as Yassine was concerned, with a garish neon label that glowed in the dark. It was gimmicky and went against Yassine's tastes, but the champagne itself felt nice on his tongue and the hefty multi-thousand dollar price tag meant it was a big earner when people wanted to show off and spend a pretty penny to impress their friends. Two champagne glasses were brought as well and Yassine tipped the scantily clad waiter for filling his glass with bubbly before waving him away.<br/><br/>The Persian man moaned a low sound of satisfaction as the fizzy liquid washed down his throat, allowing himself to sink down into the cushiony couch while he waited for Maverick to come to him.<br/><br/>Katya stood behind the curtain, waiting for Michael to shed his Maverick persona once he had stepped off of the stage. The performance seemed to have gone well, as all of Maverick's did, with clients beseeching the handsome young stripper to return to them and continue shaking that perfect ass.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffa64d">“Mikhail, my pet,”</span>Katya hissed, encouraging the boy to her once he was out of the public's view.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffa64d"> “Mr. Mohsen wishes private dance from you,”</span>she explained, fixing Michael's hair in that overbearingly motherly way of hers. She liked Michael. Had taken a chance on hiring him when she did, feeling deep within her gut that the boy had something special about him. Something that would make Abyss even more money than they were already earning.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffa64d"> “He is particular. Likes only boys. Likes you. Mr. Mohsen pays well to boys who dance good for him, so I tell you, Mikhail, <i>dance good</i>. You want to get paid, no?”</span><br/><br/>She hoped Michael would take her advice, knowing that dancers who didn't please Mr. Mohsen when he showed interest in them usually didn't last very long at Abyss.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffa64d">“Clean up this oil. Don't want to get Mr. Mohsen's suit messy. And be quick.”</span>She gave Michael a sharp and encouraging tap on the ass, signaling him to get in gear. He had his work cut out for him tonight.