▬▬ { PALISADES } ⋮⋮ echo & dogged

It wasn’t a Friday or Saturday night that the Palisade was busy—it was Sunday. The glossy black palace was filled to the brim with men of all demographics—students, blue collars, and the ocassional minor with a convincing fake ID. Moore, the owner, had the club outfitted with almost abysmal black tiles and walls of similar make. The chandeliers festooning the ceilings were a stark contrast against the rest of the décor, polished pearl dotted with fabricated crystals and beads.

Moore patrolled his money-maker with the utmost scrutiny. He ensured everyone had a beer and finger-food to nosh while they waited for the ladies to sashay, nude, onto the stage. His girls were some of the best, seasoned strippers and go-go dancers that had bodies reminiscent of swimmers or gymnists. There were some, however, whom he had hired with a fuller frame. His patrons with a desire for more full-figured women had their appetites sated with girls like Chardonnay and Amber.

One of Moore’s most prized possessions, however, was a woman whom seldom graced the stage, but commanded the most attention with her performance. She was strictly known as Lotus—none of Palisade’s employees knew her true name except for Emilia, one of the wait staff.

She came in late that night, through the back door as if trying to ensconce her shame. She could hear Chardonnay and Amber bickering through the metal, complaining about their nails, appointing one another to open it, but eventually Lotus noticed the half-cracked ‘wet floor’ sign propping it open.

“These were sixty dollars! Acryllic!” Chardonnay barked. She held her nails into her sister’s view who merely scoffed in response.

“I got mine from the drug store,” she snickered, “You stupid bitch, why the fuck would you spend that much on your hands?”

“Who the fuck are you talking to!?”

“Enough.”

Lotus’ voice was low but sweet and sonorous, like an aged whiskey with an oaky finish. The two balked, parting as their superior wove through them. Other go-go dancers were gussying up for the show. They were all shapes and colors, but they all had one thing in common—ass. Plump, round, heart-shaped asses with not a stitch of cellulite. Moore was adamant about fitness and bribed his friend, a fitness trainer, to give him a discount on spin glasses for his girls.

“Oh, so you’re making an appearance tonight, are ya?” Chardonnay admired herself in an adjacent mirror, tucking arrant strands of her bubblegum blue wig behind her ears. “Haven’t seen you in a few weeks. Thought you were dead.”

“I was working,” Lotus responded. She disdained her coat on a nearby stool and began to unbutton her blouse.

“This is work. And I ain’t seen ya here. What are you wearing? Awfully conservative for a stripper.” Fortunately, Lotus was among the most patient women in the business. She untied her bun while Chardonnay layed into her about appearance and attendance.

“What’s all this clucking, ladies? Getting along, I hope.” Moore threw open the door with no notice. He was a handsome man, primped and proper with hair redolent of some twenty-something top forty pop artist. One of the senior strippers, Ginger, had reason enough to believe he was gay, but others argued that he was simply ‘meterosexual’.

“Ah yeah. Just swimmingly,” Chardonnay grumbled.

“You’re so saucy. I love it. Make sure to use that on stage tonight. Last time a patron complained that you were a little too happy.”

“Who wouldn’t be happy if their pregnancy test came back negative! No baby for ‘Nay!” Her sister approached her and they high-fived with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm.

“In all seriousness, though. There are some high rollers out there tonight. I want sexy, smoldering eyes, firm tits and body glitter.”

“Please, no, Moore—not the glitter again.” Ginger frowned from her niche.

“Oh yes, all of the glitter.”

Cillian had had enough with that useless nagging bitch and stalked angrily into Palisades. The double doors slammed back loudly against the wall nearly cracking from their hinges and his immense six foot four inch body barely cleared the top of the door frame. His green eyes blazed, his face murderous and his long hair flew back behind him as he stalked to his usual seat in seething silence. Fury rolled off the werewolf in waves and few dared approach the massively muscled man. A scar ran through his eyebrow, just barely missing his eye, lending even more ferocity to his already terrifying visage.

The chair groaned under under his two hundred fifteen pounds and he leaned back with his long legs outstretched toward the stage. A little blond top heavy bimbo asked for his order with a quivering tiny voice. Cillian answered her with a scowl and growled out in a thick Scots burr,

"Guinness and keep it coming. If I have to ask, you not only don't get a tip, I just might beat your skinny white ass." he smiled and it was a scary smile that was deadly serious. The girl nearly stumbled over her own feet, unable to get away from him fast enough. The huge mean Scots said the same thing every time he came in and no one was going to challenge him on whether or not he'd carry out the threat. Rumor had it that he was an acquitted murderer and ex con.

A pale scrawny skank rolled along a pole, her bones showing clearly and Cillian idly watched her with unveiled contempt. His lip curled to bare his teeth at this pasty, skinny excuse for a woman and he hoped someone decent would shake it up there. A real woman with actual curves and no silicone implants. A chick with a real ass that wasn't going to blind him with ridiculous glitter. That shit got everywhere and it was the last thing his excellent lupine scenting would put up with. It stunk and it irritated his keen eyes, messing with his low light vision.

Apparently the waitress got smarter this time and started him off with a six pack. The giant Scotsman took out a large wad of cash, peeled off a hundred dollar bill to put on the table and locked his sharp green gaze on her.

"I make a lot of fuckin money so if you keep this up, you'll make more profit at my own table than all the others combined." he stated gruffly, knowing money talked loudest in a place like this. Loyalty and ass-kissing were guaranteed if you had the cash waving around up front, especially for the manager to see.

He grabbed up a Guinness with a large hand, showing his long forearm tattoo; a black tribal pattern that had taken almost a year to complete. The pain had been so delicious, he'd decided to have the other forearm done to match. Cillian wore a black t-shirt and jeans with thick, custom-made biker boots. When you were as big as he was, they didn't make shoes or clothes in that size!

The werewolf could easily afford it though with his business. Training guard dogs was a thriving industry and he had a well-earned reputation of being the best around. As a lycan, he had a natural advantage when it came to canine communication that no mere human would ever be able to compete with. He could and did work with several different large and medium sized dog breeds trained to guard, kill and protect. When he took on the police and a military contract to breed up dogs specially for highly advanced training, it made Cillian Macgregor a comfortably wealthy man. But that was just the human side of life he must endure to make his way in the world.

His pack had exiled him over the killing of one of their own werewolf kind. They didn't ask why he'd done it, nor did they care. Despite the arranged mating to a bitchy shrew that was frigid, he knew it was invalid since his expulsion. The Murphy Clan hunted him and made no secret of it. Cillian had protected a child--it was just a five year old girl, a mere lycan cub and some sick fuckin asshole decided to slap her around just for fun. He wouldn't stand for anyone beating a child or animal, human or lycan and didn't give a fuck that the pack wanted him dead for it. Good fuckin luck coz he'd do it again if given the choice. No regrets on his part except having Lana at home, the bitch. He seriously needed to cut her loose. She wasn't officially mated to him now and it was essentially a divorce when they declared a blood feud on him. She just wanted his money, the greedy ice bitch.

“I wish I never went into business with my brother … his girls are subpar.” Moore appeared more enthused by commiserating with himself than his staff. He occasionally peered into the greenroom where Amber was teasing Lotus’ mane with a flatbrush. She was pouring over a thick, paperback tome, occasionally stealing a swig from her decanter of black bourbon.

“What is it you’re reading?” Amber was the smaller and squatter of the two sisters, but the more quiet and profound. She, like her sibling, had a complexion of dark chocolate, and was just as bitter. For a moment, Lotus chewed on her query. There was a lapse of silence; she swilled her bourbon, leaned back and sighed, pensive. Amber, rattled by her compatriot’s complaisance, struck her with the tail end of the brush. “I fucking hate when you do that. What are you reading?” Lotus grimaced and rubbed her skull.

“A book about object oriented programming, its theory and practice. I’m trying to disprove the rationality of polymorphism versus the assimilation of constructor methods but in order to do so, I need proof to support my argument.”
“I have absolutely no idea what that is. Don’t bother trying to explain it to me like you do, either. Actually, you know what? Forget I ever asked.”

Moore’s brother, Paul, tried to rake in a few extra dollars by pitting his street girls against Moore’s high-class hussies. Truthfully, Moore abhorred the idea; his girls weren’t even equipped to be deemed show-starters, but without his companionship, Palisades would likely be razed to the ground by vengeful strippers. The DJ in the skybox gestured for the lights to be dimmed. Half-time, Moore thought ruefully. He reached into one of the closets in the green room and unhooked a mask forged from fake gold and niello. He passed it to Lotus; she knew immediately what is was for.

When the girls were primed, prepped and prepared for their show, they held hands and said their prayer. Lotus participated, but her pantheist nature prevented her from being meaningful. Amber and Chardonnay both took the stage first, simultaneously. They were a hot commodity at Palisades; Moore’s literal package deal. They assimilated the fantasy of two go-go girls, shaking their confetti-plastered knee-highs all over the stage. By the time their exhibition had concluded Tiny Tina ripped out onto the stage with her highschool pigtails and scant school girl uniform. She was nude virtually thirty seconds into her charade, but it was warranted. A collection of blue-collar workers were throwing their wives’ money at her and her tiny tits. She was small and pink and agile, but that didn’t keep admirers from her.

A string of women rolled on after that. Ginger, Bambi and Bunny, Lola, Cherry, Anastasia … and among the last, Lotus. She was given a special introduction—her show was longer and far more sensual.

She parted through the velvety curtains as if they were fronds sprouting from her native palm trees. The shadows sashayed over her body, from the nape of her neck down to her thighs. Hungry watchers pounded the dais and were already counting out their bills. American money didn’t have much value in Montreal, but the dollar bills fit perfectly in between their ass cheeks.

Lotus was topless. She washed her hands over her breasts—they were heavy, plump and riper than melons. Half of them were covered in bronze tassels threated with faux sapphires.

What was most striking was not her mask, but the strange, Polynesian tattoos limning her forearms and back. They were misplaced, like ritualistic runes, but they held little to no meaning to North Americans.
The whistles hit a crescendo and she turned. Her hair was wild like a lion’s mane, her face was concealed, and a paper-thin veil of silk covered her lower half.

Cillian took a wad of bank notes from his left pocket and fervently hoped that one of the girls might actually be good enough to warrant them. He kept american dollar bills for people like waitresses, but if he found a class act here, then he kept the good money for them.

He'd left Scotland ten years ago, went to the states for less than a year, hated it and headed up to Montreal. They had all the entertainment, his business needs and everything he could want here. Even the strip clubs were classier than the dives back home in Glasgow.

The parade of women started and he eyed each one with a thorough emerald gaze. The school girl uniform reminded him of his childhood back in Catholic school and he might enjoy a closer view. That was until he saw how little and pathetic she was. Tiny Tina smelled rankly of cheap booze and dirty streets and had no damn tits. Why the fuck was she even here? He curled his lip as she got nearer to his table and Cillian growled a low warning. Though a human couldn't hear it, they would feel it in the raised hair on the backs of their necks and goosebumps on their arms. She looked sickly and cheap and he wanted nothing to do with her kind.

As a proud werewolf, he knew that the females of all predators held the true power, unlike the fluffy, pasty, silly excuses of human girls. Cillian was looking for a real woman and though he knew the chances were slim among humans, there was always a chance. Although if Lana the superbitch found out he was spending good bank notes on strippers, it would be another bloody, virulent fight beyond epic proportions.

His ex mate still clung to him for his money and he just couldn't get rid of her. There was no valid mating any longer, no marriage, no sex, no kids. Just plenty of her bitching and spending his hard earned money. Who could blame him for needing some real entertainment, and if he found the right one, he'd spend the money on her.

The waitress brought him his third six pack of Guinness and he gave her two hundred american dollars. She left him promptly to his drinking and and before he knew it, he'd finished his twentieth. The parade of women seemed to get better as the night wore on and he wasn't sure if it was the Guinness or not. He didn't usually get this drunk, but the last fight had been a real helluva brawl. The injuries had healed by the time he'd made it to Palisades so he just drank it away.

When someone called Lotus was announced, there was a rush en masse to the dais, with men throwing money before he even saw anyone. Then she stepped out on those sleek mile long legs and he slowly rose to his feet. At his height, he easily stood out among the crowd and made his way to the edge. The human males around him gave the huge lycan a respectable amount of space considering the prime entertainment they clamored for. Gleaming ebony skin flashed amongst the shadows, the light caressing her flesh like a lover's hands and Cillian stood rapt before her. Green eyes took in her enormous breasts with glistening tassels and before he realized it, he had a thick wad of bank notes in his hand.

Her tattoos were important somehow, seemed to signify a status that wasn't quite clear to him. Like an exotic lioness, she stalked that stage, every movement sinuous and sexy, making Ciillan's mouth go dry. As if that flawless body weren't enough, her face was picture perfect. High cheekbones that were sharp enough to cut glass paired with almond cat's eyes and that delicious dusky complexion made him want a human woman. She was the one. Strong, beautiful and all woman. Lotus would be his.

He locked his stern lycan gaze on her cat's eyes while clutching over a thousand in bank notes in his large fist. Wearing only a mask and wisp of silk, she now had his undivided attention.

The cacophonous catcalls were crescendoing into hoots and hollers. The patrons pounded, rhythmically, on the dais, wadding their colorful Canadian bills into balls to throw at their Egyptian goddess. None had laid eyes upon her, not without her mask—it was her logotype.

Her sash was purposely coming untied. Silk didn’t hold well and Moore worked that into his shows. He was systematic and it reflected on all of his girls. He bid Lotus wear scant, black thong to reveal each acre of her ass—the crowd went wild for it, especially the convent of lawyers circling the front of the stage. Rumor had it they won a big case this morning and celebrated with boobs and bourbon. They loosened their ties around their necks and tossed them on stage. One announced he’d even leave his wife for her, but Moore always claimed that strippers were no better housewives than hoes. In fact, he deemed them one in the same, Chardonnay, however, disagreed.

By the time her dance was nearing completion she had done her share of splits and spins on the pole. Her breasts leaped when she twirled and the onlookers went entirely feral. She spread her legs, not enough for the boys to glimpse her goodies, and slapped her thigh. That was enough to drive a quarter of the patrons over the boundaries of their moral compass. Two lawyers made a pact to crawl onto the stage, but one of Moore’s bounced thwarted them before they could climb from their chairs.

Lotus had her thong laced with bills. Fives, tens and two Canadian hundreds that wreaked of maple. She pranced close enough to the lip of the staged in her studded stilettos that the men could nearly touch. Moore came out and clapped after her dance, touching her shoulder. Hedisclosed that the strippers would be serving drinks and mingling with the customers—that meant, of course, that they were available for private lap-dances and quick fucks in the back, for customers willing to pay the appropriate price, of course.

Before Lotus performed, Moore wanted her remove her mask during half time. “It’ll be great for the customers to finally see one of their favorite ladies. Besides, there’s been some … whisperings that they think you may be a but-her-face. You know, one of those girls that has a gorgeous body … except for her face.”
Fortunately, Lotus was complaisant—and obsequious, to some extent. She emerged from the greenroom during half time with her sisters in stripping. A few of the lawyers flocked to her first. She removed her mask and they all balked—she was gorgeous, just like they predicted.

Cillian stood among them like a giant sequoia tree, hardly even bothering to notice them--unless they got too close. He didn't throw the money on the stage, nor did he wear a tie to throw on there. With large hands, the huge lycan simply placed the wad of hundreds at her feet, almost as if in tribute to the goddess that she looked like.

He didn't smile, yell, jump around or comment. He was in fact, as still as a statue near the end of the stage, his unforgiving dark green eyes watching her like a hungry wolf. When Lotus shook that fine ass, he raised an eyebrow and remembered he had more money in his pocket if he was lucky enough to get a chance alone with her. The lycan licked his lips when she slapped her thigh, and it was apparent that he wanted to take a big bite out of it.

Although he knew the bouncers were absolutely no threat at all to him, and were in fact nothing more than hors d'oeuvres for his appetite for violence, he respected that they wouldn't want him back if he outright killed them. Life and death were an easy choice for him to make when dealing with humans. If killing were necessary, he wouldn't hesitate, but in civil circumstances like this, he knew it was best to keep his peace. For now.

There was no doubt that Cillian was more drunk than he'd ever allowed himself to get. As a werewolf, he could metabolize alcohol very quickly--unless he was freshly injured. And thanks to that bitch Lana, he was still healing beneath the tight black t-shirt he wore.

With her show over, he stalked back to his seat where the waitress had left his table empty. The dumb slut had cleared it out, assuming he'd left! If he saw her, there wasn't going to be a chance at forgiveness. He dropped into his chair and watched the fat sweaty human lawyers throwing themselves at Lotus and he curled a lip in disgust at them. Had they no fucking dignity? A real woman like that didn't want desperate obese slugs fawning all over her with their micro hard-ons.

He was getting thirsty and if someone didn't bring him a drink soon, he might just start getting a little irritable. Cillian kept his gaze locked hard on Lotus, silently willing her to him with nothing more than the musk of his werewolf pheromones. It wasn't even a conscious thing. The scent was there when he was aroused and when it came to the Egyptian Goddess, there was no doubt in his mind. The enormous Scotsman laid his arm along the table in front of him, stretched out a large hand and drummed his fingers as if waiting impatiently.

Most women were unaccustomed to working half-naked, but Lotus wasn’t one of those women. Her day job dictated she cover virtually every exposed limb from hilt to stalk, but during the evening, the less clothing she wore, the more money she made. At that moment, it was nearly impossible for her to weave through the copse of lawyers. They were like unwavering tree boughs, stalwart and persistent, always reaching for greatness but never quite attaining it. One offered to purchase her drink of choice for her, the other was readily trying to slide a wad of fives into her palm for private time.

Thanks to a ‘business’ savvy club owner on St. Elizabeth street, every type of prostitute, whore and hooker had a classification. Most call girls were among the highest ranking—although Lotus never donned any such title, there were instances where men wealthy—and handsome enough—would address her after the first wave of potential buyers dispersed, offering her material barter or cold cash for a night alone. She could only count two or three of them, even a woman by the name of Rachelle who worked at the local police department. She would be ruined if her colleagues every discovered that she was gay let alone renting strippers for sex, so she sought out Lotus who had a very strict confidentiality clause. Where Lotus was raised, money was synonymous with status—amassing riches meant you were what the locals called one of the ‘unfuckwitables’, a coarse term in native Afrikaans.
Lotus turned her fair share of tricks in those slums. She lost her virginity for money. She sold personal effects and drugs for money. She did many things for money, but money was always readily available in Cape Town, despite its being finite.

She never liked or enjoyed sex. It was a chore, a bore and ultimately, messy. Her boyfriends when she was younger were all incompetent. They couldn’t stomach her social recluse motus operandi, they fucked her for the most base of means and they were the antithesis of faithful. She gave herself her first orgasm and never trusted anyone else to do it for her. The rest of her climaxes were feigned, but she was damn good at acting.

One of the lawyers hobbled over from the bar with her poison of choice—whisky, iced, that had an oaky aroma pouring from the glass. Although curt she was unfailingly polite and thanked him for his generosity, but slinked away the moment Chardonnay and Amber stole their attention.

She approached the bar and commiserated with Emilia, the only women she deemed a friend. Unlike Lotus, there was nothing remarkable about her. She tied her paper-bag brown hair back in a ponytail and kept her bangs at bay with a nest of arrant bobby-pins. Freckles dotted every acre of her face and her big, chestnut doe-eyes had no particular sparkle to them. “There’s a big spender in the house tonight. I think he has a crush on you. Did you see what he left you on the stage?”
Lotus sipped her whiskey thoughtfully. The cold steel on her bare backside bit into her skin, which elicited a grimace. “The lights were too bright. And the mask obscures my vision.” She paused, combed briefly over the audience, then snapped her eyes back onto Emilia. “Out of curiosity … who was it?” Lotus was hoping that someone with that amount of cash on their person may have more.

“That big, beautiful bastard over there. With the curly long hair and the beard … and this weird scar over his eyebrow. It’s strangely handsome, though. Listen, if you don’t go chat with him, maybe I will.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing particularly interesting about him if he’s in a strip club, Emilia. He’s probably married with three kids and a mediocre blue collar job like the rest of these French fucks. I can’t be bothered with the mundane.”

Emilia frowned. “Listen. I know you’re tight on money and I know the union is threatening to disband at McGill. Just … please, go talk to him. Tiffany’s been bringing him Guiness all night. He’s probably buttered up, all you need to do is sit in his lap and bat your camel lashes at him. Here. Take these with you—some extra firepower never hurt.” Emilia pushed two bottles of Guiness over the bartop. Lotus snatched them by their neck with one hand and gripped hard in fear of their perspiration moving her to drop them.

Approaching him, he was gravitational. His eyes, which she translated as hungry and waiting, were dizzying with their luster. Fortunately, Lotus was the epitome of bold. She sat square in his lap with her fat ass right on his thigh. She presented to him one of the bottles while she indulged in her own poison. Silence was her firearm, but from time to time, it was wont to backfire. She hoped that this wasn’t one of those times.

Cillian gave yet another bit of thought to the situation he was in and -still- hadn't found a solution out of it. If he didn't keep giving in to Lana's blackmail, she would give up his location to her old pack. She was a true lone wolf and didn't give a rat's ass if she never saw them again. Which meant that if he kept the bitch in his large, luxurious home into a wealthy lifestyle she demanded, Cillian wouldn't have to stay on the run.

His old pack admittedly, wasn't the brightest of werewolves--but they were definitely the toughest of them. Even little bitty Lana at 4'11 was the fiercest female he'd ever met in his life. Hell, the eight inch gouge along his side was still trying to heal and might have killed a lesser werewolf; and definitely would have slaughtered a male human in mere seconds. They were true Glaswegians and wouldn't dream that Cillian had left their beloved Scotland. But the tiny blond spitfire that plagued him had made it very clear if he kicked her out: they would find out exactly where he was. Twelve large, mean angry werewolves out for vengeance were too much to take on, even for a big bastard like him.

Lana had him by the balls and for the life of him, there was no way around it, other than killing her. Not that he hadn't already tried that, but she was a wily little bitch and what she lacked in size, she made up for in sheer savagery. Maybe he could--

Her scent approached from behind him, her stilettos slowly tapping the hard floors walking ever closer. He could feel her body heat and those shining eyes on him. Cillian was a different kind of werewolf that didn't instantly react to every stimulus around him. His old pack did and they were all batshit crazy because of it. Not him though. He had patience enough to wait when things suited him to do so. Waiting, his green eyes looked almost eerie now that the pupils dilated to mere pinpoints in the lycan's anticipation.

Guinness, whisky and Lotus' musk all mingled together into a unique perfume, giving him a one of a kind impression of the woman who approached.

Without further ado, she plunked down that fine ass on him and offered him a Guinness and a smoldering look. For a brief moment of silence, he accepted the beer, took a long swig of it and locked his gaze on her. She was even more amazing up close and personal. His already off the charts, sky high, werewolf body heat, cranked up even further at Lotus' closeness. The woman didn't blather at him, nor was she a simpering idiot like the waitress had been.

"You didn't have to take your mask off if you didn't want to. I could already tell from your walk that you're beautiful. You stalk like a hunting lioness up there." He said in a low, rumbling voice. His right hand curved around her thigh, his thumb stroking up and down and he watched her expression like the wolf he was. Hundreds peeked out of his left pocket in a vast crumpled heap and he didn't care who saw the money. His was the confidence of an untouchable huge werewolf male in his prime, living among feeble fragile humans that could never be a threat to him.

Lotus' scent was making him crazy horny and they would have to find a back room for sure. Almost eleven inches of starving wolf strained the zipper on his jeans and his expression showed exactly what he was thinking about her. Her soft caramel flesh was hot and silky to his touch and he wanted far more than a little hello. His eyes followed the tattoos that graced her skin, wanting to know them, taste them. A large plump breast pushed temptingly against the side of his chest and shoulder and heat ran through him like lightning. Cillian looked at her with a hungry feral scrutiny that would make a lesser woman squirm with fear.

"What do you like to be called?" he asked, moving his mouth closer to her ear so she could hear him better.

Setting down his drink on the table to free up both large hands, he slowly traced the outer contour of her waist and hip. Cillian might've been a bit drunk, but there were some things that were always in high demand and Lotus was one of them. He noted her hand had a writing callous and there was a dead serious expression in the depth of those lustrous eyes. She didn't appear to be your average uneducated low life stripper at all. Her hands were refined, her gestures graceful with their sheer economy of movement. Even plunking herself down on his lap, she had the posture of a scholar, not a slut; and it intrigued him very much.

Her sleek almond eyes and impossible high cheekbones weren't from your average Canadian. Asian? No. Middle eastern? Egyptian? Not sure. She seemed like it but maybe a little something else. She was a mystery he intended to unravel-with both hands.

“You didn’t have to take your mask off if you didn’t want to. I could already tell from your walk that you’re beautiful.

Superficial, she thought, Predictable. Mundane. Boring.

Despite her misgivings, Lotus noted his unusual scent. It wasn’t cologne, or that adolescent body spray that some of the patrons doused their clothing in. It was something else entirely, animal, corporeal. Regardless, she was remained completely perceptive. Although her ass was plush, his thighs were the complete antithesis. She balked at the heat pouring from him—it was like she was sitting bareback on hot porcelain … and it was strangely enthralling. “No?” she swilled the last mouthful of her whiskey and gazed into the void that was her empty glass. “It’s an ugly thing. The owner’s idea of exotic, I suppose.”

She abhorred having to venture out into the cold, especially after being warmed by this monstrous furnace of a man. The thought slapped her with reverb enough for her cheek to swell. She had a class to teach at 8am, less than a good night’s sleep away. There was a deadline for a class assignment and it was probable that she would have to spend the entire night grading papers.

“Lotus.” She responded curtly, nearly chewing the culmination of his sentence with words as fangs. In reality, she was well aware that he was digging for her real name, but she deigned not award that to any man—patron or otherwise. During ‘orientation’, Moore made it apparent that their alias was a means of protection. Montreal’s highest class strippers were the stuff of local legend—admirers and stalkers shared a thin line, thin enough for Moore to distress.

“Like the flowers that sprout along the Nile.”

There was something bizarre about this particular patron. In addition to his apt animal magnetism and striking eyes, he was misplaced. He had the look of a lumberjack to him—one of the Frenchmen who lived in Trois Rivieres and seldom made the pilgrimage into Montreal or her sister communities, only to shove their cocks into some hungry hooker then disappear before the sun kissed the Champlain. “This is an unsavory place for someone such as yourself … although, I’m not presuming to know you, I can only draw conclusions.” She dared herself to be more comfortable in his presence. After all, he was likely going to make a few months’ rent disappear if she was lascivious enough. It wouldn’t be hard, she reassured herself, he was already half in the bag and batting his hungry eyes.

“Scottish? Your accent, I mean. Not many of your ilk here.”

Her response of 'no' came out with a saucy smirk that spoke volumes to the werewolf. They communicated most strongly with body language and facial expression so any lies or undercurrents were picked up immediately. Cillian didn't normally go to all that many strip clubs but he was beyond frustrated when he was nearing three months of pure celibacy.

He had to be careful if he was gonna fuck a human female or he'd kill by accident. A werewolf normally wouldn't think twice about killing someone during sex, but adding to his kill count was a bad idea. A stupid lycan soon became a dead lycan.

The whole damn thing was difficult at best when he could so easily read liars and dirty whores. While Cillian had more than the average amount of patience, he wouldn't tolerate some dumb slut lying to him. The search for a female that could literally survive sex with him took a LOT of looking.

Her eyebrow was imperious as she looked at her now empty glass and he called out to a nearby waitress,

"Bring a bottle of your best whiskey and some ice." reluctantly, he took his hand from her thigh and pressed two hundreds into her hand.

"I'm not stingy so don't keep the lady waiting."

So she would only give her stage name to him, of course. He supposed she had to keep it professional. Hell he shouldn't even be here right now with a six am consult for a large firm, but there was something... unique about her and he wanted to know more of her.

"What do you know of the Nile? Have you been there? You look like you could be Egyptian." he asked, wondering if that's where her tattoos were from. Cillian swigged the last of the first beer and moved onto the second one thirstily. It seemed Lotus would rather question him then vice versa. Although he knew there were plenty of guys who loved to talk about themselves, lycans just weren't like that.

He watched her quietly, her scent kept him intoxicated far more than the alcohol and her skin was irresistible. When she asked if he was Scots, he nodded carefully but said nothing. They'd put out werewolf death warrants for his arrest back in Glasgow and this wasn't a topic he was going to discuss with anyone.

"I came here to start a business so I'm new to Montreal and not very familiar with places like the Palisade."

Canadian money was waxy, colorful and most importantly, water and tear proof. Superseding one of Moore’s money making schemes—which involved the rental of a pool bar on Jean Drapeau—his crew were posed nude in the once public pool. Customers with wallets big enough to buy in could wade across the pools with their bills and pay the scantily clad bartenders. Regardless, Lotus knew real bank notes, and these were not only genuine, but fresh off the press.

She knew better than to second guess a man showering her with cash. Instead of having the waitress at his beck and call, she assumed her role—but it was a set-up. She was greasing his wheels, enticing him with visual stimuli while he stewed. Her ass was a marvellous view as she sashayed away. The delicate gold chains festooning her curves swayed and she walked tall and proud in her sick inch stilettos.

After stalking over to the bar where Amelia promptly asked for a ‘status report’, but Lotus merely requested an older bottle of port. “Bottle service? Amelia added jokingly. Lotus scoffed and returned to her haunt, escorted by the DJ’s mellower playlist.

“Hardly.”

He was just as hot, if not hotter, than when she left him. His thighs were bandy and hard with practiced muscles. She didn’t deem him a runner, no, they were lithe and svelte, he was the opposite, and laden in scars from what she could discern. “I’m mulatto.” Ambiguity was her protection. ‘Never tell the customers your credentials, have them ask,’ she remembered Moore reciting, ‘Most of them will be too fucking drunk to even remember let alone care.’ In addition, Moore abhorred the term ‘mulatto’ but it was more than perfect given Lotus’ circumstances.

“But I identify as Egyptian.” She made sure he had all of the booze he could swill. When he was good and liquored up she’d seduce him, but strangely, she predicted that she may actually enjoy this charter.

“This isn’t a place that a budding businessman should frequent. But if you’re comfortable with developing guilty pleasures, it’s the perfect vice.” She cocked one of her perfectly tweezed eyebrows at him. “J’espère que vous pouvez parler français; cette ville est une monstre.”

She reached out and swept an errant curl from his verdant gaze. “I can think of better ways to help you spend your money than squandering it on knock-off Guiness.”

When Lotus got off his lap it was certainly worth the view. That round ass moving along swinging her legs with those stilettos had him turning in his seat to watch her. Cillian's eyes glittered with lust as he looked at her talking with someone at the bar and his jeans got bulging tight.

The tall muscled werewolf nodded at her vague answer but was glad to hear that she admitted to some Egyptian ancestry. No this wasn't a savory place to be but at least it was out of the house and away from Lana.

It took a long moment to realize that Lotus hadn't touched the whisky after setting it down and he spoke up.

"You're drinking whiskey. That's for you to fill your glass at your leisure. Beer is safer for me to drink coz whiskey can make me a mean bastard." he commented slyly.

The french caught him off guard for a second, taking him a little bit to translate before he replied,

"J'ai eu à apprendre le français de mener mon activité ici. Et je suis un monstre effrayant que toute la ville pourrait être." Cillian smiled his secret smile, knowing a human would be horrified to know the kind of real monster he truly was. Especially in a big place like Montreal, he could get lost in the crowds of people, despite his height and intimidating demeanor.

"If it's not straight from the pub back home, it never tastes the same!" the Scotsman agreed heartily.
He liked her suggestion. A lot. But the obvious problem was, would he be able to control himself enough to be gentle--by werewolf standards, that is. She did have a point though and he almost laughed at the accuracy of it. He permitted himself a small grin instead.

"Finish up your drink and then you can help me spend my money."

Truth be told, Lotus desired to confiscate the bottle and polish it off at home within the confinements of her safe, naked walls and plush comforter. Instead, she was fitted in this monstrous man’s lap, regaling him with her French and inquiring after his pallet. It was all about appearances, she continued to reassure herself. If money was to be made then she would have to continue with her charade.

She careened forward, enough for her legs to be straddling his thigh, uncasking her bottle and pouring a healthy glassful. The ice swirled within the maelstrom of spirits and clanged against the glass when she raised it to her lips. The aroma was bawdy and it was redolent of hot liqueur sluicing down her throat when she swallowed. Its all too invasive fingers snaked through her esophagus and into her chest where they bloomed, as if reaching out for more.

His French was hoarse and angular as she expected it to be. Welsh, Scottish and Irish immigrants were never too adroit with pronouncing French’s phoenetics, but with the right encouragement, he could easily become a master.

“Rum is my shortcoming.” She nearly purred. The whisky put her more into her element. She eased back into him. The length of her spine glissaded against his sternum; her weight was in his lap and she could feel his thick, hot arousal burgeoning through his jeans. If she was sober, she’d pay more attention to her work. Under the influence—narcotics, alcohol, the traditional vices—she deigned not care. Rather than retreat, she made headway—hasty headway. She anchored herself against his groin and swirled her drink as if she were some refined wine connoisseur sampling a French merlot.

“So if I finish this bottle, are you proposing that you’ll purchase another?”

This whiskey was the stuff that only the most stalwart of drinkers supped on. She couldn’t fathom drinking the whole thing, having already been hosting a pleasant high off of the stuff.

“You know, I don’t believe I heard your name. Although, I’m quite for ambiguity. If that’s information you’d prefer not to disclose, I, of all people, understand.”

Moore began doing his rounds on the floor. He stalked the tablets, occasionally greeting a patron or two, overseeing his operation, hoping to facilitate in any way he could. The bar would close soon—students were withdrawing after they received their final lap dances. They were always the first to do. Next would be the blue-collars, Lotus predicted, and the men that had to drag themselves to work first thing in the morning.

For most, herself included, the night as only young. She aspired to steal this budding business man off to one of their private show rooms and give him one of her special dances, but as the circumstance dictated, this particular patron wasn’t shy when it came to forking out the bills. Although she rarely invited the strip club’s members between her legs—in fear of being stung for soliciting by an undercover cop—she was always able to comb through subtle queues, or at least, propose that these queues existed.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to stop, soon,” she winced, “I have an early morning.”

For a few minutes, there wasn't a thought in his damn head because all the blood had rushed to his now fully occupied lap. It was hot enough that Lotus straddled his thigh, but when she brought down that ass, he had a very sexy lapful of exotic woman. Her spine pressed into his chest in a natural fit and he slung a large, muscled arm around her waist. Cillian's palm rested on her taught sleek stomach and he pulled her in closer to his hot muscular body. Holding a luscious armful of curves, for the moment, he couldn't ask for anything more.

This was a good place to be right now with Lotus' husky voice and voluptuous body and all the booze he could drink. Relaxation was finally an option at least and he listened to her conversation and answered her questions a little easier. Her tone told him subconsciously that while she was more relaxed with whiskey, the woman's comments were still on the job at hand. Nothing personal, and it shouldn't be really. It was her job to make him want sex and alcohol so she'd do whatever it took to achieve that.

When Lotus adjusted her weight exactly on his groin, he seriously considered just taking her right there. But Cillian knew he couldn't do that. He was lycan, not human so there was no way he could get away with it. If, no, when, he fucked her, he'd need a private place and let her take the top so he wouldn't kill Lotus by accident. He wasn't undersized to make it any easier either. A woman could only take so much and for all the blather of saying they wanted a bigger dick, they obviously never had to deal with it. Controlling penetration when you had such a large monster was never easy and he'd learned over the years, how to let the woman take the lead or it would seriously end in death for the unfortunate female. Much as he wanted Lotus, he didn't want to savage her as he would another lycan that could heal as fast as they were wounded.

The Egyptian beauty prompted him about the whiskey and it seemed to matter to her so he responded,

"How many bottles do you think I should buy to make your boss happy? Did you want one to take with you?" he adjusted her seat just enough to get into his pocket and took out a couple hundreds to place on the table directly in front of her.

Her dark eyes were half lidded with how much she enjoyed the whiskey and his closeness and it took him a bit to realize she'd asked his name. Aah the double standard in this kind of place. The girls' names were all made up bullshit, but he'd honestly just give his name. He supposed it was most likely a safety measure against the onslaught of nightly drunken, stupid blue collar husbands and freaky stalker types.

"Cillian." he answered quietly, his low rumbling voice almost touching her ear. There was a helluva lot more he wanted to do with her but it was getting late and he had an early morning consult to remember. No amount of drink could make him forget things. Werewolves healed so quickly that even the strongest alcohol wouldn't kill a single brain cell before their supernatural metabolism took control.

The werewolf kept his mouth at her ear and whispered,
"Just how soon? I know you can feel how much I want you..."

No matter how handsome or rich they are, they all want the same thing in the end. Once the chase concludes, they forget about even the prettiest of lays. The fucks.

She was so grateful for her inner voice and the ability to speak to herself—only herself. On the outside, she was silent, but observant. In her laconism, she found enlightenment. Sure, fucking customers for bank notes wasn’t society’s ideal of conscientious, but at least she could pay her rent and eat breakfast.

“Cillian.” She exhaled his name like she was breathing hot smoke from a cigar. It wasn’t like the other names in the city—mostly French derivatives or nicknames drawn from movie tropes. “I won’t decline souvenirs,” she added, “You’d have to buy all of the alcohol and bottle services for my employer to be happy.” Lotus was very particular with her words—after surviving the number gang genocides in Cape Town, she learned to guard her tongue since if one said merely one word out of context, theirs would be carved out and forced down their blood laden gullets.

Lotus felt the eyes of onlookers. Some of her sisters in dance were shooting their slanted gazes through the waxy, paper panels diving quarters of the atrium. Amber especially had chosen Cillian for her meal that night. She witnessed his entrance and even welcomed her which, in her mind, was redolent of her custody over him. She rambled on and on about this big, beautiful, tattooed god that strode in earlier that nightand had been whipping out the double-digit and triple digit bills since the moment he was served his first drink. “I’d fuck the hell out of that man,” she cooed, “He can have all of this for free. I wouldn’t charge him a fuckin’ penny.”

She seethed seeing Lotus in his lap. Top dollar for top pussy Moore would say, and Amber was barely worth a five and a bottle of red. She meandered over with an accented sway to her hips in hope to captivate the two. Lotus wasn’t in the least bit intimidated, but to mark her territory, she stole a fistful of Cillian’s collar and drew him in for a gentle kiss. Her lips were as cushiony as her tits and her lipstick was top of the line, not a smear or smudge left as evidence of her advance. She could taste the Guinness on his tongue and his hot, labored breath that screamed desire.

“Immediately, if you’d like,” she whispered, “The champagne room is vacant, but the rates aren’t low tariff. Hopefully you haven’t spent all of your bills on booze.” After Amber stormed away, furious with Lotus ‘display, Lotus lured Cillian away by his wrist. He was a big man and pulling him was reminiscent of dragged several satchels of potatoes that had the whole winter to mature. He was heavy and, strangely, to Lotus’ chagrin, well endowed. He’ll split me in two, she thought bitterly, Of course I’d attract the monsters.

She didn't know the brevity that her thoughts carried.

Cillian watched her pensive expression and knew she was thinking far more than she was saying aloud; and he liked that. He didn't like yappy stupid little girls. They reminded him of yipping, fluffy little Pomeranians which annoyed the fuck outta him. Lotus was quiet and but she spoke with purpose-like a real alpha woman. He nodded at her comments, accepting them at face value and knowing that extravagant words could get a person killed if they weren't careful.

"Choose a bottle of what you want and I'll buy it." the large Scotsman answered calmly. He felt a growing amount of eyes on him and it made him edgy. Too many prying people sometimes saw things that he wasn't careful enough to cover up. As a werewolf, he would always be subtly different among humans and he was aware that very few were observant enough to notice. Cillian however, was very drunk and his judgement was skewed when he needed to be alert to danger. After the bullshit with Lana, he had wanted nothing more than an escape to the nearest place that offered booze and maybe some casual company.

A cheap, desperate looking slut walked closer and her pheromones were off the charts high. The lycan's nostrils flared at the smell of cheap booze, sex and a cocktail of dirty drugs as Amber got closer. Cillian was repulsed by her, but it looked like Lotus would see to the problem without him having to do a thing about it. He avoided female on female conflicts as all Alpha males did in typical werewolf society.

The Alpha bitch was the only female in the pack that was allowed to mate with all the males. In the lupine world, females were the dominant species and made the decisions. The male wolves didn't interfere when females vied for status because they could get killed in the process. With males, instinct ruled them and they only wanted the Alpha or nothing at all.

Lotus stared down the lesser female, grabbed a fistful of his shirt and aggressively took possession of his mouth. Her lips were soft and pliant, moist and delicious. But her mouth was strong and assertive--which he liked very much. Cillian scented her rise in pheromones, marking him as hers to do with as she chose. He kissed her back, his facial hair warm and strong against her face, his arms encircling her completely in a wall of uncompromising muscle.

His sharp lupine hearing heard Amber stomp away on her cheap, brittle heels and when Lotus broke the kiss, their lips still clung for a brief moment longer. Lotus' whispered comment had him chuckling at her mention of cost and he replied with amusement,

"I could easily spend five thousand a night here and it wouldn't use up the interest alone of what I make. Money isn't a problem for me, goddess."

He loosed his arms from around her, noting the tension in her frame. The large werewolf was surprised when she'd jumped off his lap and tried to tug at his wrist. A small smile made his eyes glint at her efforts, knowing she didn't stand a chance in hell of moving him unless he intended to go anywhere. He let her tug for another few seconds before he removed his large frame from the chair and finally stood with those very long legs beneath him. As much as he liked her invitation, perversely, it still highly amused him to watch her little hands trying to drag him behind her. He kept up a slight resistance, just to test her strength and determination, before following behind her with a giant stride that made up three of her normal ones.

This was about to get good...

I need his money.

“I can help you spend it sensibly, at least.”

There were four rooms build into the back of Palisades—the Merlot Room, the Noir Room, the Shiraz room and lastly, the Champagne room. Elite members of Moore’s fuck club could migrate to a tier based on the kind of ‘business’ they conducted at the club. The Merlot Room was standard; nothing out of the ordinary transpired there, just the average blowjob or two and occasional fingering, if the strippers consented. The Noir and Shiraz room’s were for those with a more eclectic taste—and the cash to whet their appetites. Lastly, the Champagne room, reserved for the highest end whore with tightest cuddy and ripest ass. Lotus was among the other hussies that worked the room, Lola and two others included.

After leading Cillian into the room, she closed the lilac curtains. It was more a niche than a chamber, ensconced between two black walls, teeming with throw pillows, cushions and a roman style divan, the type Lotus remembered seeing in a pornographic Spartacus satire. Batiatus’ wife Lucretia was fucking her finest gladiator on one of the damned things, but truth be told, Lotus was high off of some half baked hemp from the slums and could barely make out their writhing bodies through the mess of smoke.

I really need his money.

Cillian was the antithesis of malleable. The man would barely move a muscle when she coerced him to. Even intentional gyrations of her hips and ass weren’t motivation enough.

He was handsome. Too handsome. From what she could tell, he had the body of some well-worked Calvin Klein model, but his face was reminiscent of a construction worker or, at least, the ones that she’d back home. Despite her misgivings, she closed the space between them, gesturing for him to seat himself on the divan, which she predicted would cryout in protest when he set his weight on it. The music and strange florescent lights slanted in through the curtains. Lotus frowned. The whole place was a cliché—a tasteful cliché, at that.

She planted herself square in his lap, touching his hair, rubbing the pad of her thumb over the scar that defaced his eyebrow. “I wonder how this came to be.” One of the strippers that worked the weekdays had a similar scar, but its origin, she was sure, had no correlation with his. She and another whore were arguing over a patron and her combatant slashed her with a stiletto.

Pushed by curiosity, she kneaded the hemline of his top. She lifted it enough to witness the valley of dense, practiced muscle underneath. His abdomen appeared to be impenetrable by any weapon, but from the scars, it seemed that people tried to breach his defenses. “You’re oddly warm. I can’t complain, though. I don’t fancy winters.” She worked the cotton tee over his head an agility easily compared to that of a seamstress. Her fingers were nimbler but her eyes, more so. With him half naked before her, she began unfastening his buckle. The jingle was melodic, nostalgic, exciting.

“You’re too big for the divan, dear. I may have to move you to the floor.”

Cillian wasn't quite sure what to make of the room other than that it was nothing he'd ever choose for himself. The Champagne room seemed to be the best that Palisades had to offer; and in that token, so was Lotus.

A small conscience at the back of his mind tried to work through the alcohol induced haze. The warning of impending trouble if he did what he fully intended to do. Just a lap dance in public was harmless, but for a lycan to fuck a human would be the gentlest way to thrall her into becoming like him. Had he been sober, had about a dozen less drinks in him, this wouldn't happen and he most definitely wouldn't be here. But he was three sheets to the wind and there was no stopping an exploding volcano. The best anyone could hope for was to run to safety and let nature take its course.

The divan groaned a loud protest under his weight, the wooden legs cracking audibly in warning. Lotus put down that find round ass on his lap and there was only one thing he wanted. Her. The warnings at the back of his mind vanished as the blood fully rushed to the most crucial part of his anatomy for the activity at hand.

That lush curvaceous body was made for sex and Lotus was pushing all the right buttons with him. Until she wondered aloud about the scar he sported. When he'd tried to kick out Lana after their mating was declared null, she'd gone at his face in a rage. With a pure silver knife. Luck was on his side that night and he'd managed to just barely evade all but one of her attacks. Silver was the only thing that permanently scarred werewolves. He followed wolf law that females were always higher status than males within a pack. It was deeply ingrained into their lupine psyche to have loyalty to their mate--until they were no longer mated. She'd tried to kill him off several times since then, but he healed up every time. At least Lana hadn't used silver on him again. She'd burned her own hand on it in the attack and she found out a sobering limitation of lycanthropy-silver not only scars forever, it hurts forever.

"Battle scar from my ex." he muttered to Lotus, unable to lie because he was lycan. It was one of the downsides of being a werewolf that one cannot lie. Her nimble little fingers lifted his shirt to show the scars criss-crossing the rows of rock hard abs. The ragged bits of history were the only thing marring an otherwise perfect physical specimen of manhood. His dusky skin was tanned and well-muscled with the constant exertion of lupine activity. Their kind of lifestyle demanded nothing less than the peak of fitness.

"Warm? Yeah I guess you could say that.." he answered. Wolves and dogs usually had a body temp of around 101 degrees so it felt much hotter to humans every time. Before he even knew what was happening, his shirt was thrown across the room and she was working on his belt buckle! With all the shifting going on, even Lotus must've heard the divan about to reach its breaking point and suggested they move to the floor instead.

Cillian lowered his long, large frame to the pillows and rested on one arm as he watched her with gleaming green eyes. Thankfully, Lotus was conveniently nearly nude so that didn't leave much for him to take off of her.

"Have you ever had someone my size before?" he asked with concern, being as big as he was. It could, at the least, be very daunting for a woman to suddenly try to deal with his massive size, or at the most, outright terrified, refusing to take him on. It was a critical moment she was unfolding with those cool, agile hands and he was uncertain if she'd outright deny him. It had happened before and he fervently hoped he wouldn't be turned away after coming so far.

The sonorous chime of his belt was a redolent of a death-knell; a harbinger of the figurative monster that was about to spring out at her. Her eyes reflected her thoughts for an instant. She was contemplative, mulling over his query, wrenching his belt from its denim fixtures all in the same moment. Likely not, she meant to admit, but she merely responded with a suggestive raise of her eyebrows. She chased the hemline of his boxers with her fingernails as if she was tracing unseeable lines.

Outside of their tastefully decorated love nest the music thawed. The light from the fixtures split through the chandeliers in fragments and bathed Lotus in their kaleidoscopic beams. In the aurora, she resembled a Polynesian priestess being elected into godhood—but the priestess wasn’t clairvoyant and she didn’t perceive the divan folding underneath them. It was an easy transition, fortunately. The pillows made their tryst all the more comfortable. She draped his belt around his neck like the lawyers who unfastened their ties earlier that night and continued her adventure. The button on his jeans popped open and she made quick work of the zipper.

“Your ex.” It was more a statement of validation than a question. “Some women are spitfires. What we lack in physicality we make up in ingenuity.”

The moment of truth was just that—truthful. When she reaching into his boxers, there was a brief gleam of surprise. She discovered that he wasn’t one of those blue-collars with unimpressive dicks, no—his cock was a slab of heavy heat and density. When she hauled it out—barely able to fit her hands, which were not in any physicality small, around it—she exhaled. “Fuck,” she managed. Even drunk he was monumental. Somehow, through the miasma of Guinness, he stood at full salute. Remarkable.

She had to drum up a plan of attack. She couldn’t just start stroking and hope she was hitting his sweet spots; she had to drum up a plan of attack. Words never suited her, so in their stead, she inched down on their throw-pillow bed and eventually on all fours until her heart-shaped ass was high in the air. She inspected his cock not with scrutiny, but with virtual elation.

Lotus kissed him first. She nibbled at the skin on his frenum then lapped his entire shaft from top to bottom. Fortunately, her tongue was pierced—at Moore’s behest, of course. Cillian’s skin was hot and salty. She could virtually taste his desire and feel him throb when she hook his cock into her mouth. After full assessment she concluded that the attentive approach would be best for getting off. Despite her mild enjoyment, she hoped he was easy to work over.

It was largely doubtful, though.

'She puts on a good game face if nothing else.' he thought, watching her raised eyebrows. As her fingers traced the boxer briefs, Cillian was pretty sure that Lotus had no idea what she was in for. The monster stirred beneath her light touch as the button popped off and he propped himself up on his elbows to watch her all the better.

With an ease that spoke of long practice, she whipped off the belt and dangled it around the back of his neck. Dark green eyes were consumed with the blackness of his large pupils, when she commented on his ex.

"You have no idea goddess." he answered laconically, his tone conveying a wealth of meaning. Lana was a savage werewolf bitch and a stone cold killer at heart.

Her eyes went jet black as she muttered an expletive of surprise. Apparently, she'd never dealt with someone his size before. His gaze locked on her face, reading the micro-expressions. Surprise, astonishment, a little daunted but mostly determined. And that's when it struck him like a boot to the head. Lotus didn't look at him with desire or interest. Lotus had the appearance of someone taking on a monumental task with both shoulders in the harness. He was a job to tackle, not a lover.

If she'd had previous experience of someone with this much dick, she'd know she needed to get herself ready--not him. He had a giant hard on that made his interest obvious so if anything, she would need to be worked up. Unless she planned on just a blow job in which he imagined her satisfaction would be nil.

The millisecond her little piercing touched the sensitive skin he reverted to Gaelic and exclaimed,
"Dè tha thu a' dèanamh?!"

His cocked twitched in her mouth with a life of its own, instantly responding to her. The large Scotsman inhaled sharply, trying to keep control of himself at least in some measure.

"You're the one that needs all the encouragement lass, not I! You keep this up and I can't hold out much longer and where would that leave you? Unless you're wanting nothing else from this?" he asked her dubiously.

He patted the pillows beside him, coaxing her to relax a little. His size had scared every woman he'd ever been with and this was always the solution they first turned to. It left them nothing in return and no chance for any enjoyment on their part.

"It doesn't have to be all one sided now, you know. But if you're good down there and want for nothing else, I'll not stop you..."

Lotus had a lush body made for loving and Cillian didn't know why she didn't even want to be touched. Then it all clicked. Right. This was all business for her so she was just trying to get through what she considered an onerous chore. It made him a little sad because he knew he could be a good lover for her, if she'd just let him. The Guinness helped him slow things down anyway. Not that he was thinking as clearly as he should after all that drinking.

Sex was a bad idea when you mixed species. Lana always killed her human lovers, not bothering really with covering her bloody tracks. It was left to him to find a place to dump the body. If you didn't kill a human with your savage lycan nature during sex, they could become a werewolf too-if they survived. But he was too drunk to think of the consequences so keenly right now. He was deeply sexually frustrated and he didn't want a blow; he wanted sex. Companionship. But he left the choice entirely up to Lotus. She could stay down there and 'do her job' or join Cillian on the pillows beside him.

“So … you have to be in class in about … I don’t know, an hour. You should have been on the metro thirty minutes ago, Ammon. At this rate you’re going to have to drive and you and I both know that morning traffic on the Champlain is going to fuck you.” Rusko repeatedly wrapped on his roommate’s door, but the reverb was driving him virtually insane. He’d been at it for thirty minutes, but was beginning to lose faith. Ammon was usually very curt—and responsible—with her morning routines. Wake, shower, breakfast, then she was out the door. On Wednesdays they took the metro together. Ammon would read the paper and Rusko would smile at the same strawberry blonde on the subway car at Plamondon. She always sashayed off at the Lionel-Groulx and batted her fake lashes at him. Every Wednesday he promised himself he would get her number, but that was almost fifty-two Wednesdays ago.

“Ammon. Come on.”

Rusko was a French scion, one of Notre-Dame de Grace’s pretty boys. He wore a pair of glasses that were well too oversized but made his aristocratic mien appear infinitely more studious. He had an obsequious air to him, too—his posture was perfect, his dusty brown hair was impeccably quaffed and his collar was preened and pressed to excellency.

He cursed, giving her doorknob a quick twist. The door swung ajar and he peered into Ammon’s room. It was generally off limits, but when she was out during the evenings, he happened into it once or twice. Like any curious roommate he rummaged through dresser drawers and Rubbermaid bins hoping to find incriminating evidence of her personal life, but there were little to no spoils and certainly nothing of personal worth. Regardless, her room was quaint and lived in. Half the walls were unchipped brick with smooth wood panelling. Everything about her chamber was orderly, but the one thing that appeared askew was a frayed poster of the Ohio Players splashed on a psychedelic themed background.
“Ammon?”

He closed the space between himself and her bed, feeling through her comforter for what he hoped to be her shoulder, but somehow, he ended up clasping her thigh instead. Through the some odd-hundred thread-count quilt he felt her hot flesh. She flinched like a rabbit when he touched her and she shied away. “Hey. Are you alright?” She responded by sitting upright, but Rusko wasn’t at all prepared to witness what he did. Her hair was jutting up in every which direction. She was drenched in sweat, her lips were pale and there were heavy, dark circles ensnaring her lifeless eyes.

Rusko somehow managed a chuckle. “Not feelin’ so hot, eh?” His heavy French accent made all of his English sound callow. “You’ve probably accrued a few weeks of vacation time. Call in sick.”

Ammon tried to fetch her voice, but it snared in her throat, like a cloth on a branch. “I can’t.” The sound she managed was something very short of what he considered a voice. It was raspy, defeated and barely legible.
“Ah, yes you can, my love. You look like shit, anyway.”

Every inch was sore. Her head was swimming, daggers were stabbing viciously at her corneas and even her mouth was dry. She’d already swilled some two litres of water over night but it was impossible educe any water.

Regardless, she reached for her phone dialed the university. One of her colleagues answer, a secretary she knew for years. There were words exchanged, but the secretary seemed to make most of it. Fortunately, one of Ammon’s teacher assistants was well versed in the day’s lecture and was willing to step in, but only if she was able to teach the afternoon class. After the agreement was made, Ammon threw herself back into her sweat-soaked bed. Rusko inquired after her, but when there was no response, he left Ammon to herself.

"Fuck!"
Cillian woke with a hand to his head, cursing at the worst headache he'd had in five years. Habit had him reluctantly awake at 5 am and two huge German Shepherd Dogs (Thor and Athena) jumped up on the bed, whining. Their instant presence put him to full alert and he checked his other senses to their fullest.

Despite the pounding head, he licked his lips to listen more intently and heard Lana snoring from across the hallway. Two Rottweilers (Titan and Freya) and a pair of pitbulls (Samson and Delilah) roamed the marble tiles with their nails clicking back and forth on patrol.

The mingled scent of dogs was most prominent but second was Lotus' perfumed skin on his. Memory struck him hard and he groaned at his monumental stupidity to thrall someone in the throes of sex.

Thor and Athena barked to remind him that he needed to get moving to feed them and make his 6 am appointment. With lithe movements that belied his large frame, the burly Scotsman was on his feet and striding to the kitchen. The moment he opened the double doors, the other four dogs followed at his heels.

The gleaming steel refrigerator opened and he grabbed a huge eighteen liter jug to put to his mouth. Closing his eyes as he drank greedily, the half dozen dogs formed a half circle behind him, patiently waiting their turns. The pitbulls were the fastest to sit and he heard it instantly. Once finished, he filled their water bowls, serving the pitties first.

Cillian pressed a finger to the hinge of his jaw and pushed firmly, using the pressure point to relieve the headache that was rapidly fading. Next on the list was breakfast for all of them and he removed a heavy bowl from the second shelf of the fridge. It was overflowing with meat, bones, fat, gristle and tendons of a tender, juicy sheep.

The Rotties started up with their usual 'talking' that sounded much like conversational growling paired with copious amounts of dog slobber. Cillian smiled at how different the three breeds were as he gathered up his own breakfast to cook as well.

The shepherds paced back and forth anxiously whining and lashing their tails. The Rotties laid down like a pair of muscled sphinxes, their large mouths trailing drool from each corner, their ears flicking back and forth listening to the food shifting from hand to bowls. Both pitties sat still as statues with nothing moving except for their sharp eyes, knowing they'd eat first if they were sitting when the bowls were presented.

While he cooked up the enormous (and disgusting) haggis, he had a bowl of meat and scraps in each hand as he looked at Sammy and Lila.

"Good." Cillian said simply, setting down the bowls before them. He nodded and the pitbulls ate. He held up the other four bowls and the dogs sat promptly in unison. Thor and Thena sat 1/16th of a second sooner than the Rotties so they got fed next.

He lastly fed Tites and Frey, seeing the pitties had just finished their food. By the time all six dogs were fed and watered, his Haggis was cooked and ready. Even using a knife and fork, Cillian took only 7 or 8 minutes to finish 4.5 kilos of breakfast.

The shower almost screamed his name but he was admittedly a little reluctant to wash off the woman's enticing scent that lingered. He'd better clean up before Lana caught another woman's smell.

By 7:30 am, his meeting ended successfully and made him even wealthier which put a smile on his face. Money bought freedom and on that note, you couldn't have too much of it.

Now that business was tended to for his home and career, he needed to see to Lotus before she freaked out with no one to guided her. The werewolf's driver dropped him off at Palisades so he could track her properly.

Her scent was less than a day old so it was still pungent with sex and booze, clinging to the back door of the club. He paused a moment in the parking lot, sorting through exhaust fumes and headed due north with rapid speed. The large Scotsman jogged lightly, following the car's scent that held minute traces of Lotus' own.

Slowing down to a walk, her apartment complex loomed into view and the exotic woman's scent graced the hall's carpet and door handle. Striding purposefully toward the door with her delicious perfume, he knocked so quietly that only a werewolf could hear it. Although to a new thrall, it would probably sound like pounding.

She would most definitely assume that everything she was feeling this morning was entirely due to hangover and that was dead wrong. Their would be far more things than just a headache to cope with. Cillian was aware that his quiet knock would sound overly loud to the newly thralled she-wolf and his scent should have drifted to her by now. Lotus should also be ravenous and probably a bit short-tempered so he grinned in anticipation as he waited quietly in front of her door. This should be -very- interesting...