30. The Pussy Point System
Chapter thirty
The Pussy Point System
Kazimir
Later that evening, I stood in the center of the Cathouse strip club and took a swig of my vodka.
Maxwell was on my left, Tisha on my right.
The speakers vibrated with hip hop music so hard that the walls thumped and shook with the beat.
Red lights spun in circles on the ceiling, moving along with the music, flashing in bright colors and patterns.
I leaned Tisha’s way. “Americans are interesting. They never know when the place is mine.”
“Give them time, cousin.” Tisha watched our people clear the strip club. “The longer you are in New Orleans, the more they will learn.”
My men moved through the space with their guns drawn, ready for any potential threat. Flashing lights illuminated their silhouettes. They scanned the room with trained eyes, checking every corner and shadow for danger.
Additionally, Harlem Crew weaved through the crowd—armed and emanating cold violence—their presence alone prompting patrons to rise from their tables and chairs.
There was no need for words.
The message was clear.
This is now the Lion’s club.
One by one, the club’s patrons got out of there, leaving a trail of whispered speculations and wide-eyed glances in our wake.
I looked at Maxwell. “Your people are more on point. I am impressed.”
“Italy taught them hard lessons.” Maxwell kept his gaze on a waitress’s ass as she maneuvered around our people. “Then, Nigeria tightened the lessons in their brains.”
“Interesting.” I bobbed my head. “Perhaps, I will not have to kill any Harlem Crew this trip.”
Maxwell snapped his view to me. “Fuck you, man.”
I shrugged. “I am being hopeful.”
“You know what?” Maxwell pulled out more stacks of bills. “I’m not going to let you fuck up my vibe tonight.”
I checked the door.
The club’s bouncers clearly found themselves on unfamiliar ground. They were now relegated to mere observers in their own territory as we transformed the club into our private playground.
My men flanked the bouncers and also took up positions at all entrances and exits.
It was a delicate dance of dominance, one played out in the language of silent stares and unspoken threats. The power dynamics within the club had shifted, and it was evident to all who now held the reins.
I finished my vodka and gestured at another waitress.
She rushed over. “Sir?”
“Another vodka.” I handed her the glass. “But this time bring the bottle.”
Tisha nodded. “Two bottles.”
“Fuck it.” Maxwell laughed. “Three bottles. It’s a party.”
And how is my mouse?
I checked over my shoulder, my gaze cutting through the dimly lit space, and caught sight of Emily and my sister.
There you go.
Lemon and several armed Harlem Crew females remained with them.
They were stationed at the main stage, their expressions a mix of amusement and admiration as they threw twenty-dollar bills onto five topless dancers that only wore black G-strings. The women moved in perfect synchronization, their breasts bouncing and hips swaying with fluid grace. Their skin shimmered.
“That’s an abomination.” Max watched them too and shook his head. “That’s the only problem when you go to the strip club with women. They don’t make the dancers work for it. They just like throwing the money at the chicks.”
“My mouse and my sister are having fun.”
“Shit. If they keep throwing out the money like that, half these strippers are going to retire in an hour.”
I lowered my view to Emily’s fat ass pushing against that red strapless dress.
Mmmm.
My mouse was always radiant, but tonight. . .I almost didn’t let her leave the hotel. It had been a twenty-minute argument of her telling me to mind my business and me doing my best to grab her before she made it to the door.
You are becoming faster than ever.
My jaw twitched.
Next time I will catch you.
I lifted my gaze up to Emily’s face. She was laughing at something one of the Harlem Crew women had said. Her eyes glimmered with joy.
Still laughing, Emily glanced over her shoulder. Those beautiful eyes met mine across the distance.
A spark of shared understanding passed between us. In that moment, the chaos of the club receded, leaving only the connection that always seemed to find its way through any crowd, any madness.
Have your fun, but soon I will be taking you to a dark corner and fucking you.
She stuck her tongue out in the most seductive way and did this twirl with it.
Mysh.
I stifled a groan, imagining that tongue sliding across my cock.
Fucking Valentina tapped Emily’s shoulder, dragging my mouse’s attention away from me.
Soon, mysh. Very soon.
I leaned Tisha’s way. “Where’s a private space in here?”
Tisha gestured to the other side of the club. “There are private rooms in the back, apparently with stalls.”
The waitress rushed over with three bottles on a tray.
That was fast.
I grabbed one, twisted the top off, and took a large swig.
Yes.
Maxwell and Tisha grabbed their bottles.
A new song came on with bass-heavy beats.
Something within me shifted.
It was as if the rhythm itself beckoned.
I found myself swaying and bobbing my head.
Maxwell grinned. “Yeah. You’re feeling that joint from the car. Aren’t you?”
I lifted the bottle to my lips and took a large gulp.
“Yo.” Maxwell widened his eyes. “Don’t get too fucked up, man, and start embarrassing us.”
I ignored him.
The song’s sound was too intoxicating.
It demanded movement.
I bobbed my head harder.
“The Lion is celebrating.” Tisha chuckled.
Maxwell murmured, “Or he is having a seizure.”
Bobbing my head some more, I spied the club owner by the bar.
He was tall with broad shoulders and dark brown skin. His black hair was slicked back into a ponytail. He took us all in with a neutral expression.
I looked at Tisha. “What did you tell the owner?”
“That tonight the Cathouse belonged to the Lion.” Tisha gave the bottle of vodka to one of his men and lit his cigar. “I find him to be a smart man.”
“Why?”
“He took in our people, their guns and sizes. I even saw him counting.” Tisha took a puff of the cigar and blew out. “I believe when he got to around thirty, he gave up counting, told the bouncer to stand down, and then gestured for us to enter. Even said, ‘Welcome.’”
“He needed to ask the bouncer to stand down? Was the bouncer trying to block us?”
“Not really. To be fair, Valentina pissed off the bouncer.”
I took another gulp of my vodka. The initial rush of euphoria hit as the alcohol warmed my veins.
I smirked at Tisha. “How did Valentina piss him off?”
“He told her to back up, and showed his gun. She eyed the weapon and said, ‘Nice gun. Put it up before I ass-fuck you with it.’” Tisha took another puff of the cigar, blew out smoke, and looked at me. “And with the expression on her face, the bouncer, the owner, and I believed her.”
I thought back to my ex-lover—the ballerina—and then I shrugged. “My sister does like to put things in people’s asses.”
Tisha laughed, and I couldn’t help but join him.
What a good time.
The club unfolded before us like a scene from a dream only whispered about in the dark corners of the world.
I raised my view to the space above us.
Women, ethereal and mesmerizing, hung from the ceiling, their bodies twirling with a grace that defied gravity.
Only in the States.
From the moment I stepped in here, the differences from similar clubs back in Russia were stark and immediate.
In America, the atmosphere was one of unabashed celebration, a carnival of lights, music, and flesh.
Overwhelming, yet enthralling.
These places were designed to dazzlingly cater to every sense with a level of service and spectacle that seemed almost theatrical in its execution.
In Russia, the experience was more subdued.
The luxury was more in the details—the quality of the drinks, the exclusivity of the clientele, and the promise of privacy and discretion.
Clandestine gatherings and dens of mystery, where the allure lay as much in the secrecy and exclusivity as in the entertainment provided.
Meanwhile, American clubs flaunted their offerings.
Dancers performed not just on stages, but moving throughout the crowd, engaging with patrons in a way that was both direct and disarmingly casual. There was a sense of immediacy to the interactions, a commercial frankness to the exchange of money for entertainment that was both refreshing and jarring.
An overt celebration of sexuality.
From the stages to the private rooms, each space amplified the fantasy being sold.
In Russia, the distance maintained between dancer and patron was deliberate, cultivating an atmosphere of longing and unfulfilled desire that was its own form of intoxication.
The boundaries were less clear, the rules unspoken but understood by those who frequented the clubs.
The thrill often in the pursuit as much as in the capture.
And this was funny to me because our culture tended to be the opposite.
In Russia, the concept of personal space was not an option—your space was their space.
Americans preferred more personal space than us. They shook hands or gave a short hug and immediately stepped aside, putting three to four feet between them and the person.
Also, I’d learned long ago that most Americans didn’t enjoy close talkers .
In Russia, we talked right on top of each other if we desired it, leaving barely a foot between us.
Maxwell pointed at one of his men. “Eh!”
The guy looked his way. He’d been escorting a group of women toward the exit.
Maxwell wagged his finger. “Not the ladies, man. Especially the fine ones. What the fuck are you doing? They can clearly stay. It’s the motherfuckers with sausages that have to go.”
The guy nodded and gestured for the women to sit back down.
“Good evening, ladies.” Maxwell held out his hands and winked at them. “Everything is on me tonight. Don’t even think about pulling out your purses.”
They smiled and hurried to their seats.
“Mmmhmm.” Maxwell watched them and licked his lips. “Tonight is going to be a good one.”
A second later, Maxwell called over the waitress.
Blinking, she got to us. “Sir?”
“Get that table right there whatever they want, and make sure that it is on top brand too.”
“Okay.” She nodded and rushed their way.
Maxwell rubbed his hands together. “Oh yeah. Daddy’s back home.”
I watched the last of the club’s male patrons leave.
Satisfaction settled over me.
Maxwell leaned forward and looked at Tisha. “Eh, man. We need to lay down the groundwork for our game tonight.”
“No game yet. I am working right now. The Lion must be watched. Let us choose a moment when I am free—”
“No, cousin.” I waved the statement away. “You are off for the night.”
“There we go.” Maxwell clapped his hands. “Let the motherfucking games begin.”
“Alright.” Tisha tapped his cigar in front of him. Ash fell onto the plush carpet. “First one to get to a hundred wins.”
Maxwell raised his eyebrows. “But how do we figure out the number system?”
I raised the bottle to my lips and drank.
Tisha winked. “We assign pussy points.”
I almost spat out my vodka.
“Alright, man. I dig you. A kiss is one point,” Maxwell’s voice remained steady as if he anticipated his victory this evening.
However, I knew my cousin very well.
If Maxwell won, it would not be easy.
“Two points for a phone number,” Tisha added.
I put my view back on Maxwell.
“Okay.” He nodded. “Ten points for a blow job that you didn’t pay for.”
I gazed at Tisha.
My cousin rotated the cigar between his fingers, ensuring an even burn. “Fifteen points for sex, but twenty for anal. Both cannot be paid for.”
Maxwell whistled. “So then all I have to do is fuck five chicks in the ass tonight? Shiiittt. Then, I’ll be wearing the crown in a few hours.”
I laughed.
Tisha pointed at him. “And we record it on our phone for proof.”
Maxwell frowned. “What the fuck? You think chicks are cool with that in the States. They rock differently than back home, man. This is not Russia.”
“No video. No points.” Tisha brought the cigar back to his lips for another draw. “And we add extra points for women who are bigger.”
Maxwell leaned his head back. “Huh?”
“The wider the waist the more points.”
Maxwell rubbed his chin. “Hmmm. Interesting addition. Break that down for me further.”
“I find that women with more weight. . .they are. . .robust. Delicious.” Tisha raised his hands and outlined a wide hour-glass. “These women are harder to take home. They are more protective of their bodies. It demands a more intense hunt—”
“Or you just like fucking big girls.”
Tisha shrugged. “There is beauty to be found in curves and softness.”
“Yo.” Maxwell chuckled. “For some reason, I’m starting to like you more, Tisha. You might even have that B.D.E. if you’re swinging that way.”
“Have you ever made love to a woman who is bigger than the usual societal size?”
“Fuck yeah. An ass can never be too big for me. Same for the titties, and I don’t give a fuck about rolls. I just pull them up, fit them to the side, and bang shorty out until she falls asleep.”
Tisha quirked his brows. “Rolls?”
Maxwell touched his sides. “You know what I’m saying. Love handles.”
“Aww.” Tisha nodded. “I think of them as love cushions.”
“I like that. Love cushions.” Maxwell pulled out two joints and handed one to me. “I’m going to steal that.”
Clasping the joint between the thumb and index finger, I raised it to my lips.
One of my men stepped in front of me and lit the tip.
The orange flame flickered as I inhaled. The rich scent of cannabis filled my senses. Smoke curled and swirled around me.
A sweet, honeyed taste coated my tongue.
Mmmm.
Maxwell grinned at me. “This is called Cookies and Cream. It’s a mix of two strains—Girl Scout Cookies and Starfighter.”
I had no idea what he was saying, but I damn sure enjoyed the marijuana.
Maxwell lit his own, tilted his head back, and blew out a large ring of smoke.
I watched in utter fascination. “Teach me that.”
“First I have to teach you to stop spitting on the weed.”
I frowned.
Tisha studied us through veils of smoke, the cigar still smoldering between his fingers. “Okay, here’s another rule.”
I inhaled some more, and the world seemed to tilt slightly, the edges blurring into a soft focus that made everything feel more vibrant, more alive.
Another one of my men took the bottle of vodka from me. Perhaps, I was about to drop it or something.
Tisha flicked cigar ash on the carpet. “Minus five points if she’s a professional.”
“Professional?” Maxwell echoed through a cloud of smoke, his brow furrowed. “Like a stripper or a sex worker?”
“Yes.”
“But, we’re in a strip club. I’m definitely fucking one of them in here on top of some of the chicks at the table.”
“Negative five points.” Tisha glanced over at another table full of all voluptuous women. Their ample curves emphasized by their tight dresses. “You mess with a stripper, and you lose points.”
Maxwell snorted. “Not fair man, that’s like asking a dog not to chase its tail.”
“It’s easy to score with a professional,” Tisha looked back at him. “But the thrill is in the hunt, not the meal.”
Maxwell chuckled at that.
“Alright then, Mr. Hunter.” He took another drag from his joint. “Let’s put the points on these size specifications though.”
Tisha nodded. “Ten extra points for women over 200 pounds, fifteen for those over 250, and a whopping twenty-five for those over 300 pounds.”
“Goddamn. You aren’t playing over there.”
“Then, we agree?” Tisha eyed him. “The more ample the figure, the more points.”
“Fuck yeah.”
Inhaling more of the joint, I got bored with the conversation, and looked over my shoulder, and checked on my mouse.
Now there were ten women, all dancing in front of Emily and Valentina.
Money covered the stage.
The woman right in front of my mouse moved with a confidence and energy that demanded attention, her body a symphony of motion as she twerked to the pulsating beats that filled the club.
Emily had her hands in the air, throwing more money and rocking her hips.
I blinked.
Maxwell and Tisha continued to formulate their pussy point system, but my focus remained on Emily.
Valentina bumped Emily with her hip and flung more money at the women. Their laughter—carefree and genuine—wove through the air, merging with the music.
They are truly sisters now.
My heart swelled.
Then, the dancer in front of my mouse, dropped into a split.
I widened my eyes.
Maxwell and Tisha’s voices faded into the background.
Emily and my sister responded with enthusiastic applause and tossed money onto her.
Bills fell along her breasts.
Instead of gathering the money, the dancer rolled over and began crawling toward Emily.
Be careful, little one. Do you know who she belongs to?
I turned completely around and took another hit of the joint.
The casual banter that had flowed so freely between Tisha and Maxwell ceased.
Their attention went to the dancer and my mouse too.
Maxwell chuckled. “Well damn, Em.”
“Cousin, looks like you may have some competition for this evening.” Tisha laughed.
The dancer began gyrating against my mouse, slipping her breasts along hers.
I grunted.
Then, she leaned forward, whispered something in my mouse’s ear, and brushed her mouth against Emily’s cheeks.
In that instant, a fierce possessiveness surged within me.
The sight of another person—however innocently or provocatively intended—touching Emily ignited a spark of jealousy that I could neither ignore nor justify. It was irrational, but without a moment’s hesitation, I found myself prowling forward.
“Eh, man!” Maxwell called after me. “What are you doing? It’s just fun and entertainment.”
“But that is my mouse.”
It took no time to get there. When I got close, the small crowd of Harlem Crew parted before me. I approached Emily, the dancer froze in mid-gyration.
I glared at her.
The dancer parted her lips and then let go of Emily, sliding away with a sheepish smile.
My mouse turned my way. Shock hit her face. “What are you doing over here?”
“What are you doing over here?”
Emily laughed and took the joint from me. “No more smoking for you tonight.”
“I can smoke if I want to, mysh .”
“Is that right?” She handed the joint to one of the Harlem Crew women. Smartly, the woman didn’t take a hit. Instead, she put it out.
Valentina shrieked and waved her hands. “I cannot help myself. I must go up there. I love the States!”
“No. No.” Emily shook her head and tapped my shoulder. “Will you tell your sister that she can’t go on the stage and hump the dancers.”
I shrugged. “But this is the Lion’s club. My sister can do whatever she wants to.”
“Perfect!” Valentina kicked off her heels.
“Oh God.” Emily tried to grab her, but it was too late. Valentina got on that stage and started dancing with the other women. I didn’t even have to look behind me, to know that Maxwell was probably frowning and shaking his head.
But that was not my concern.
I took Emily’s hand. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“You will see.” I dragged her away.