Chapter 13: The Disco Begins
The humid night air clung to Jack’s linen suit as he stood at the threshold of the pulsing disco, a wall of sound and light separating him from the chaos within. Jennifer appeared beside him, her form emerging from the shadows draped in a shimmering cream crochet two-piece that left little to imagination. The delicate halter-style bralette held her breasts without containment, the threads of the fabric straining with each breath, while the asymmetrical wrap mini skirt with its scalloped lace edging barely covered the curve of her hips, tied with dangling details that swayed as she moved. Her metallic gold strappy heels clicked against the stone, emphasizing the length of her legs, and under the violent neon strobes her silhouette was both elegant and provocatively bare.
“Nothing happened,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the thumping bass. Her hand found his arm, fingers cool against his warm skin. “He just talked. Asked questions.”
Jack’s eyes scanned her face, then dropped to the transparent sheen of her top, the sweat already glistening on her collarbone. He wanted to ask what questions, what answers she gave, but the music swallowed his words. Instead, he nodded stiffly and led her forward into the heart of the noise, his hand on her back feeling the tension in her spine.
They moved through a crowd of scientists and their assistants, a kaleidoscope of themed costumes and hungry eyes. Jack recognized Dr. Volkov’s sharp tuxedo, saw Harold Brenner’s bulky marine armor lingering near the bar where Maryna stood rigidly, her drink untouched. The air was thick with perfume and pheromones, a sweetness that made Jennifer’s head feel light.
The stage dominated the room, a raised platform where Thomas Silas stood with a microphone, his black-and-burgundy suit a dark slash against the silver netting backdrop. His voice cut through the music, smooth and commanding. “And our first candidate, returning champion Anastazy Carter!”
Anastazy stepped forward, her silver-blue ensemble turning every light into a celestial sparkle. The sheer long-sleeve mesh overlay glittered over a fitted bralette-style top, and her asymmetrical draped mini skirt wrapped tightly around her hips with a gathered metallic ring at the side, opening into a high flowing slit that revealed most of her long legs. A trailing sash panel swayed dramatically behind her as she danced, thin silver lace-up stiletto sandals spiraling elegantly around her calves. She moved with a grace that was both glamorous and strangely martial, a disco-g goddess beneath the violet glow.
She performed a small solo dance, hips rolling, arms flowing, a display meant for the watching men. Then she descended from the stage, melting into the crowd, her smile luminous and targeted. She found Jack first.
She found Jack first. “Professor,” she said, her voice a purr. She took his hand, her fingers sliding between his. “You look tense.”
Jack stiffened, his free hand tightening on Jennifer’s waist. “Anastazy.”
“Last year was so… instructive,” she continued, leaning close so her lips nearly brushed his ear. The scent of her, vanilla and salt, overwhelmed the chemical sweetness in the air. “I remember your taste specifically. I’m looking forward to tasting you again.”
She pulled him onto the dance floor without waiting for a reply. The music shifted into a driven, rhythmic tango, all staccato strings and punctuated bass. Jack moved with her, his body remembering the steps from a different lifetime, his lead firm and automatic. Anastazy matched him perfectly, her spine a fluid arc, her leg hooking around his with practiced intimacy.
Jennifer watched, her champagne flute freezing against her lips. She saw Anastazy’s hand slide from Jack’s shoulder to the nape of his neck, her fingertips pressing into his hairline. She saw the faint, knowing smile on the girl’s face as she whispered something else lost to the music. The metallic threads of Anastazy’s costume flashed, cutting lines of light across Jack’s dark suit.
The dance ended on a sharp final note. Anastazy pulled back, her chest rising with quickened breath, her eyes flicking to Jennifer with a palpable challenge in her gaze. She didn’t release Jack’s hand immediately, letting the contact linger a second too long before melting back into the throbbing crowd to seek another partner.
Jack returned to Jennifer’s side, his expression unreadable. The scent of another woman’s perfume clung to his jacket.
“What did she say?” Jennifer asked, her voice thinner than she intended.
Jack didn’t reply. He just watched Anastazy glide toward Dr. Volkov, who accepted her with a polite, detached nod. His silence was a wall. Jennifer felt the prickle of the infrared heater again, the memory of Thomas’s thumb on her inner thigh superimposing itself on this new, public humiliation.
Thomas’s voice boomed from the speakers, rich with amusement. “A radiant display! Remember, gentlemen, appreciation is a currency here. Let it flow.”
“Let it flow.” Thomas’s voice faded into the synth-heavy beat that followed, a digital pulse that seemed to vibrate in the fillings of Jennifer’s teeth. She and Jack stood silently, watching Anastazy weave through the crowd, accepting a drink from Malik who pulled her close with a possessive grin. The sweetness in the air was cloying now, sticking in Jennifer’s throat.
They watched Anastazy dancing for some time, her laughter a sharp counterpoint to the music, before hearing Thomas announcing the next candidate. His tone shifted, becoming theatrically cautious. “And now, a brave animal rescuer, comes to play with us. Careful, people, she knows how to tame beasts.”
He paused for the ripple of knowing laughter. “I’m told she specializes in… rehabilitation. In coaxing wild things to eat from her hand. Let’s see if our resident predators behave.”
She quietly and slowly stepped into the light in her deep-violet disco ensemble. The fabric was a liquid satin that drank the light and spilled it back in a deep, luminous sheen. The minimalist bikini top was two precise triangles tied at the neck and back, the fitted matching mini skirt featuring a sharp side slit that split to her hip. Sheer shimmering mesh sleeves dusted with subtle star-like sparkles encased her arms, and glossy crimson heels carved dramatic lines from her toned calves to the floor. She stood on stage for some time, letting everyone enjoy the view—clearly as Viktor had instructed her to.
Her posture was still, a conscious exhibit. Her eyes scanned the crowd without warmth, assessing. Jennifer could see the faint tremble in April’s abdomen, the quick rise and fall of her chest beneath the violet satin.
April also did a short solo dance. It was not the flowing performance Anastazy had given, but something stiffer, more mechanical. Her movements were technically correct, a series of poses that emphasized the length of her legs and the curve of her waist, but her face was a careful mask. The music swallowed her whole.
Then she went on to dance with Volkov. He was a statue in his elegant tuxedo, his hands resting lightly on her hips as she moved before him. He observed her with the detached focus of an engineer assessing a component, nodding once when she completed a turn. There was no smile, only a silent transaction.
And then she came to dance with Jack.
Jennifer felt his body tense beside her as April approached, those cool, assessing eyes now fixed on him. She took his hand, her fingers dry and firm. The music mutated into something primal, a deep, grinding bassline that felt like a heartbeat from the floor.
It was a very wild and erotic dance, and April wasn’t holding back. Where her performance for Volkov had been clinical, for Jack it became a living confession. She pressed her back against his chest, her head tilting back onto his shoulder, the length of her body aligned with his. She rolled her hips in a slow, deliberate circle, the satin of her skirt riding higher, the slit gaping open.
She made that dance an offering of her body to Jack. Her hands guided his, placing them on the flat plane of her stomach, then lower to the crest of her hips. She arched, a taut bow, and the mesh of her sleeve glittered like captured galaxies as she reached back to twine her fingers in his hair. Her breathing, loud and ragged next to his ear, was the most honest sound in the room.
All that was accompanied by comments from Thomas. “Oh, a naturalist at work!” he crooned into the microphone. “Study the specimen, Professor. Note the adaptation for attraction. The heightened coloration, the display behaviors.”
The heightened coloration, the display behaviors.” Thomas’s voice was a slick oil over the grinding music. April turned to face him and dropped to her knees, her face rubbing the hardness of Jack through his trousers. The violet satin of her skirt pooled on the disco floor like spilled wine.
“See how she cradles for a carrot!” Thomas announced, and the hall laughed—a rolling wave of complicit male amusement that swallowed the bassline.
Then she came up again and turned her back to him, pressing firmly against him. She took her hands and put one on her breast through the top, while positioning another on the front of her skirt, guiding his touch to the heated satin covering her stomach. Jack’s face was a rigid plane of conflict. His hands, large and scientific, rested where she placed them but did not roam. He held her, but he did not participate. His gaze met Jennifer’s over April’s shoulder, and in his eyes was a stark, helpless apology.
Jennifer looked at him and gave a nod—a permission and a call to action.
Something in Jack broke. A control rod sheared. He lost himself in handling, grabbing and kissing April. His mouth found her neck, his hands slid from her stomach to her hips, clutching the fabric with a possessiveness that made Jennifer’s breath catch. “The pursuit of knowledge takes many forms,” Thomas sighed, the sound dripping with false sympathy. “Some require a… hands-on methodology.”
Jack leaned April forward to a 90-degree angle, her body parallel to the floor, her legs straight. Both of his hands kneaded the flesh of her ass through the thin satin, the material straining under his grip. “Woohaa!” shouted Thomas, the microphone popping with his enthusiasm.
April moved again, turned in Jack’s arms, facing him, her body pressed and rubbed hard against his. Her eyes were glazed, the pheromones in her system painting a glassy film over her intent. She mouthed a word Jennifer couldn’t catch. Jack and April both glanced toward the edge of the floor where Professor Gunko stood, his face a thundercloud of impatience, and they laughed—a raw, shared sound of defiance.
The music died with a final synthetic screech. The dance ended and Gunko took April for his turn of dance, his large, hairy hand clamping around her wrist with no preamble. Jack stumbled back a step, running a hand through his hair. His lips were swollen. "Oof, I need some air," said Jack, his voice gravel.
Before they could move, Thomas’s voice sliced through the aftermath. “Fascinating data! But the night is young, and the ecosystem here thrives on variety.” He smiled, a camera-ready flash of white. “Jennifer, my dear. Your colleague looks overheated. Why don’t you help him cool down? The floor is yours.”
The beat switched again, something slower, infused with a predatory saxophone line. Every eye turned to her. Jack’s hand found the small of her back, a warning or an anchor, she couldn’t tell. The sweet, drugged air filled her lungs. She remembered Thomas’s thumb on her thigh in his chambers, the red lenses in the wall, and the singular, desperate need in Jack’s eyes just moments ago.
She stepped forward onto the scene to give them all a look.
Thomas’s comments were not stopping. “Ah, the assistant steps into the lab,” he murmured, his voice a intimate caress over the speakers. “Let’s observe her methodology. Is it… peer-reviewed?”
Is it… peer-reviewed?”
Thomas materialized from the glare of the stage lights, his movement a predator’s glide. His palm landed on the swell of Jennifer’s ass with a proprietor’s certainty, fingers digging into the cream crochet. The fabric stretched taut under his grip.
“Oh, what a laser quality!” he announced to the room, his voice a delighted spike in the microphone. He turned her, a slow rotation on her gold heels, his hand keeping her anchored. The audience’s gaze felt physical, a pressure on her bare skin. “Crafted for precision, gentlemen. Observe the calibration.”
He stopped her rotation, facing the crowd. His other hand came up, not touching her, but framing the deep valley of her cleavage where the halter bralette struggled. “Wow those… planets.” He chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “Such formidable gravity.”
With a gentle, insistent pressure on her lower back, he leaned Jennifer forward. The motion sent a cascade of her dark hair over her shoulders and plunged the neckline open, offering the room an unobstructed view. The heat of the lights pooled between her breasts. “I’d really like to put my probe there! Hypothetically, of course. For science.”
Laughter rippled, nervous and eager. Thomas’s thumb traced the edge of her skirt’s waistband. “But let’s see the instrument in motion, shall we? Show us your methodology, Jennifer.”
He released her with a slight push toward the floor’s center. The music swelled, a driving, percussive track with a mournful cello loop. For a second, she was just breathing, the ghost of his handprint burning on her skin. Then she moved.
Her solo dance was not the practiced glamour of Anastazy or the stiff exhibition of April. It was something sharper, born of tension and a furious, calculated grace. She used the space, her strides long, her arms carving defiant arcs. Each movement felt like a rebuttal. The crochet fabric of her skirt flared as she spun, the dangling ties whipping against her thighs.
She dropped to the floor, one leg extended, her body arching back until her hair brushed the polished black surface. She rolled her hips in a slow, grinding circle against nothing, her eyes locked on the darkened ceiling. The cello wailed.
The final sequence was a deliberate, controlled descent. She lowered herself, one vertebra at a time, until she knelt in the center of the glowing floor, her head bowed, her hands resting on her thighs. The pose was surrender. The set of her shoulders was defiance.
“And there it is,” Thomas breathed into the silence that followed the last beat. “The fundamental principle. Smart lab girls always know where their place is.” He let the words hang. “Eventually.”
Jack had taken two urgent steps forward, his face stripped bare of its professional calm. Jennifer saw him from under her lashes. She gave a single, sharp shake of her head. Not now. The refusal was a physical ache in her throat. She pushed herself up from her knees, the imprint of the floor a temporary lattice on her skin.
She walked, the click of her heels the only sound, directly to where Dr. Leonard Valer stood apart from the crowd, a tall, pale figure in his vintage Starfleet gold. His intelligent eyes watched her approach with academic curiosity.
“Doctor,” she said, her voice steady.
“Ms. Vale,” he replied, his tone dry. “A compelling… thesis.”
He did not take her in a traditional dance hold. Instead, his long, delicate fingers found the points where her neck met her shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tense knots there. The music was a slow, pulsing electronica, all muted kicks and whispering synths. He began to move her, his touch guiding rather than leading.
His hands slid down her arms, tracing the lines of her muscles, then circled her waist, his fingertips just barely skating over the sensitive skin of her abdomen above her skirt. It was a dance of dissection. He turned her, his body a lean line behind hers, and his hands came around to rest on her lower belly, pulling her back against him. He was assessing her structure, her responses. His breath against her ear was cool, measured.
“The iliac crest,” he murmured, as if to himself, his index finger finding the bony prominence of her hip. “A fascinating anchor point for movement.”
His hands slipped lower, palms flat against the front of her thighs, feeling the tremor in her quadriceps as he gently urged them apart. He guided one of her hands back to his own hip, completing a circuit. There was a startling intimacy to his clinical touch, a hyper-awareness of every point of contact. The dance was a silent lecture in anatomy, and she was the living model. When the song faded, he released her with a slight, formal nod, as if concluding a satisfactory tutorial.
“Efficient use of kinetic potential,” he stated.
Before she could reply, a large shadow fell over them. Professor Viktor Gunko’s scent arrived first—old wool, damp earth, and expensive whisky. His hairy hand, speckled with age spots, closed around her upper arm, his grip absolute.
“My turn,” he said, the words a rumble. He didn’t wait, pulling her into the crowd where the music was louder, a grinding blues-rock riff.
He pulled her into the crowd and his idea of dance was immediate possession. One of his large, broad hands clamped onto her hip, the other slid around to the small of her back, pressing her firmly against the coarse wool of his vintage suit. He moved with a surprising, bullish rhythm, his gut pressed against her, his chin resting on the top of her head.
“Relax,” he grunted into her hair, his breath hot. “Stiff specimen’s no good to anyone.”
His right hand slid from her back, over the curve of her ass. He squeezed, a frank, evaluating grip that made her jump. He chuckled, the vibration passing through his body into hers. “Good density. Healthy.” His hand didn’t linger there; it journeyed upward, over the crochet of her bralette. His thumb rubbed rough circles over her nipple through the intricate threads.
Jennifer kept her face turned toward the dark sanctuary of his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut. She could feel the audience watching, could hear Thomas’s muffered commentary through the thumping bass. Gunko’s hand descended again, this time pushing between them, his knuckles pressing against the soft lace between her legs as he swayed.
“See?” he muttered, his voice a satisfied growl. “Responding to stimulus. Basic zoology.”
His grip tightened, the coarse weave of his suit jacket scratching her bare back. The music, a throbbing bassline, seemed to sync with the heavy pound of her heart. He wasn’t dancing with her; he was conducting an examination.
His right hand slid from her hip to the front of her skirt, his thick fingers gathering the delicate crochet. With a sharp, upward tug, he pulled the fabric until the hem brushed the underside of her breasts, exposing her from the navel down. The cool, conditioned air hit her skin, raising goosebumps. A collective murmur, part shock and part hunger, rippled through the nearest onlookers.
He covered her with his hands, his broad palms splaying possessively over her stomach, the curve of her hips, the exposed skin of her inner thighs. His touch was a mapping, a claiming of territory. She could feel the calluses on his fingers, the sheer physical weight of his assessment. Jennifer stared straight ahead, her vision blurring on the neon streaks across the wall, her breath shallow.
The music stopped abruptly, leaving a ringing silence. In that sudden quiet, Gunko’s other hand released her arm and came up to cup her chin. His fingers smelled of cigar smoke and salt. He turned her face toward his, his small eyes evaluating her expression. He simply kissed her. It was a dry, hard press of his lips against hers, more a seal of ownership than an act of passion.
He pulled back, his breath a warm cloud. “Predictable stress response,” he grunted, almost to himself.
Thomas’s voice cut through the silence, smooth as poured brandy. “And we observe the zoologist’s methodology,” he announced, a smile in his tone. “Direct. Hands-on. No need for peer review when you can just… handle the little specimen yourself.” A wave of low laughter followed. Gunko gave a final, approving squeeze to her hip before releasing her and turning away, already scanning the crowd for another subject.
As he lumbered off, Thomas appeared at Jennifer’s side as if materializing from the smoke. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. His whisper was a sharp, clean needle. “That,” he said, “was for Jack. For the April thing.” He leaned back, winked, and melted back into the pulsating dark.
Jennifer stood there, skin burning where the air touched it. She slowly, mechanically, smoothed the crochet skirt back down over her hips. Her fingers trembled as she retied the dangling lace, pulling the fabric until it felt somewhat anchored. She adjusted the halter top, a futile attempt to restore order. The taste of Gunko’s kiss, of old whisky and entitlement, clung to her mouth.
She found Dr. Adrian Volkov standing near the grand piano, a silhouette of calm precision. He watched her approach, his expression unreadable.
“Doctor,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady.
“Jennifer,” he acknowledged. A new track began, something with a complex, layered synth pattern and a slow, insistent tempo. He didn’t offer his hand. He simply opened his posture, a slight incline of his head granting permission.
She stepped into the space before him. His hands came to rest lightly on her waist, his touch cool and exact through the crochet. He did not pull her close. He maintained a precise distance, the space between them charged and formal. Their dance was a series of controlled rotations and subtle shifts of weight. He led with minimal pressure, his movements economical. His eyes never left her face, studying her reactions with the focus of a man reading a data stream. He was assessing her stability, her resilience. It was utterly silent between them, a wordless performance review set to music. When the song ended, he gave a slight, correct nod and released her. “Adequate poise,” he stated, and turned away.
Before she could take a full breath, a new presence bumped against her side. Dr. Harold Brenner smelled of nervous sweat and stale beer leaking through the seams of his bulky colonial marine armor. His face was flushed, his eyes darting.
“My turn,” he said, the words blurted rather than spoken. He didn’t wait for music; he just pulled her against the hard plastic of his costume vest as another song crashed in, guitar-heavy and aggressive.
His dance was a clumsy, desperate shuffle. His hands were everywhere, patting, squeezing, unsure. One palm slid damply down her spine, fingers digging for purchase. The other scurried over her hip, then scurried up to clumsily fondle her breast, his touch awkward through the bralette. He breathed heavily into her hair, his body odor a sharp note under the chemical sweetness of the room.
“Just… just relax, okay?” he muttered, his voice strained. “It’s just a party. Everyone’s… having fun.” His hand slid down again, this time venturing underneath the skirt’s waistband at the back, his fingertips pressing into the soft flesh of her buttock. He gripped hard, as if for balance. “See?” he gasped, his mouth close to her ear. “No big deal. You’re doing good.” His touch was less an assault than a fumbling, insecure excavation. He was trying to prove something—to the room, to her, to himself. The song faded into feedback. He jerked his hand out from her skirt, leaving a feeling of violation that was somehow colder than Gunko’s surety. He gave her arm a quick, hard pat. “There. That wasn’t so bad,” he said, not meeting her eyes, and waddled quickly toward the bar where Maryna stood watching, her expression hollow.
Then there were Malik and Ethan. Mostly uneventful, Malik tried cheering Jennifer up and told a joke she actually laughed to. Ethan was graceful and respectful.
And finally she dances with Jack.