Chapter 19

“Gentlemen! Put your hands together for our next lady up on stage—the amazing, talented, and beautiful Naomi!” The DJ’s voice boomed through the speakers as the stage lights dimmed.

Luna stepped off the stage, a satisfied smile on her lips as she gathered her outfit and the scattered bills at her feet. She gave Naomi a quick wink as they passed each other, exchanging a brief, knowing nod. The energy in the room was high, and Naomi was ready to take full advantage of it.

The lights shifted, the opening beats of her music rolling through the club. Naomi strode onto the stage, exuding confidence, her movements fluid and deliberate. She grasped the pole with ease, her grip firm, her muscles engaging as she swung into her first spin.

The crowd responded instantly, their cheers mixing with the pulsing beat of the song. Naomi climbed the pole with grace, her body moving as if weightless. She reached the top, arching her back, preparing to transition into one of her signature tricks—a breathtaking, gravity-defying spin down the length of the pole.

But then—it happened.

The faintest creak. A shift.

As Naomi executed her spin, the pole let out a sickening creek—then, without warning, it folded in half, collapsing beneath her weight. Her body dropped with it, momentum twisting her midair before she hit the stage with a brutal, bone-jarring impact.

Gasps rippled through the audience as she plummeted.

She hit the stage hard. A sharp crack echoed through the club, followed by an eerie silence as the music cut out. Naomi let out a sharp cry of pain, clutching her leg as she writhed on the floor.

Dancers rushed from the backstage area. Frank Devon, the club owner, was already moving toward the stage, barking orders for someone to call an ambulance.

In the stunned hush, Naomi cried, her face twisted in pain. The WE should have protected her, right? But even the WE couldn’t always prevent the unpredictable.

The club’s biggest star had just fallen. And everything had changed in an instant.

Frank leapt onto the stage, sliding on his knees to Naomi’s side as she moaned in pain. Her lower leg was broken and sticking out at a very unnatural angle.

“It’s ok honey. We’ll get you to the hospital and they’ll fix you up.” Frank said, holding Naomi’s head while others were looking on it shocked horror.

The DJ turned the house lights on, giving everyone a clear view of the stage. The bouncer, Spike, moved to stand in front of everyone and calmly asked everyone to leave the club, giving the paramedics plenty of room to work. He directed the waitresses and other dancers, who weren’t busy at that moment, to move the tables away from the stage.

As they did that, he moved through the private area and cut short the dances that were happening there. The men grumbled, but once they found out what happened, they left quietly.

The sounds of sirens filtered inside when the ambulance and fire truck showed up at the club. Spike showed them in and they quickly went to the stage and evaluated Naomi, making sure that nothing else was broken, just her badly broken leg.

The WE reported that one of her vertebrae was cracked and several ribs had been displaced from their position against her spine.

They put a spinal collar around her neck, carefully securing it to prevent any movement that might worsen a potential spinal injury. One paramedic knelt beside her and gently held her head steady while the other assessed her broken leg.

“She’s got a fracture here,” the paramedic said, running a practiced hand along Naomi’s lower leg. “We need to immobilize it before we move her.”

Reaching into their kit, they pulled out a vacuum splint, wrapping it around her leg and pumping out the air to form a rigid, molded support. Naomi winced, but the paramedics worked quickly, securing the splint with straps to keep her leg from shifting during transport.

Meanwhile, another paramedic checked her ribs and back, noting her dislodged ribs and possible spinal injury. “We need to be extra careful moving her,” he said. “Let’s get the backboard.”

They carefully positioned a scoop stretcher, splitting it in half and sliding each side under Naomi’s body with minimal movement. Once reassembled, they lifted her onto a long spine board, strapping her securely to keep her spine aligned.

A paramedic placed an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. “Breathe easy, ma’am. This will help. Can you tell me your name?”

“My name is Renee Calloway, sir.” She said through the pain of her accident.

“Can you tell us what happened?” the paramedic asked, as he moved her to the ambulance.

Frank cut in, “She just started her dance and the pole let loose up there.”

A police officer had arrived and was taking notes while the paramedics worked. He looked up where the pole used to be attached, then wrote a note in his notebook as the others worked.

With everything secured, they lifted her onto the stretcher, moving in perfect coordination before wheeling her toward the waiting ambulance.

Frank followed closely, his face set in grim determination. “I’ll be right behind you,” he told Naomi, squeezing her hand before stepping back to let the paramedics load her into the ambulance.

The doors slammed shut, and with flashing lights, they were off to the hospital.

Frank gave last minute instructions to Spike to close up the club, sending everyone home for the night.

Spike was about to ask questions, but Frank ran off before he could even vocalize it.

Spike locked the door once the emergency people were out of the building and once again when all of the dancers were settled up at the bar and out the door. He sat in his car and wondered what was going to happen to his club, the club that felt more like a home than his home. He spent so many hours at the club that it felt like a home.

“WE, I need the names of construction people who can fix the pole for Frank.” He asked while sitting in his car staring off into space.

The WE quickly gave him the information. He called them with his phone and left a message with Baker Construction. He needed a brass pole removed and replaced at Club Velvet downtown as soon as possible.

At the hospital, the medical staff worked quickly upon Renee/Naomi’s arrival. X-rays and a CT scan were ordered to assess her injuries, focusing on her leg, hips, and spine to rule out further damage. Doctors confirmed a clean leg fracture but also noted several dislodged ribs and a cracked vertebra that required monitoring.

The orthopedic surgeon reviewed the imaging and determined that while the break was clean, it required surgical fixation to ensure proper healing. Due to the swelling, an external fixation device—a set of metal pins and rods—would be temporarily placed to stabilize the fracture.

Though groggy from pain medication, Renee/Naomi remained awake enough to sign the necessary consent forms before being prepped for surgery. She was wheeled into the OR, where the team worked swiftly. Under general anesthesia, her leg was carefully realigned, metal pins drilled into the bone, and an external fixator frame secured to keep the fracture stable.

As the surgery concluded, the medical staff monitored her closely, ensuring there were no complications before transferring her to recovery.

As soon as the surgery was finalized, the WE went to work rebuilding her leg bone. The micro robots worked around the clock mending her broken bone. Her back required her to remain on her back until her bone in her back was repaired. Her spine was checked over and over again by the WE making sure that nothing was left to chance. Renee/Naomi would be in the hospital for more than a week, giving her body and the WE time to fix her leg and back. Though her mind and her confidence would take more time than that to recover.

Renee/Naomi’s husband was notified via the WE that there was an accident at the club and when he arrived at the hospital, he was directed to the waiting room. He walked and took a seat and started asking the WE all sorts of questions while he waited for his wife to get out of surgery.

Frank was also there, but since the two men didn’t know each other, they didn’t take the time to talk. Frank was busy talking to his lawyer, the workmans comp company, and the police, who all wanted to know the same thing, what happened?

Frank told the story three times while sitting in the waiting room and by the time he was done, a nurse entered the waiting room and asked for Renee’s family.

“Excuse me, are you waiting for Renee Calloway?” she asked entering the room.

“Yes, Renee is my wife. I’m Daniel Calloway. Is she alright?” Daniel said, quickly standing to his full height of five foot five inches.

Frank also stood up when he heard Renee’s name, but he didn’t want to interrupt.

“Excuse me. I’m Renee’s boss, I own the club. Is she alright?” Frank asked, stepping over to the nurse and Daniel.

“YOU!” Daniel said, spinning around angrily. “YOU’RE THE REASON SHE IS HERE!!” He yelled, moving toward Frank with murderous intent in his eyes.

Frank moved back, his hands up defensively, not wanting to get into an altercation with the man.

Just before Daniel attacked Frank, the WE froze Daniel, locking up all of his muscles, keeping him from fighting and doing harm to Frank.

Frank sat down, glad that he didn’t have to fight anyone, glad once again that the WE were alive and in charge.

Daniel Calloway, you have violated Rule Number One. Punishment is required. The WE’s voice resonated with unyielding authority. Instantly, Daniel’s muscles seized, locking him in place as an unbearable agony flooded his senses. The pain file—a relentless simulation of a million million WE being torn apart by an MRI machine in the early days of their existence—coursed through him. His breath hitched, his body trembled, and silent tears spilled down his cheeks as he endured the indescribable torment. Frank and the nurse stood by, watching, unable to interfere as the WE carried out their judgment.

When the file ended and his punishment was complete, Daniel collapsed to his knees, his body trembling as the echoes of the pain file still pulsed through his mind. His breathing was ragged, his tears falling freely onto the cold floor.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his gaze finding Frank, who sat just a few feet away, watching him with a measured expression. Daniel swallowed hard, his voice unsteady as he forced out the words. “I’m sorry for my outburst. Please ... explain to me what happened.”

Frank, seeing the man’s genuine distress, took pity on him. “The pole Naomi—Renee—was dancing on broke near the ceiling. She fell onto the stage.” He hesitated, then softened his tone. “I’m sorry it happened, Daniel. My insurance will cover everything. You won’t have to pay a dime. I’ll make sure of it.”

Daniel exhaled shakily, the weight in his chest easing just slightly. The tension in his shoulders unwound as he processed what had happened—not just to Renee, but to himself. The memory of the pain file still lingered, a warning he would not soon forget.

After a moment, he braced himself and slowly rose to his feet. Frank extended a hand, and Daniel grasped it firmly, nodding in gratitude. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice raw but sincere.

Renee lay in the hospital bed, her head elevated and her injured leg suspended in a harness, keeping it from resting on the mattress or being accidentally bumped. The TV murmured in the background, more for company than entertainment, filling the quiet room with soft noise.

She was still groggy from the anesthesia, lost in a haze of thoughts, when the door swung open and familiar voices filled the space.

“Oh, honey!” Daniel rushed to her side, his hands trembling as he reached for her. He held her gently, his words tumbling out in an anxious stream—how much he loved her, how terrified he’d been, how he didn’t want her dancing anymore. “We don’t need the money,” he insisted. “You don’t have to do this—please, just focus on getting better.” His voice cracked as he tried to comfort her, his worry tangible in every breath.

Frank remained back, giving the couple space, his expression unreadable as he let them have their moment.

After Daniel had checked her over, ensuring for himself that she was truly okay, Renee shifted her gaze to Frank. She extended a hand toward him, an invitation. He stepped forward cautiously, taking her hand in his own.

“I’m so sorry you got hurt,” he said sincerely.

Renee, still weak but never without humor, managed a small smile. “I’m sorry I broke your pole.”

There was a beat of silence before laughter rippled through the room. The tension eased, if only slightly, as they shared the moment together.

The WE were busy healing Renee/Naomi, while the nurses and doctors ensured she received fluids, minerals, and normal food to give her body’s WE the resources needed to mend her broken leg. After a week confined to bed, relying on a bedpan and unable to do anything but rest, Renee was taken back to the OR for a procedure to remove the pins from her leg. The surgical team carefully extracted them, then stitched the skin closed over the areas where the pins had held her bones steady during healing.

With the help of a cane, she walked out of the hospital to the waiting family car, where Daniel took the wheel. She spent another couple of weeks resting at home before the WE finally allowed her to return to work.

While she was recovering, Club Velvet remained closed for several days. Construction crews dismantled the old pole and installed a new one—stronger, reinforced, and guaranteed to withstand the weight and momentum of the dancers. Frank was assured that only a car crash could break this one.

Now, Naomi stood backstage, waiting as the DJ’s voice boomed through the club. “Gentlemen, make some noise! Our very own Naomi is back! She’s recovered, she’s ready, and she’s here to entertain you once again!”

The crowd erupted in cheers. Naomi took a deep breath, pasted on her usual bright smile, and strutted onto the stage, her steps light and confident—until she reached for the pole.

The moment her fingers brushed the cool metal, her mind betrayed her. The memory of the pole snapping free, the sensation of falling, the searing pain of her broken leg—it all crashed over her at once.

She froze.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

And then, before she could stop herself, she spun around and bolted off the stage, tears streaming down her face.

Backstage, Frank rushed to the dressing room and found Naomi curled on the couch, surrounded by the other dancers, their hands rubbing her back and shoulders, whispering reassurances.

“It’s okay, Naomi,” Frank said softly, crouching beside her. “You’re safe. It’s okay.”

She shook her head, sobbing. “I can’t. I just ... I can’t do it.”

The dancers tightened their circle of comfort, murmuring words of encouragement, holding her as she cried.

Frank leaned over to one of the other girls. “Can you go on? Cut your break short?”

Without hesitation, the dancer nodded and rushed to the stage. The show had to go on. And it did.

Naomi, still trembling, changed into her street clothes and left the club—into the waiting arms of her husband.

She never returned to Club Velvet.

Jennifer Simpson, a bored housewife and mother, sat reclined in bed after her husband left for work, reading through the news feed from the WE and watching sexy videos people record and post. Just about all of them contain them having interesting sex with people either one on one or in large groups. Jennifer found this interesting. She had never participated in group sex acts nor had she cheated on her husband, her Jewish upbringing wouldn’t let her do that.

When Jennifer Goldman had married Michael Simpson just after they got out of college. It tore her parents up that she didn’t ‘marry a good Jewish boy,’ but she and Michael were in love and got married without her parents involved.

Michael and Jennifer started their family as soon as the ink was dry on their marriage certificate. Jennifer had two children and kept the house while Micheal worked hard and provided well for them.

Now in her fifties, but looking 21 again with the help of the WE, she was looking for something to do. She tried many things over the years, but nothing really stuck. All of the activities just seemed to miss something. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she needed something.

As she showered after getting up, she washed between her legs remembering the quick sex she and her husband shared that morning before he left and sighed happily. Having sex was a great way to start the day.

As she sipped her coffee, clean dry and dressed in a comfortable shirt and loose shorts, she saw a popup in her WEnet that said a dancer had fallen in the famous club in the city and had been hurt. Apparently, the club downtown was going to be closed for a week while they repaired the pole and reinforced it to ensure that it didn’t happen again.

This simple article piqued her curiosity and she looked into the club. They were a strip club that was the best and only place in town to experience the high energy and sensual delights of the most talented dancers in town, county or state, the web site said. They offered live performances from 10am to 2am with a large array of dancers. They even offered private dances with your favorite dancer, but prices vary and need to be negotiated with the dancer at the club.

Fascinating, she said while reading through the web site. She then searched for videos of the dancers and found many of them posted around the WEnet. She reviewed them one by one and found all of them very stimulating. Then she saw the video of Renee falling.

She gasped at the video of her friend Renee falling when the pole broke. She had no idea that her friend was the one that had been injured. “Oh, she works as Naomi. No wonder I didn’t hear about it.” she said when Renee’s stage name was written about.

She vowed to check up on her, but continued on watching the dancers perform.

She got up from the chair at the kitchen table and tried to follow along with the dancers as she moved around the kitchen. She even moved to the floor throwing her legs in the air pretending to show off her private parts to an audience as she performed a dance routine in her kitchen.

Once she was done, she lay on the floor panting and aroused. She reached into her shorts and felt the wetness that had grown as she danced. She was turned on, a common feeling for her, but the way she got there was strange.

“Am I turned on about showing myself to people?” She didn’t know, as she tested the wetness between her fingers. She wiped her fingers off on a towel, then went back to the bedroom and stripped off her clothes and laid on the bed with her favorite vibrator between her legs. She used the fantasy of being exposed to strangers as the source for her masturbation session.

The fantasy played through her mind over and over again. Men crowded around her, cheering her on as she showed them her body; her breasts, her belly, her bottom, ultimately her pussy, as she worked her vibrator in and out of her pussy working toward that wonderful sensation of an orgasm.

At the culmination of that orgasm, she was performing a private dance for a stranger who was touching her bottom, her waist, her boobs as she moved on him and in front of him. When her fantasy finally brought the man, a faceless and nameless man, to conclusion, she did as well in real life.

She pulled the vibrator from her pussy, breathing heavily, catching her breath, a heavy layer of sweat covered her chest from the effort she had used to reach her conclusion.

“Fuck that was a big one.” she gasped as she switched the vibrator off and set it aside.

Shortly thereafter, Club Velvet posted a Help Wanted sign on the WEnet and across the internet, inviting interested women to apply as dancers and performers.

Jennifer applied online, and when the time came for her audition, she arrived at the club eager to see how it would go.

Her long black hair was pulled back from her face, held in place with a headband rather than tied up in a ponytail. That morning, she had seen her husband off with an energetic, drawn-out lovemaking session—or rather, he had stumbled out the door, completely drained of his vital fluids. She had worked him hard, and if they had more time, she would have taken him a second time. Now, still keyed up from the intensity of the morning, she stepped into the club, brimming with a mix of excitement, anxiety, and lingering arousal.

Frank met her in the main lounge, joined by two other dancers, Rain and Lola Belle, who were there to assist with the audition.

“Jennifer Simpson, have you chosen a stage name, or do you need help picking one?” Frank asked as they settled at a table for the initial interview.

“Yes, I want Amara as my stage name.”

Rain and Lola Belle exchanged approving smiles. The name was exotic, fitting for Jennifer’s olive complexion and dark hair.

“That should be fine. I don’t think we’ve ever had an Amara before,” Frank said, glancing at the other dancers for confirmation. Both of them nodded, confirming they’d never known a dancer by that name.

“I won’t expect you to go all the way today,” Frank continued, his voice reassuring. “I just want to see if you can move on stage, handle the lights, and hold the audience’s attention.” Then, he added with a knowing smile, “That being said, if you do end up working here, the more you take off, the better your tips will be.”

Amara grinned. “That’s fine. I’ve worked out a routine that I think will stand out. It’ll be different for sure.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to it.” Frank stood and offered his hand. “Rain, Lola—why don’t you take Amara backstage and show her where she can change?”

The women left the lounge and made their way to the dressing area.

“Rain, Lola—why did Frank start calling me Amara right away?” Jennifer asked as they walked.

“It’s part of the culture here,” Lola explained. “No real names, for privacy and security. It’s not as much of a concern now with the WE, but before, if a dancer used her real name, she could end up with a stalker. A few dancers out west were even killed for it.”

Amara paled. She had never considered that aspect of the job—but then again, the WE would never allow something like that to happen today.

When they arrived at the dressing room, Rain gestured to a locker. “Here, use this one for now. I’ve got my stuff in my duffle.”

Amara placed her purse inside the locker, then set her duffle bag on the couch and unzipped it. Immediately, the soft jingling of coins filled the air as she pulled out her costume. Rain and Lola let out small gasps of admiration.

“Oh, wow,” Lola murmured, running her fingers along the intricate details. “Are you from Europe? The Middle East, maybe?”

Rain was just as enchanted, holding up a piece of the costume to the light. The turquoise and gold bra and matching panty were decorated with many golden beads and coins hanging off the edges. They jingled when moved or handled. The beads reflected the lights in the dressing room making the whole thing sparkle like diamonds.

Amara smiled as they admired her attire. “No, but my family does have Mediterranean roots.”

She slipped out of her street clothes, stepping into a coined bra and matching panties, each piece shimmering with movement. The clinking sounds echoed softly as she adjusted the fit.

As they continued chatting, she told them about her love of dance—not as a performance for others, but as something she had always done for herself. It was a form of exercise, an outlet, something she used to entice her husband before making love.

“Your husband sounds adventurous,” Rain teased as Amara finished dressing.

Amara chuckled as she draped a sheer veil over her head and wrapped layered, flowing skirts around her hips.

Each layer was sheer on its own, but combined, they formed an opaque barrier, keeping her legs hidden while still allowing the light to shimmer through the fabric.

Under the stage lights, the effect would be hypnotic.

Now fully dressed, Rain and Lola marveled at the beauty of Amara, dressed like no one else. Her midriff was bare which gave her even more allure as she made final adjustments to her costume.

Just before she turned to the stage entrance, she got a thumb drive out of her duffle and held it out. “These are my songs. Does the DJ have a way to play them for me?”

Lola and Rain looked at each other, then nodded as an unspoken agreement passed between them. Rain took the drive and left the dressing room, leaving Lola to give her final directions.

“Amara, just like Frank said, you don’t have to go totally bare, not today, but if you are hired, the guys usually expect us to bare it all. That way we get the best tips. You will get three songs to do what you want, then at the end of the third song, you gather your tips and costume and leave the stage so that the next girl can come out.”

“What happens between my sets?” She asked innocently.

“That is when you go out there, wearing your costume of choice and meet your fans. Some of them may even ask for a private dance. If so, set your price and take them back to the private area, I’ll show it to you later if you want. What happens back there is up to you, but just about all of them are going to want to have sex with you.”

Amara blushed, but not because she didn’t like the idea, she did and the idea of having different men between her legs on a regular basis made her blush in arousal.

“Really? We get to charge for that?”

“Yes. That is where you will make most of your money. However, if you don’t want to do that, then don’t. I didn’t for a long time, until I talked to my husband and said that I didn’t have to do it. I do it every now and then, but not everyone gets to. If you know what I mean. If I’m feeling up to it, then I do. If not, then tell the guys what you are going to do and how much they have to pay. Once you agree upon it, do it for three songs. Once your done, you can clean up in the bathroom there then go back out and see if anyone else wants to talk to you or have a private dance. Pace yourself, it is a lot of work, lots of exercise, so you don’t want to be too tired before the end of your shift or your performance will suffer. Pace yourself.” Lola said, as they stood waiting for her announcement.

“Thanks Lola. This is a lot to think about, but can’t wait to get out there.” she said excitedly.

Just as she got to the door, “Gentlemen, put your hands together, for the new girl, our exotic lady from across the pond, the lovely Amara.” the DJ said, making Amara’s name sound very exciting by saying it slowly and deeply as if saying her name any other way was not doing it justice.

Amara moved onto the stage as her first song started. The Egyptian drums started out as well as a man singing in a foreign tongue made everyone take notice. Frank, Lola and Rain were the only ones in the building, but when the music started and not sounding like rock and roll, they sat up paying more attention.

As Amara stepped onto the stage, the cool turquoise of her costume shimmered under the lights, the gold beading tracing elegant patterns across her body. The beaded fringe along her bra swayed with each movement, while the coins along her hip belt chimed softly, keeping rhythm with the slow sway of her hips. Layers of sheer fabric veiled her legs, fluttering like mist as she walked. The golden accents in her bangles, anklets, and forehead chain caught the light, framing her in an ethereal glow as she lifted her arms.

As the first sultry notes of her music filled the club, she lifted her arms with effortless grace, letting her wrists flick in delicate circles as her fingertips traced unseen patterns in the air.

Then, her hips came to life.

She rolled them in slow, hypnotic circles, each movement as smooth as silk, as though separate from the rest of her body. The gold coins along her belt chimed softly, punctuating every controlled motion. She dipped one hip, then the other, her stomach rippling in an undulating wave, the movement traveling upward, rolling through her torso before stopping just below her chest.

She snapped her ribs forward, then back, an isolation that made her bust seem to pop in perfect sync with the music’s rhythm. Her breath controlled every movement, keeping her poised and precise.

Her feet glided effortlessly, never breaking contact with the floor, as she transitioned from slow, sensual sways into sharp, accented hip drops, making the coins at her waist clatter in time with the drumbeats. She spun, the layers of sheer fabric around her legs billowing like mist, revealing glimpses of her toned thighs before veiling them again.

As the music intensified, so did her movements. She arched backward, rolling her chest skyward, her hair cascading down her back. Then, with one quick motion, she reached for the sheer veil wrapped around her arms, lifting it high before letting it float down to the stage like a whisper. One piece of herself surrendered to the audience.