The next night found Jon in the same neighborhood. Tonight, he would try the direct approach. Besides, he didn’t want to take a chance on running into the pimp from last night. He opened the door—and was immediately disappointed. He was in a long vestibule, with closed, windowless double doors about fifteen feet away. There was a very large man seated halfway between him and those doors. "Can I help you?" he rumbled, making it sound more like an act of defiance than a question.
"Umm… yeah. I heard there was a great strip joint here. Got some money—" Jon flashed a loaded money clip. "—Thought I might get to see some girls." He hoped he sounded naïve enough.
"Sorry. There ain’t no—strip joint—here. This here is a private club," the bouncer answered, standing up and obliterating Jon’s view of the doors by moving towards him. The threat, although unspoken, was quite clear, enhanced by the increased physical proximity. "Guess you musta heard wrong," the guard sneered.
Jon pretended not to notice. "I got it written down right here. Got it from a buddy of mine from college. He’s a lobbyist and he lives here in DC. Says he only comes here once in a while, when he’s got clients, but he swears it’s the best," he lied, holding up a piece of paper with the address on it. To his surprise, the bouncer took a couple of steps back, and pulled a cell phone out of his vest pocket.
The guard spoke quietly into the phone. "Yeah—Mr. Barrett. Got somebody with the address written down out here. OK—thanks." He turned back to Jon without a word, impassively blocking the view of the doors.
One of the doors opened about a minute later. No noise came out, and Jon started wondering if he did have the right place. A nattily dressed man with graying hair pulled into a ponytail stepped out. He had a neatly trimmed beard, wore sunglasses indoors and possessed an air of—cool. "What’s your friend’s name?" he asked without any preface. This man did not look like the typical image of a strip club owner. The bouncer moved closer, following his boss.
Jon found a list of lobbyists at the top of the man’s thoughts. Apparently, his earlier conversation with the bouncer had been monitored, and the man was here, prepared to detect any lie. "Nice outfit," Jon drawled, stalling to gain a few extra seconds to pick a good name from the mental list. Impressive, he thought, the man knows his customers well. Jon could sense that the bouncer’s patience was almost at an end, and his boss’ was growing dangerously short. Ah—there’s one! "Matt Haney. He and I went to Duke University together." Wasn’t that nice of him to have Mr. Haney’s school in his head, too?
The bouncer shot a look at his boss. "It’s OK, Sylvester," his boss said. Clearly disappointed, the huge man moved aside, most, but not all, of the implied threat gone. "My name is Barrett," the stylish man said. "And you are?"
"Tanner. Jon Tanner," Jon replied, shaking hands with Barrett.
He smiled; an automatic one. "I like to know my customers, Mr. Tanner." There was a veneer of suspicion overlaying Barrett’s thoughts. "Right this way, Mr. Tanner." He opened one of the doors. "Oh—you’ll need to take out your money clip and put it in this case. You’ll be going through a metal detector and x-ray. If you have any film on you, it will be ruined. My apologies, but no photography is allowed. The x-ray insures that no--clandestine photography occurs." Jon emptied his pockets; the money clip and hotel key card went into a small strongbox with a lock on it. Barrett took it. "After you, sir." Jon stepped into a pitch-black, closet-sized room. The door closed behind him, leaving him trapped in complete blackness. He couldn’t sense anybody or anything—whatever equipment they were using interfered with his psionic abilities. The claustrophobia was almost overwhelming and he was beginning to panic over the loss of his sixth sense— Suddenly, the wall on his right opened. He turned to see—a very smoky, very lively strip club. "Here are your effects, Mr. Tanner. Welcome to Capitol Hills." Jon jumped at Barrett’s voice. He was still testing his psionic abilities and recovering from his panic attack. "I apologize for the disorienting, claustrophobic experience and the interrogation, but we must respect and guard our patrons’ privacy."
Jon smiled weakly, wiping his forehead. He didn’t even think about checking his money clip to see if anything had happened to it. Barrett regarded him with some sympathy. "First drink’s on the house—my apology, Tanner," he shouted as the music got loud. A wildly shimmying girl took the stage to many hoots and hollers. Jon took a deep breath, and willed himself to relax. His psionic ability was still there, in one piece, and he was in the club. So far, so good.
"Nice place you have here, Barrett!" Jon shouted as he looked around the room. He began to leaf through Barrett’s mind.
"Mr. Tanner, Mr. Haney may or may not have told you, but many of the Beltway’s famous and infamous come here to—unwind. Everyone’s piece of mind relies on everyone’s anonymity. If you think you see a familiar face—you don’t. You were mistaken. Got it?" Jon nodded attentively. "Lack of discretion is not tolerated by the management, and is grounds for removal with prejudice—capisce?"
Jon nodded again, somberly this time. He ordered a rum and coke, realizing that his look around the club had prompted Barrett’s little lecture. The club’s owner left him. There had been nothing close to the surface in Barrett’s thoughts that would be of any use to him or Bridget. Jon turned to watch "Lee Anderson" remove her bikini top to the "Theme From Baywatch." The resemblance ended with the blonde hair; the real McCoy didn’t have a chest that big. He moved closer to the stage, weaving around people and tables, studiously avoiding looking at anyone until he found a table near the runway. People around him were waving money—not one-dollar bills, either—at the now completely naked woman whose dancing was turning into gymnastics. The rising tide of sexual excitement was easy enough to detect without any psi talent.
He feigned interest for the dancer, doing a light scan. Jon didn’t know if he was being watched; the way this club operated, he was fairly sure that he was. He made a paper airplane out of a ten-dollar bill and tossed it at her. She thought it was creative, but didn’t dwell on it—one of her regulars was waving money at her. He didn’t know who it was, but he avoided scanning the crowd because he really didn’t want to know what high-ranking government officials were here. Miss Anderson left the stage and reappeared a few minutes later from a side door, fully clothed again. She walked past him and settled at a table with her regular. Jon waved at a waitress and ordered another drink. He turned to concentrate on the dancer, scanning her thoughts.
She was thinking of sex—no surprise there. Money, too. He felt her thoughts as she fondled the man’s cock—her fingers searching for a zipper… there it was… open… damn, he moved. No easy money tonight… He wants the back room. Shit. "That’ll be eleven-fifty." The waitress’ return startled Jon and he dropped his scan. She stood, waiting expectantly. Jon hated strip joints, even high-class ones like this. The dancer was gone, but maybe the waitress could provide some information. He reached into her mind.
"You will obey me," he quietly said, without looking up at her.
"I will obey you," she repeated. Not much of a will, Jon bemusedly thought. She didn’t even struggle against his control. He asked her name. "Holly," the girl blankly replied. Jon closed his eyes and concentrated, scanning the club for that name. He caught it, along with a linked reference to Barrett. He sent her back to the bar with her own will, a message for the boss, a hundred-dollar bill, and unaware that she had been controlled for a couple of minutes. As he had suspected, Holly was soon back at the table, without a tray and carrying two drinks. "Mr. Barrett sends these on the house," she brightly said. "He said that I could have the rest of the night off if I talk to you."
"Wonderful, Holly," Jon replied, smiling. "Now, you will obey me." A soft, hollow, "Yes… obey… you…" came from the young waitress’ mouth as she fell under his power again. "You are my slave. You will answer all of my questions, truthfully, as fully as you can, do you understand?"
"Yes… I am… your slave. I will… answer."
"What is the ‘back room?’"
"That’s where customers go to be alone with the dancers."
"Does Barrett set that up?"
"No," the enthralled girl replied. Damn, Jon sourly thought. There goes that hypothesis. "The dancers pay him to dance here, because they earn so much. They can earn even more in the back rooms. I heard him explain it to a girl once."
"Have you ever been back there?"
"Not while the club’s open. You can’t go back there unless you’re with another person. Customers can’t go back there by themselves, and neither can dancers." She looked blankly ahead.
"Have some of your drink, Holly," Jon quietly said. He didn’t want any casual onlookers to notice anything strange. "Can I go back there with you?" He was wondering if he could find the dancer that he had seen earlier. She was well out of his range now.
"I don’t know. Nobody has ever asked me," Holly answered. "My tits aren’t big enough. That’s why I’m not a dancer," she continued. Jon quietly told her to go on. "But I’m saving up to have my boobs done. Mr. Barrett told me he’d be happy to hire me after that."
"Let’s go to the back room and see if they’ll let us in, slave. Take me there." Jon stood up and Holly gently took his hand, leading him around the stage to a door along the side. Two more huge men were standing obvious guard.
"I’m taking him downstairs. Mr. Barrett said I could." One of the guards opened a cabinet, handed her a key and grinned at her while the other opened the door. Holly tugged on Jon’s arm and they went down a well-lit, nicely decorated stairwell. This was not a typical sleazy area for strippers and customers. Barrett certainly knew how to run a classy business.
The air changed in a subtle way as they got down the steps. There were people down here, having sex or "private dances", but—Jon had to strain to hear anything. He could sense it, but it was obvious that there was very good soundproofing at work. Holly stopped in front of a door, opened it with the key and walked in. Jon followed. When he turned after closing the door behind them, Holly stood, eyes blank, her top off. "See? My tits are too small." Jon was speechless—her breasts were gorgeous and looked perfect on her. In fact, she was very beautiful in her natural state. He picked the size from her head—36 C. Too small?
He was really tempted to change her opinion of her bodily assets; the world really didn’t need another unnaturally huge-chested stripper. He lusted after her just fine the way she was. However, Holly continued talking, obeying her earlier command to provide as much information as she could about the club and its workings. "This is where a lot of the dancers make a lot of money. Especially the ones with really big tits. One girl—had men every night. Sometimes two or three in a night, but only one at a time—it’s a house rule." Holly’s mental picture of the girl she was talking about shocked Jon into silence for a moment.
"You knew Lolly Popps?"
"Yeah. She works here, but I haven’t seen her for about a week. One of her regulars prob’ly took her somewhere. That happens a lot here, too." Holly had no idea that the poor girl was dead. "She’s real popular. A lot of guys pay her big money—some have been coming here every night to see her," she said, sounding impressed.
"I take it that this is unusual—for the same men to come here several nights in a row," Jon said, adding fuel to keep Holly talking.
"Oh yeah. It’s too expensive, even for big lobbyists. But Lolly—she’s different." Jon leaned forward, interested. "She’s—she’s like—" Holly stopped talking for a moment, thinking. "This may sound funny, especially coming from another woman, but she’s like sex concentrated. Yeah, like a bottle of liquid sex concentrate. Even the boss—Mr. Barrett—he was even affected," the young woman said. "I’ve never seen him go for any of the dancers—he’s strictly business."
"So he hired Lolly. Did he bring her in, did he know her from someplace?"
"Oh no! I was here that day, cleaning and stocking up the bar early to earn some extra money. She just walked in here one afternoon. Said she needed a job and that she was a dancer. Mr. Barrett doesn’t hire anybody off the street, and he definitely doesn’t do first-timers, but the way she moved for her audition!" Holly’s eyes got big. "Even I could tell she was gonna be a star. She even got Mr. Barrett to go into the back room with her. He never samples the girls—says it’s bad for the business relationship. Everything about her cries ‘fuck me’," Holly continued, voice in near-awe. "Even I can sense it. And she loves it. She never seems to get enough. I’ve never seen anybody like her." The girl looked at Jon, still oblivious that she was topless. "You know what’s amazing?" He said no. "She’s like this—super slut, except not skanky or scuzzy. She’s just so hot, almost like she was made for sex."
Jon nodded, impressed by the strength of Holly’s thoughts; she wasn’t embellishing anything in the telling of the story. He questioned her about any conversations with Lolly. His slave had never asked the stripper where she was from, but Holly’s impression was that she was from "somewhere out west." That was interesting; even the accent had been altered. Holly concluded with, "She said this was what she was born to do."
"Thank you, slave," Jon said. "Now go lie down on the bed and sleep until I awaken you." The cocktail waitress slowly walked to the bed and followed Jon’s order, her eyes drifting shut. He didn’t want to be distracted by the temptation of Holly’s body while he put together the information he’d gathered. It was clear that Barrett wasn’t involved in the abduction and creation of Lolly Popps. His interest was that of a businessman, acting solely as a contractor. The girl had arrived here from somewhere unknown, with no history. Barrett didn’t care, especially given how hot she was. She made him money. It was however, clear that somebody had turned the college co-ed into the perfect sex slut. It had pretty much been established how that occurred. Who, why and where were still questions on the table. Bridget would not be pleased.
Jon sighed, and looked at Holly, still topless, asleep on the bed. Something stirred. He thought about it for a second. "Holly, wake up." She tossed for a couple of seconds, then sat up. "Remember that you are my slave, Holly. You serve me. You will do all I ask."
"I serve… you. I am… your slave," she said.
"Dance for me, Holly. Show me how well you could dance for Barrett." Holly put her top back on, and went into a stripper’s routine. Undulating, grinding against imagined objects, slowly exposing her body one piece of clothing at a time. "Yes, Holly, that’s it… strip for me. You are giving me a private lap dance. And it excites you. It makes you horny because you must obey me. You are my slave, and I am your master," Jon panted. The girl moved closer to him. Holly rotated her hips a few feet away from him, pivoted, leaned over, and placed her breasts in his face. She moved away, teasingly, as he reached for her. She straddled him, facing away, grinding her pussy against his pants. He felt the moisture on his leg, but she would not allow him to touch her.
"To the bed, Holly. Show me how hot dancing for me makes you, slave. You love being my slave. It makes you very, very horny. Touch yourself as you obey my command."
"Ohhh… yesss… I must obey… you… obey…" she panted, fingers slipping inside herself. She thrust her hips sharply, thumbing her clit, masturbating slowly. She spread her legs for Jon to see. "Love tooo… oh-oh-obeyyy," she sighed. Jon removed his pants, and Holly began to masturbate faster.
"Come to me, slave. On your knees. Worship me, Holly. You will give your body to me, completely. This is submission, slave. Obey me. I am your master. I will always be your master."
"Yes… my master," she panted. "I will obey… you… master…" Holly crawled to him and took him in her mouth. Jon moaned; she was indeed as hot as her body and dance had promised. She sucked and stroked him, occasionally using a fingernail around the rim. He grew large, and her efforts redoubled, her mouth sliding easily along his entire length. She would be a good slave. He pushed her off his cock and commanded her to the bed. Holly humped at air as he approached, making quiet gasping noises. She played with her clit, silently begging her master to take her.
Jon thrust himself to the hilt and Holly’s back arched off the bed with a soft, "Masss-terrr!!!" He didn’t last long as her insides clung to him and the sense of her sexual passion flooded his mind while her body wrapped around his. A soft, "Come now, slave Holly," from him, and she wailed, her body going stiff, then jerking, massaging him from inside as he softened. She clung to him, frantically trying to keep him inside her, grinding as much as she could, shaking and gasping loudly with each aftershock. Jon relaxed and looked deeply into her mind, programming her with his thoughts. You are my slave, Holly. I am your master. You will always obey me. You are my slave, Holly. You can not resist my command. I am your master. You will always obey me. Holly lay beneath him, eyes wide open, staring blankly into his as the silent command repeated itself in her very soul. As Jon continued his paranormal dominance of the cocktail waitress, he felt himself harden inside her, the excitement of taking her mind as well as her body driving his arousal.
"Master… master… obey… master… obey… master…" Holly began to softly repeat, her hips automatically responding to Jon’s renewed erection and slow thrusting. Before long, she was fucking back at her master with determination and mad energy, his cock sending thrills she’d never imagined possible through her body. "Obey… you… master… must… obey," she grunted, words forced out by Jon’s ferocious pounding. Suddenly, Holly gulped and moaned, "Ohhhh… masss-terrrrrrurrrrrggghhhh!!!" as her mind, body, and universe twisted sharply in climax. Jon gasped, his cock on fire. He filled Holly for the second time, cumming forcefully in great spurts. Taking a woman this way always made it bigger and better. It was one of the few abuses of his talent he allowed himself, and not very often. Besides, he reasoned, Holly could be useful.
As Holly caringly cleaned him afterwards, he gave her some more instructions. "If another woman comes in and seems super-hot, like Lolly Popps, you will call your master as soon as you can. When you have saved enough money for your boob job, you will call your master instead, and follow his instructions. You will always obey me, Holly."
"Yes, master. I am your slave. I will always obey you." Jon’s cock twitched, but he’d been down here quite a while with Holly, and he didn’t know what the standard procedure was. He gave Holly back her will, five hundred dollars, and some false memories. They went back up the steps. Holly turned to him and gave him a peck on the cheek as they got back to the club; the crowd was considerably smaller, and less boisterous. Jon checked his watch; it was almost two a.m. "If you’re ever in Washington again, Jon, stop by Capitol Hills to see me? I’ll be dancing here soon," Holly said, invitingly, sweetly. "I’ll make time for you." She kissed him on the cheek again, in full view of Barrett. The man didn’t even twitch, and Jon could not pick up any feelings one way or the other. He headed out the way he came in, but the bartender sent him through a different door, which opened to another room. He noted the neon beer signs, the faded curtains, the bored-looking man at the bar, and realized that this was the façade from the outside. This second bartender pointed at yet another door, and Jon stepped out into the Washington night, sated, but no closer to the renegade than when he had first entered Capitol Hills.