2019-05-26 - Amazon and the Dancer


Grace checks out the Obsidian Club and encounters Voodoo.

Log Info:

Storyteller: priscilla_kitaen
Date: 2019-05-26
Location: Obsidian Club, Lower East Side, Manhattan, NYC

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Theme Song



The Obsidian Club is a moderately upscale adult entertainment club on the edges of Alphabet City in the Lower East Side of Manhattan in New York City, a gentrified space and a definite step up from its very working-class origins, without being the posh majesty of some Midtown club, or the super-exclusive Upper East Side Hellfire Club. The location is a converted smallish warehouse made over into a functioning and attractive environment that keeps the historic aspects of the warehouse origins, updated to the neo-modern as a multiple stage establishment with a bar, buffet and about two dozen tables and booths around said stages, where between one and six different dancers can perform at any one time. A VIP room space lies behind curtains across from the main bar, while curtains at the end of the bar lead into the changing rooms, and a beaded open doorway on the near side of the bar leads into the kitchen and prep area, and likely also an office space.

The Obsidian Club is doing good business, but is by no means 'top dollar' in the Manhattan set. Nevertheless, they do have a few headliners, now and then, and currently they have a dancer nicknamed Voodoo who seems to be packing in the interested parties multiple nights a week. The other real benefit is that unlike many of its ilk, the Obsidian Club is not run by mob enforcers or organized crime, but instead by a decent businessman. He has had to deal with discouraging said criminal figures from trying to muscle in on his business, and so far been successful. It also makes this club a safer space for the dancers who work here than some others of its ilk. Entry out front does involve a purple polo-clad bouncer who takes the cover charge and checks IDs before applying the proper stamps, differentiated for over-21 and under, and no one under 18 gets in at all. That's just how it's supposed to be, and they run a reasonably ship-shape establishment here.

If there's one thing to be said about Grace Choi, it's that she knows what she likes. One might not think a job playing bouncer for a seedy establishment like Sister Margaret's would be all that satisfying — likely the opposite — but Grace enjoys herself. Well — she enjoys the steady paycheck she takes in for breaking skulls and punishing rude assholes with punitive force, anyway. At the end of the day, it pays well — better than a lot of jobs she's had in the past.

And that pay and a flexible work schedule means that Grace is often free to pursue those things she likes; ultimately a woman of simple - but by her estimation, choice - pleasures, usually that means hitting up an actual, decent bar, or club, or party, and indulging in her hedonistic appetites. Tonight?

Tonight, it means checking out a club she's heard a lot of in recent months. Decently upscale, but affordable. Not too fancy; not too posh. Something with easy access, true to its roots. By all accounts, Grace's kind of place. And that is why the tall, Amazonian redhead is here today, stepping through the doors of the Obsidian Club dressed in a red, tight halter top, loose cargo pants and combat boots, eyeing the stamp applied to her heavily-tattooed skin with curious, violet eyes.

"Heh. All official and everything, huh?" she chuckles softly as she makes her way in, smile sardonic but as she tucks hands into her pockets and looks out over the club with a gaze full of anticipation. Fun. That's what Grace likes. And this might be just what she needs right now.

"Yes, Ma'am." the polite but solid looking bouncer offers when Grace comments. He doesn't seem to be one of those who needs to prove his might to others, just presents a solid appearance and backs it up only if trouble actually arises. A good professional bouncer, rather than a skull-cracker. Not that there's anything wrong with that sort, but it does not seem to be needed here. A difference in style and clientelle, most likely.

At the moment, there are three ladies performing on different stages. However, it does appear that the one on the larger, central stage is just finishing up her performance, as Grace is taking in the area just as that young woman is sashaying to and fro across the stage, gathering up the bits of her costume she discarded earlier, then heading for the curtained doorway leading into the back as the announcer calls for final applause and then pulls up his introduction and new music for the performer about to take the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for the mystical, the magical, the unearthly beauty of … Voodoo …"

Timing is everything.

The curtains part, and an exceptionally tall - compared to most women, though still likely about a food shy of Grace's towering height, at least if one ignores the stupendous heels built into those boots she's wearing - caramel-skinned woman of bountiful curves and frankly stupendous athleticism in seeming perfect balance comes strutting out. The effect is honestly like night and day; the patrons applauded for the last young woman, in a smattering here and there. But when this dancer comes out on stage, there are only perhaps two people in the entire club whose attentions are not riveted on her appearance. Even her own fellow dancers seem almost as glued to Voodoo's performance as they are to their own efforts.

There's just something about Voodoo. She's definitely skilled, athletic and capable. Her performance skills are definitely top notch. And she reads the room and the interests of the patrons perfectly. But even still …

It's like magic.

The club is certainly different from her usual fare — and it's a far cry from Sister Margaret's, where dead pools tend to be the order of the day rather than 'class' or 'professionalism' or 'good grace' (puns need not apply) — but it's also nothing Grace hasn't experienced before. Which is fine, of course; she's sure, as she walks past throngs of people, that she can net an interesting evening out of a place like this at least. Step one is to get the appropriate inspiration for the evening, which is why she's headed for the bar first…

… and then she shows up.

Grace's confident forward march slows to a curious crawl as the new performer is announced. She has every intention of just a passing glance to sate her curiosity on her way towards sating her thirst, when she sees her. Tall — by most standards, Grace knows she's an exception in many ways. Beautiful. Strong. But it's more than that, that makes Grace go still. It's hard to put her finger on. Maybe in the way she moves. Maybe the look in her eye. Maybe it's just a certain sense people familiar with the thing get when they've been exposed to it enough…


… but there's something different about Voodoo, and it's more than enough to draw the attention of an experienced woman like Grace.

Violet eyes flicker open and closed in a blink. A strong hand lifts, rummaging through her short mane of deep, red hair. And after a handful of seconds, watching Voodoo's approach, Grace Choi does the unthinkable:

She quietly abandons her hunt for liquor to make her way towards the performance at center stage.

Abandons it for now, at least. She's only human.

Or only Amazon, as the case may be.

For most folks, getting a spot around the center stage is a challenge at this hour; the spots fill up, and those who have them tend not to want to give them up, certainly not when one of the major headliners is on-stage. But there's just something about Grace's presence that seems capable of encouraging someone to consider maybe making some room for her. Whatever it is, though there's some jockeying, there isn't a whole lot, and finally Grace has a seat near the central stage, as Voodoo's performance continues, visibly enspelling the audience.

Voodoo seems to make incredible contact and connection with every person along that central stage; there's not one patron there who will leave feeling like he or she didn't get some of Voodoo's attention. And she definitely seems to have a bead on what those patrons like; those who love legs get plenty of leg action, even high-kicks and twirls right in front of their noses or over their heads; those who love abs get up-close views of her bending, twisting and stretching, demonstrating the sheer athleticism of her torso as it powers all of her body; and so forth. It's a mite uncanny, to be honest.

Voodoo definitely notices a woman sitting around her central stage whom she hasn't seen before; one who if standing would tower over her even wearing the incredible stilts she's wearing up there - and dancing in with aplomb, skill and grace to shame a ballerina. And she sashays over, smiling, making eye contact - those dark, vibrant purple eyes almost crackling with perceived energy.

There's a natural confidence to Grace which, combined with being a solid seven feet of Amazonian muscle, tends to help her out a great deal in situations like these. But it's also a matter of attitude; there's an easy going ease with which she eventually gets her seat, combined with a few key looks and arched brows, makes her place almost an inevitability. Let it never be said Grace Choi doesn't know how to navigate a club.

Eventually, it finds her seated close to the action at central stage; arms crossed under her chest, leaning forward in her seat until it creaks just mildly beneath her, the redheaded Amazon is a wealth of understated fascination and restrained intensity as she watches Voodoo work. And while she might have simple needs, Grace is certainly far from simple: her stare is sharp, thoughtful — pensive, as her ruby red lips press together in a thoughtful purse. It isn't just the dance itself that she watches, isn't just the dance itself that has her interested — though it's certainly a big contributing factor, and she's hardly ashamed to let it show. It's also the way Voodoo carries herself. It's more than just experience there. It's almost preternatural. The way she mystifies and spellbinds with almost exactly what each individual wants from her, is…

Violet eyes meet violet eyes. And a crackle of perceived energy meets a shine of understated intensity. Grace Choi's lips tug into a charming sort of half-smile in response… and her gaze never leaves Voodoo's, even for a second, as she leans in closer towards the approaching woman with rapt attention, lips parting just so to mouth a single word with cheeky interest: 'Hey.'

The dancer parts her purple-painted lips to very subtly reply with a barely-shaped 'hey' of her own, as she saunters closer to Grace. This being a classy club, they're never quite going to touch - though Grace will be in range to be able to tuck bills into convenient spots on Voodoo's costume, of which she has shed about half thus far - but Voodoo inverts on a pole near to Grace and twirls, her position such that her hair is sweeping along the stage, and her eyes are close to the towering Amazon's gaze, even if upside down.

Quite the lock-on of gazes, at that range.

With Grace's trained situational awareness, it would not be hard at all to conclude that there is definitely something a bit more than just intense performance skills and profound athleticism going on here. It could be any number of explanations, but she could well come to the not-unreasonable conclusion that there has to be something going on here. More than meets the eye, and Voodoo's no robot car.

Rules are rules, and Grace has made her living enforcing them — for however few rules a place like St. Margaret's has, anyway. It still technically counts. All this to say, she and Voodoo never quite touch… but they do get close, in other ways. In sheer, literal proximity, as the dancer gets so near; in the way they share that stare, as if all the world could, and does, melt away in that moment save for them until Grace can barely even feel the heavy bass thrum at the soles of her feet as she leans closer.

To the way she waits until Voodoo's inverted spin to finish to lean in just enough to casually tuck a few bills into the other woman's top, a veneer of green paper separating them as she tips a dancer who more than deserves it.

And in those moments that they are so close, Grace murmurs, her voice a deep and smoky thing, "Nice skills," under the thrum of the music before she leans back again, a twinkle in her purple gaze. More than meets the eye, indeed.

And to her, that's just part of the appeal, really.

The dancer's eyes twinkle in merriment as she apparently is able to hear - or otherwise pick up? - what Grace is saying even as she is twirling around the gleaming brass pole on the stage, one of three for this particular performance platform. "Thanks." she murmurs as she then actually starts spinning, faster and faster tiny bit by tiny bit, and leverages herself up until she is literally helictopering out almost horizontal, pushed out by incredible ab work. Then she flips, inverts, and lands smoothly and gracefully on those heels as the dance continues.

The performance continues, as Voodoo makes her way around the rest of the patrons near the stage, all in the time of three long-ish songs, or about fifteen minutes. As that set finally ends, Voodoo is applauded off the stage in a manner not entirely dissimilar to her earlier colleague, but the announcer does make sure to remind the patrons that Voodoo will be back soon on the floor, and happy to arrange for lap dances or private VIP performances. One can imagine she likely clears quite a bit with those, given how popular she seems to be.

Faster and faster the dancer goes in the aftermath of that exchange, and Grace can't help the small grin that dances at her lips, exposing a sliver of pearly white teeth as she watches Voodoo all but turn herself into a living, graceful rotor blade on that pole. Her head tilts, her brows arch appreciatively for the technique — and when she sticks the landing, in /heels/, well —

"Damn," is just about all Grace has to say about that.

And when it all finally ends, the displaced Amazon is there to clap out her own appreciation, an entertained whistle for Voodoo's work following in the dancer's wake. She can see exactly why this place — why that dancer — is so popular. It intrigues her in so many different ways.

And that's exactly what inspires the tattooed woman to stick around after that dance; by the time Voodoo's left for the back stage, Grace is making her way over to the bar she was so efficiently distracted from earlier, ordering herself something hard to drink. Before, this was mainly her gameplan coming here: get good and drunk. Now? Now it's mostly a way to kill time; there's something — someone — else more interesting here.

About ten minutes later, the caramel-skinned beauty of Voodoo returns to the club's main floor, no longer clad only in a g-string, but now an array of tastefully sexy purple lingerie, covered with a sheer purple-tinted silk robe that hangs to just shy of mid-thigh length, belted about her waist without really hiding anything. She struts sensually along, her very walk almost more dance than mere locomotion, as she greets this person or that patron, smiling, welcoming.

Yet again, Grace's situational awareness will pick up something curious in the pattern of the dancer's movements, as she seems to easily and without effort or visible intent avoid a few patrons. One might wonder why; they seem quite eager to get close to her, and a couple or visibly waving large wads of cash. But Grace's experiences with wide arrays of people would lead her likely to a conclusion: they're a bit too eager, and they don't seem to be respecting anyone's boundaries, even other customers'.

A shot of tequila in hand, Grace elects not to take a seat this time, instead leaning her back into the bar's countertop as she enjoys her drink. "Weasel could learn a thing or five from these guys about how to serve a proper damn drink," she mutters, mostly to herself, before taking a savoring sip of said proper damn drink — which is just about when Voodoo makes her return.

Violet eyes flutter in a blink as the mountain of a woman watches the dancer make her way through the crowds with faint interest. Experience paints a picture it might not for others; she sees the path Voodoo takes, the people she greets — and most importantly, the people she avoids. It's remarkable, how well she masks it, but Grace has been working in this business or businesses like it long enough to recognize not just the ways people avoid others they don't want to deal with — but also the faces and behaviors of the type that like to get particularly handsy.

Throw enough of those out of an establishment, you start to get a good idea of how to notice one on sight.

Still — it's Voodoo's graceful ease at which she avoids them that ultimately earns an impressed little whistle from one Grace Choi. Much respect. And the Amazonian will wait patiently, enjoying her drink, until she can catch the dancer's eye once again — and it's then that she'll offer a small, friendly smile, and an inviting little wave to go along with it.

Voodoo does give a lap dance to a couple, and signs an autograph for an eager young man when he asks. But soon enough she does catch Grace's presence by the bar, and their eyes meet once again. She follows that wave and approaches, smiling. "You're pretty striking." she murmurs, somehow managing to make herself heard despite the music as another performer has taken the stage. She reaches out, meeting Grace's eyes and seeking approval and welcome before she runs her fingers along Grace's arm, tracing a few of her tattoos. "Impressive work."

Of course, Grace will have also spotted that Voodoo seems to have some very impressive body art of her own, including a pair of sinuous oriental dragons of gold-accented green across her outer thighs, smaller ones on her biceps. They almost shimmer in the right light, so they are clearly very good quality work. "I haven't seen you around here before. Welcome to the Obsidian Club." Voodoo murmurs.

"Says the woman doing the most graceful backflips in killer heels I've ever seen." Grace's words come easy, casual — her approach is so confident and welcoming it feels in many ways like talking to an old friend, despite the fact that the two have not even really been officially introduced yet. It couples well with the teasing quality of her smile — and carries all the way to how her violet eyes meet Voodoo's and, more than approve, how she offers out that arm to the dancer to allow her to trace the ink decorating strong, defined muscles at her leisure.

She watches those fingers drift for a moment, gaze half-lidded — and then, turning her stare back towards her newfound companion, she sets her drink aside and, if welcomed in turn, reaches out to wrap one strong hand around the other woman's bicep. "Could say the same about you, yeah?" she asks, voice pitched just enough to let the conversation stay between them. There's power there in her touch, to be certain; but the way her thumb brushes its way up along the coils of that inked dragon through the veil of semi-transparent silk is surprisingly gentle.

"Thanks. First-timer. Had an itch, decided to scratch it," comes her final response, her head tilting as she watches Voodoo. "Call me Grace." Her brows hike up, just a bit, her following words carrying a teasing lilt. "And you must be the mystical, the magical — the unearthly beauty Voodoo." It goes well, with the ease of the wink that follows.

The dancer chuckles wryly and winks, the twinkle of merriment in her purple gaze even brighter now. "That's my headline name, definitely." she murmurs. "Pleased to meet you, Grace. I like your style." She glances at the hand caressing her dragon tattoo, and her smile deepens. "Glad you're enjoying yourself. I wasn't sure if you would be interested in a lap dance, or a VIP performance. But … it's worth asking, right?" She doesn't bother to give her real name, at least not yet. But she definitely seems to slot in easily amongst the confident humor and fun flowing from Grace in their interaction.

Voodoo traces another of Grace's tattoos, this one a series of symbols, and asks, "You mind if I ask what this one means? I don't recognize all of these symbols." Maybe it's Amazon? Or maybe it's some other mysterious language?

The violet-clad dancer doesn't see fit to give out her real name yet — and her redheaded companion doesn't ask for it, either, like a sign of professional respect. Though it also doesn't stop Grace from from following the gradual curve of that serpentine dragon until she reaches the head of it, fingers gently pressing inwards in a fond sort of squeeze. "I'm mostly interested in getting some drinks with you sometime," she says in that endlessly straightforward way of hers, lips taking on a lopsided kind of smile.

"But sure. A VIP performance might just be a good way to break the ice first, yeah?"

She keeps that banter light, easy; her gaze drops to the ink that Voodoo traces with her fingertips, eying each symbol in turn as Voodoo's finger leaves them as if she were watching the other woman scrawl them out on her tanned skin. "Probably because they're from somewhere very far away," comes her first answer, thumb bushing metronome motions at the other woman's bicep. "Kinda like a memento from home, I guess. It's about the only thing I remember though." She offers Voodoo a little grin. "Sorry — wish I could regale you with some breathtaking story about all their symbolism, but… it was a long time ago." And a time she's not that fond of trying to remember, goes unsaid.

The dancer senses the discomfort in the other woman and gently lets go of that particular line of questioning. "Fair enough. We all have reminders of what we've left behind, good or bad. At least they're part of what makes you uniquely yoursself, right?" A part of Grace's identity. And Voodoo seems to understand that, respect it, even honor it.

"Why don't you ask for a refill on your drink, or whatever else you want? Then we can go to the VIP lounge for a dance." the caramel-skinned beauty offers. Then she gestures towards the bartender, making a curious shape with her hand, a single element from ASL. She earns a nod in return. It's not hard to guess this is confirming to someone else that she'll be headed into the VIP space; all part of how the business of business is done.

Once Grace is ready, Voodoo twines the fingers of one hand with the one of Grace's not holding her drink and leads her down the bar and around the corner to the door leading to the VIP space. Within, a few semi-isolated circular couches surround individual brass poles. The accoustics have been arranged so that the music from the main floor is muted almost to zero in here, and each booth has its own mini soundsystem.

The dancer guides Grace towards one of the circular booths, and then straddles her lap once seated, pressing against her as she smiles. "OK. So, one VIP session gets you at least three songs, your choice. No more than half an hour." So the most one can get away with is two renditions of Voodoo Chile, by Jimi Hendrix Experience. " Scroll through the pad and pick your first one, and I'll start dancing when the music starts. You can also control the volume." Which would allow Grace to make talking easier, or harder, as she sees fit. It's a pretty nice way to handle the entire scenario, really.

With a little piece of wisdom, the other woman drops her questioning. It's a subtle thing, the gratitude that graces the redhead's expression; but it's there, like a gift for the observant, as she takes up her tequila to drain the rest of its contents.

"Yeah," she utters, savoring the burn of her alcohol with a contented sigh. "I guess they are that, huh?"

With Voodoo's suggestion, though, Grace lifts her free hand to spin her index finger in a circle as she tilts her head back, peering at the bartender with an upside-down grin. "Let's do that one more time, friend," she requests, sliding her empty glass forward. By the time it's refilled, her fingers are threading in between Voodoo's, her grip strong in the dancer's as she swipes her drink and follows the violet-clad woman's lead.

Observant eyes take in the landscape as they enter the VIP area; despite just how amazingly big she really is, she's very easily led in these moments, easing herself back into the comfort of that circular seat; when she finds her newfound companion for the evening occupying her lap, she returns that smile, setting her drink aside for the moment so that her arm can comfortably loop at Voodoo's hips for the moment, content to stay close as she listens. "Fair deal," she exhales, voice pitched a bit lower as she uses her free hand to maneuver through song after song, sparing a glance the other woman's way from the corner of her eye. "Half hour of songs… alright. Any other ground rules I oughta know?" And as she asks, she loads up Heart's 'Barracuda' to start, keeping the volume low — interested in talking, it seems.

"Well, state laws, so no sex. I can touch you, but you're not supposed to touch me." Voodoo explains, going nowhere and not raising a single objection to Grace's arm about her waist. Somehow, she trusts the other woman implicitly and knows that arm is companionable, not entrapping, despite Grace's profound strength. "I can go for a lap dance, or a private pole dance, or any combo."

After the dancer finishes outlining the rules, she sits up to peer directly into Grace's eyes as she asks, simply but with profound depth: "So, any rules you want to express? Something you want, or something you don't? Don't worry about it, whatever it is. Just tell me." Pris doesn't start the dancing, or the clock, until she has those answers, even if they are merely silence.

The rest of the ground rules are laid out; Grace's answer is a warm and appreciative and only slightly mischievous squeeze of that arm around Voodoo's waist.

"Got it," she responds smoothly, a little twinkle in her vibrantly-colored eyes.

"Let's go with a little of column A, a little of column B," begins the bouncer. "I trust your judgment." She seems like she might follow that up with another easy joke — but when Pris lifts up, it's telling how much slack Grace's arm gives to ease the process, and just how much she focuses on those words. Violet eyes blink — and after a moment, Grace just lifts her free hand to briefly cup Voodoo's cheek, thumb brushing her cheekbone.

"… This is good," she decides, after a moment, hand falling away. "Let's just enjoy ourselves, yeah? Dance, talk… I'll go at your pace."

"OK. Fair enough." Voodoo offers. Then she lifts her finger, lightly brushing it over the spot between Grace's brows, as if brushing away some imaginary lump of stress. Amazing the effect such an image can have.

The music starts, and the dancer stays on Grace's lap for a bit, just shimmying suggestively to the music's patterns. It's pretty intimate as a lapdance, probably moreso than the rules would allow expressly, but Voodoo shows no concern at all.

"I always liked this song." Odd, for such a young woman to say that. It would seem rather out of character. But there is no sense that Voodoo is being anything but truthful. "I think it's largely the dueling powerful female vocals. That, and the old rumor. It wasn't true, of course. But it fires the imagination. And by itself, imagination can't harm anyone."

Eventually Voodoo slithers off Grace's lap, stropping her body's curves generously against the redhead's as she slides back to the pole and starts crawling up the brass, still dancing to the music as they talk together, softly, calmly.

A finger brushes between her brows like a careful dusting; Grace's lips part — and then she gives a small snort of amusement, her words more sincere for it: "Feeling better already."

The dance starts; beneath Voodoo, Grace's other hand finds its way to the small of the dancer's back, wordlessly holding her comfortably close throughout those initial, swaying movements. Certainly not allowed, but — if nothing else, Grace Choi, in these moments, for all her great strength, feels completely and utterly relaxed, completely and utterly open, in these moments — a fact so much the easier to tell, as close to her as Voodoo is right now.

"Mm," she exhales slowly, muscles relaxing as the dancer climbs up her powerful frame. Her fingers provide only the barest resistance to let them gently drag off of Voodoo as she peels away, watching with a hooded gaze as she takes to the pole.

"I remember first hearing this song when I was younger," she finally answers. "It made me feel pretty strong just listening to it. Might've had a bit of a crush on Nancy Wilson." She shares a confidential, sardonic kind of smile as she watches Voodoo move, ruby lips parting. %r"I remember reading about those rumors some time after that. Pretty amazing, the places your imagination can take a story, huh?"

scene is unfinished

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