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The Scaly Dance Floor

Wolfgang Blackwood sighed as he felt the night air caress his fur, gazing up the steep-walled concrete canyon he found himself at the bottom of. For a moment, the sound of the traffic - the honking and cursing and squealing of tires - seemed to fade away. It was cloudy and he could see only a thin sliver of sky, but somehow he could feel it - a full moon glimmered somewhere up there, round and bright, tugging at the deepest, most primal part of his blood, whispering of perfect hunting-conditions and making him somehow long for the deep, dark, germanic woods that the Schwartzwald-clan had emigrated from so many generations ago, before sensibly americanizing their name at the outset of World War II. He'd never visited the 'fatherland' - heck, he'd never even left the continental USA - but on a night like this, he nonetheless felt a longing for a place he'd never seen, a life he'd never known. Supposedly, the Germans actually had a name for that feeling, ironically enough, but he'd be damned if he could remember it...

"Hey, you wool-gathering, Woolfgang? Snap out of it, will ya?" An amused-sounding voice snapped him out of his reverie, and his golden-yellow eyes panned back down to street-level as he smiled apologetically at the tall, slim ferret in the slightly-rumpled business-suit. "Sorry, Hob. After so long cooped up in a room filled with cigar-smoke and hot air, even this city's gasoline-flavored night air is kind of intoxicating..." Hob chuckled, shrugging his narrow shoulders. "If ya say so - you're the male with the big nose. But hey, if it's intoxicants you want, there's plenty where we're going. It's a real secret treasure, I tell ya - fox I know showed it to me and told me the secret password to get in and everything."

Forcing a laugh, Wolfgang laughed. "You always know all the best places! Just so we're clear, though - only legal intoxicants, right? Don't wanna wind up on the front page of a tabloid or something..." Hob was a lawyer, like himself, but he was also a notorious party-animal, and Wolfgang really wouldn't put it past him to know his way around some of the city's less-than-legal establishments, all in the name of 'having a good time'. Honestly, he was kind of hoping that this would prove to be one of them, so he'd have an excuse to decline - after a long day of negotiations and general horse-trading, he felt more like heading back to his hotel-room for a short scotch and a long nap than spending hours in a crowded, noisy dance-club, but he had_promised Hob to hit the town with him after the meeting... and unfortunately, the ferret's answer came with a roguish grin. "What, are you suggesting that I'd frequent a location that was less than one-hundred-percent above-board? I am _shocked at these allegations, my good sir - shocked! Seriously, though, this place is perfectly legit, wouldn't invite ya otherwise - I know you've got ambitions and all that!"

So, what could he do except shrug and grin? "Well, then, by all means, lead the way to this secret paradise..."

It proved to be a bit of a walk, giving him a chance to take in more night-air and reinvigorate somewhat. It also led them into a rather_ethnic_ part of town, based on the unfamiliar symbols on a lot of the neon signs and the number of equally unfamiliar species crowding the streets even at this late hour. Down the side-streets, fewer of the signs had English translations, and those that did were more comical than useful - certainly off the beaten path as far as the main tourist migration-routes were concerned. Normally, he'd probably have been at least a little bit nervous when they turned down a rather dark and narrow alleyway - predatory fangs and wolf-muscle didn't really mean much against a gun, after all - but with the full moon still shining bright somewhere far above, the darkness only made his pupils dilate eagerly and his blood quicken.

Then they turned a corner, and he whistled quietly. The club ahead was noticeably more ritzy than its rather run-down neighborhood, and the long line leading to its doors made it obvious that this, indeed, was their destination. The sign above the wide double doors eschewed garish neon for elegantly-carved wood lit by strategically-placed lamps. "The Emerald Isle?" He read aloud, rather bemused, as he took in the serpentine form that intertwined, in a rather erotic fashion, with the letters. Then his eyes panned back down to the line, and his brow wrinkled.

"Yeah, I didn't get it at first either..." Hob blithely replied. "But apparently the name's based on some silly myth about there being no snakes in Ireland because they were all cast out by some saint back in medieval times - ya know, back when the church openly persecuted snakes and whatnot. The joke is, they actually left just to come here instead and party down!" Wolfgang grimaced - both because it didn't seem like a particularly funny joke, and because it meshed so well with the crowd outside. Snakes, lizards, alligators and crocodiles, a few frogs and other amphibians... "This is a scaly joint?" He asked, rather rhetorically, and unable to entirely hide his distaste.

Hob just chuckled and continued towards the door, ignoring the line. "Hey, don't knock it 'till you try it. Smooth, slick scales, exotic beauties, and those girls can move in ways that make you question whether they have spines at all! Plus, I think you'll like the music there - I know you're not a big fan of the usual club-music, and this place has its own house-band, playing a kind of celtic punk... fiddles and mandolin together with electric guitar and drums. Pretty unique!" That, at least, was worth a raised eyebrow. "In a place like this?" He ventured, only to get another chuckle. "Hey, that's how you stand out in a crowded marketplace - you get a unique gimmick and you own it. Take it from the corporate lawyer!"

The bouncer - an impressively muscled komodo-dragon tall enough to easily look Wolfgang in the eye - gazed at the two of them in annoyance as they stepped past the grumbling front of the line. Hob just flashed him a wide, ferrety grin, however, and reached out a black-furred hand. "Hey, you look good my boy, you put on even more muscle since last time, ey? Hob Polack, if you forgot, I should be on the list..?" The annoyance fled from the large, coarse-skinned lizard's hide, to be replaced by a cunning grin. "Of course, of course, always nice to see ya Hob..." Using the hand he'd just employed for the shake, he lifted his clipboard for a closer look, and then quickly nodded. "And of course you're still on the list, just ticking all the boxes, you know how it is... go right in sir, and your big friend too, hope ya have a nice night!" A velvet rope was pulled aside, and despite a few angry shouts from those waiting in line, the two were allowed entry into the well-guarded sanctum.

"Secret password, huh?" Wolfgang whispered as he pulled off his suit jacket at the coat-check, ears perking at the strange yet lively music he could hear through the thick door leading into the club proper. "Just how much green did you grease his palm with there?" Hob smiled brightly, shrugging out of his own jacket. "Hey, these people live and die on tips, so you might as well be generous..." he evaded with an eyebrow-waggle, while sticking a folded-up ten-dollar bill halfway into the front pocket of his jacket before handing it over to the rather slinky lizard-girl at the check, prompting a flutter of her obviously fake eyelashes. "And a little something for you too doll, make sure we don't forget our coats on the way out no matter how merry we're feeling, ey?"

Wolfgang rolled his eyes as he followed his friend into the club - there was no point in whispering after that point, the music being plenty loud enough to ensure nobody would overhear them without getting rather rudely close. "Assuming I'm even interested, is any of the girls in here actually going to be interested in us?" He asked as he started to take in the decor of the club, which seemed to be going for a look somewhere between an old-world dance-hall and modern Punk sensibilities. Hob laughed, dragging him along past a dance-floor crowded with gyrating, scaly bodies towards a staircase. "Not most of them, no!" He cheerily replied.

As they climbed the stair up to what seemed to be a half-floor balcony with a nice view of the stage and the dance-floor, Wolfgang silently glared at the back of Hob's head until the ferret turned and gave him a mock-disappointed head-shake. "You really don't get it, huh? Criminal lawyers, I tell ya... it's all about narrowing the odds and turning them in your favor. Most of the femmes in this club won't be interested in a couple of fuzzy fellows like us, that's true. But_some_ will be. A small percentage will swing that way. And for them, we'll stand out like a beacon - with next to no competition."

This, at least, was enough to give Wolfgang pause, prompting an 'Okay then, when you put it that way...' kind of expression. He still wasn't sure how he felt about the concept in general, though. He'd been popular in college, and in high school for that matter, so he'd wound up dating a fair bit outside his own genus, and even his order on occasion, but never outside his class. It wasn't as if he was_speciecist_ or anything, it had just... never come up. "And better yet..." Hob continued blithely, unaware of his friend's internal conflict, "...the ones that'll be interested are easy to spot at a distance, so you don't even have to wait for them to come to you. That's why we want a table on the balcony, see?"

The music was a bit less loud up there - enough that they could talk without raising their voices - and Hob quickly homed in on a table near the edge, with a commanding view of the dance-floor. "You're saying you can spot an interested girl from all the way up here?" Wolfgang asked in disbelief as his own eyes scanned the crowd - dancing, standing at the bar, sitting at tables along the edge, a mass of green, brown and occasionally yellow shades interspersed with the occasional splash of unnatural color denoting someone really into body-paint. "Yeah, see you... heeey, sweetheart, talk about quick service!" Hob's answer was sidetracked when a waitress appeared next to their table, having clearly followed them up there, drawn by the smell of a generous tipper.

Wolfgang tried to look her up and down without being too obvious about it while she went through the requisite "Would you like to order some refreshments or snacks" routine. Her 'uniform' featured a tight, emerald-green t-shirt and a short, hip-hugging skirt in a darker, more arboreal shade - an attractive combination in general, but... well... she was a cobra of some kind, and the contrast with her orange-yellow scales weren't entirely flattering. Her face was pretty, in an exotic kind of way, with the wide hood, the stubby snout, and the long, venomous fangs that made her slur some of her words a bit. But her figure was... well, it was a shape that would have been extremely unhealthy on a mammal, with a waist he could probably have reached around with one hand, hips that seemed wide only by comparison, and a chest as flat as a washboard. She was still undeniably feminine, of course, in various hard-to-define ways... and the way her rear end swayed as she left with Hob's order, which he'd rattled off without bothering to consult anyone, _was_undeniably fetching. But still... he tended to prefer his femmes curvy, which that waitress was only in the most _technical_sense.

"Sorry for ordering for you, mate, but you seemed lost in thought... or possibly the waitress' tight skirt, eh?" Hob teased, and Wolfgang quickly flashed him a carefully-crafted smile. "Eh, you know what I like better than I do sometimes... speaking of, I think I'm gonna like this place!" There was no reason to be a party-pooper and tell Hob that these scaly girls just weren't his cup of tea. He'd just put on his best face, get some overpriced drinks, and make the most of it - maybe think of it as a training-exercise? In the future, he'd no doubt need to be able to keep a confident smile plastered on his face even under the most adverse conditions, after all.

Gazing out across the club again, trying to plot the easiest route to the bar - which was far from the shortest route in this crowded place - he noticed something on the dance-floor that made his brow wrinkle in confusion. "Why is that place in the middle of the floor mostly empty?" He queried with some bemusement, mostly directed at himself but immediately sparking a response from Hob. "Oh yeah, that! That's the titular Emerald Isle, see?" Indeed, the roughly-circular area in the middle of the floor was thinly enough populated that he could see that the surface was mostly a bright, vibrant, shimmering green, with the exact shade seeming to change in a rippling pattern, like a severely stunted rainbow. Featuring much the same shades as the clientele, on reflection...

"Is that floor made of scales?" He asked as his keen mind leaped to the natural conclusion. Hob chuckled and nodded eagerly. "It is indeed - shed by the patrons and reworked into a circular dance-floor by a local artist. It makes for a very slick and uneven surface to dance on... as you can see." Certainly, one of the few couples that had been shaking their various body-parts in that vaguely-visible circle had just wiped out, sparking dimly-audibles waves of laughter from other dancers nearby. Another dancer there, perhaps distracted by this amusing display, seemed to lose his balance, teetering and flapping his arms for a second - he managed to remain standing, but it was hardly an appealing display. All three slunk away, disappearing into the press of bodies that surrounded this small island amidst the dancers, making its special status even more apparent. Adding a laugh of his own, Hob shook his head. "It's supposed to be a place for the best and most sure-footed dancers to strut their stuff - like a 'hard-mode' for the dance-floor, you know? But there's always a few fools who manage to drink themselves enough confidence to try it and thus provide some extra entertainment for the other guests. Take my advice and steer clear - I know you're a pretty keen dancer yourself, but anyone who goes out there winds up with a lot of eyes on them, and that makes it a lot harder to work your hand under a girl's dress..."

Wolfgang nodded absently. A rather unnecessary warning - he had other reasons for not wanting to be the center of attention, after all. Sure, this was a perfectly legitimate club with no indication of anything unsavory going on here, but a picture of his visit there surfacing a few years down the road could still spark some unpleasant gossip. And those newfangled camera-phones were getting annoyingly common, as a few of his colleagues had already learned the hard way. "Oh, that reminds me!" Hob carried on, his grin widening. "Our lovely waitress' arrival interrupted me before I told you how to spot your targets... it's real simple, actually. Just look for the tits."

A confused blink was the only response he could come up with, followed by an equally confused "Tits?" as he remembered the waitress' perfectly flat chest. Hob rolled his eyes. "Yes, tits,do try to keep up! Remember, we're looking for the odd scaly girls who are into furry guys! Which means they're going to be trying to appeal to our standard of beauty more than the reptilian one. Which often means implants. So if you see a gal with a decent set of sweater-puppies on her, that's a pretty clear signal that she's at the very least fur-curious!" That did make sense, Wolfgang had to concede, and as he turned his eyes back to the crowded room and focused them, he started spotting a few potential prospects - lizards, crocs and snakes that looked a bit curvier, a bit more top-heavy, than those around them. Not many, but there were at least a few handfuls scattered across the crowd, and possibly more mixed into the general press of the dance-floor. "Clever. Still, some of them might just be cultural rebels and whatnot..." he warned, just to try and keep the widely-grinning Hob from getting_too_ big a head.

Hob shrugged off the warning, then flashed a smile over his shoulder as the sound of clinking glass approached from behind him. "Still better odds than you'd find anywhere else I know of... heyyy doll, that was mighty quick, seems you move as quick as you move pretty!" The cobra waitress deposited a tray with two tall, bubbly drinks and a bowl of jerky-sticks on the table with a venomous smile and a flutter of her eyelids - which, Wolfgang thought absently, had to be fake, but at least didn't make it as obvious as their colleagues at the coat-check had. "Very kind, sir... we aim to please here at the Emerald Isle... thank you sir, please just call if you need anything else..." soon she was shimmying off again with the empty tray and an even more exaggerated sway of her hips. "By your own logic, she's not interested..." Wolfgang commented dryly as Hob stared admiringly at the departing rear end. The ferret just laughed. "That's hardly the point - I gotta keep my hand in! And besides, who knows? Maybe I'll be the one who make her interested..."

Rolling his eyes, Wolfgang picked up his drink and sipped at it. He had no idea what it was, but it was light and bubbly and refreshing and...blue for some reason, with a nice little kick. A good place to start, laying the foundation for something stronger yet to come. Hob knew his drinks, needless to say. After both of them had thrown back a few swallows, the ferret - his nose twitching - put his drink down and gestured grandly across the club. "Right then! For this kind of prey, you don't want a wingmate - you want to be the only thing with fur anywhere in sight. So let's divide and conquer, shall we?" Wolfgang nodded with not-entirely-faked eagerness. "Sounds like a plan. I'll claim the area around the bar, then - I spotted some great tracts of land there!" Which wasn't a lie - there were indeed at least two or three top-heavy scalies sitting at the long, wooden, dark-stained bar, nursing various colorful concoctions. More importantly, though, there was also booze there. Hob grinned merrily, clearly happy that his friend was getting into the spirit of things. "Good choice! I think I'll go scout around the edge of the dance-floor then, see if I can find someone to impress with my smooth moves. Regroup here in an hour or two if nothing interesting happens in the meantime?"

Wolfgang plopped down on an empty stool by the bar with a sigh, letting his eyes scan the bottles that lined the back wall. As he'd hoped, there was a fair selection of whiskeys to go with the Irish theme, and he could really use a taste of something rich and smokey right now. Then again, the idea of what just two fingers of aged single-malt Irish whiskey would cost him at the usual dance-club mark-up was a bit of a deterrent. Maybe he could afford it, but he wasn't trying to impress anybody by flashing green right now, so it was probably wiser to settle for a 'best-value' option instead.

While he was still muddling it over, a glass landed in front of him, featuring a large lump of ice and enough of something dark and fragrant to reach halfway up its sides. His nostrils flared, informing him that despite the surface resemblance, this was no mere Old Fashioned - there was no trace of citrus or sugar here, just pure oak-barrel-ages Whiskey and ice. It was with some effort of will that he managed to tear his eyes away from it to blink at the barkeep, a rather rough-looking monitor-lizard. "Uh... I haven't ordered anything yet?" he tried, not wanting to come right out and say "This smells way expensive." The beefy lizard grinned, and threw his thumb sideways. "Courtesy of the lady in the red dress."

Following the barkeep's gesture, he gazed down the bar and saw her, lifting a triangular cocktail-glass in greeting as she caught his eyes. She was one of the 'great tracts of land' he'd spotted from the balcony, but at this point, he could make out a lot more detail. She was a salamander, he skin a glossy, gleaming black marked by lines and splodges of fiery orange, setting off her bright-red dress handsomely. Said dress was working hard, too, stretched as it was around a generous pair of hips and a pair of tits that were very impressive for all that they had to be fake. Her eyes... they seemed to gleam, beckoning him... he couldn't even in good conscience call them 'bedroom eyes'. They were more like 'bent over the kitchen table eyes', or 'up against the hallway wall eyes'.

He tore his gaze away only with difficulty, to contemplate the drink in front of him again. Why had he thought that he'd be left alone if he just sat there quietly with a drink? Probably because he was used to being the predator, not the prey... but this buxom salamander had turned the tables on him, and damn that whiskey smelled fetching! It tasted better yet, he found as he slowly tipped the glass back, letting the dark-amber liquid caress his tongue on the way down his throat, making sure that he tasted every drop, then pausing to marvel at the aftertaste. With a sigh of contentment, he put the glass down. What to do, what to do... if he didn't act quickly, she'd probably move in soon, sidling up to him to ask how he'd liked the drink. He couldn't just give her the cold shoulder then after accepting her generosity - that'd make him an awful cad.

Well, he wasn't some insecure pup any more! He was a grown-ass wolf, so he'd handle this like an adult! Just... thank her for the drink, explain that he wasn't interested in, well, scalies, unfortunately, and maybe offer to buy her a drink in recompense... or would that just seem like a continuation of the obligatory mating-dance? Eh, he'd gauge her reaction and take it from there. He was used to reading the faces of killers and con-artists alike in the courtroom, surely he could figure out how to handle one horny lizard. Buoyed by this determination, he grabbed his drink and headed up the bar towards her, finding that a strategically-empty seat was waiting beside her. The smile on her lips, painted with an orange-red that matched her spots, was predatory enough that he couldn't have bettered it himself for all his fangs.

Her voice proved to fully match the look in her eyes as he sat down. "Like the drink, fuzzboy? You struck me as the type to prefer your whiskey neat..." a throaty purr that seemed to attach an erotic undertone to whatever she said, completely beside the actual words. And as for those, being called 'fuzzboy' was a new one, and enough to make him do a double-take just as he was opening his mouth, looking her over again. How old was she, anyway? It was always hard to tell with scalies. No wrinkles, no graying fur, and those carefully-crafted tits probably weren't about to sag anytime soon... but her voice, her demeanor, made him suspect that she was probably older than him, at least by a few years. No mere girl, but a mature femme - self-assured, confident, unashamed of her desires and ready to go out and get what she wanted instead of just sitting around looking pretty and hoping that some handsome lad would come up and talk to her.

"Yes, I like it quite a lot, thank you... it'd be a shame to dilute such a fine drink with any lesser ingredients, really." He finally managed to find his voice and keep it even as he replied, but it was clear from her widening smile and her gaze that she'd noticed him 'checking her out', and he quickly took another long, slow swallow of said drink to cover his slight embarrassment. Maybe he wasn't off to a great start convincing her that he just wasn't interested. But as the smooth, smokey liquor caressed his tongue and taste-buds before burning its way down his throat, he managed to center himself again, and as he put the glass down he took a quick breath.

"So, yes, quite grateful, and I can tell this is an expensive brand to say the least, but... well, it's nothing personal, I hope you'll understand - you look undeniably gorgeous - however, I'm just not... uhh... it's not like I'm..." the silver tongue that had swayed more than one jury seemed to have abandoned him, alas. Maybe it was the way she held her eyes - it was very distracting. Now that he had a closer look, he realized she had to be wearing some kind of fancy lenses - the color of her eyes seemed to shift with the light, changing with every slight movement of her head, every blink of her heavy eyelids. And then, just as he was managing to ramble his way towards his point, she raised a finger and placed it against his muzzle, her brow wrinkling. "Shush, fuzzboy - don't say that. I'm sure it sounds perfectly reasonable in your head, but if you say it out loud, you will sound like a speciecist. Trust me on this."

Grimacing, he receded. She was probably right, dammit - but even now, she didn't seem offended. If anything, she sounded amused. Chuckling, she shook her head. "Besides, I know what you mean, even if there's no way to actually say it without it sounding bad. It's your first time in a place like this, you've never dated outside of_mammalia_, and it's a rather long step from there to reptilia_or _amphibia. Your instincts and hormones aren't quite sure what to make of us, leaving you more confused and discomfited than aroused. Actually, I bet some more 'worldly' friend of yours pretty much dragged you here - am I right?" Blinking, Wolfgang felt a genuine grin crease his muzzle for the first time since arriving at the club, and with a quiet laugh, he shrugged. "Is it that obvious, or are you just that perceptive? Because if it's the later, I may have a job-offer for you..."

The salamander returned his laugh with a shimmering giggle that made him wonder if he'd misjudged her age. "Sorry, fuzzboy, but it _is_just that obvious. And besides, I'm independently wealthy, and thus not looking for work. I'd hardly be throwing such overprized booze at random wolves if I wasn't!" Well, that made him feel less guilty about the drink at least, and explained the high quality of the 'work' she'd had done... indeed, at this close range, it was clearer than ever that her chest was a true masterpiece, perfectly shaped, perfectly bouncy, moving in all the right ways whenever she shifted her weight - heck, her dress was so tight he could tell that they came complete with realistic nipples, though whether their pebble-like hardness was the result of her arousal or a permanent result of their artificial nature was more than he could guess.

Belatedly realizing that he'd been visually and mentally spelunking into her ample cleavage for a painfully noticeable amount of time, he quickly averted his eyes, trying not to notice the amusement on her face as he returned his attention to the drink in his hand, contemplating how many swallows were left in it. "Again with the 'fuzzboy'... I do have a name, you know." He said, rather automatically, just to cover his embarrassment. Immediately afterwards, he silently cursed himself - he was supposed to be trying to disentangle himself from this oversexed salamander as politely as possible, not getting to know her better.

And of course, she wasn't about to pass up an opening like that. "Oho? Well, don't keep me in suspense then, fuzzboy - do tell me what it is..." she gushed, and at that point, any attempt to back off would just have come off as playing coy. "Wolfgang. The name is Wolfgang." He sighed. Maybe he should've come up with a fake name instead, but on such short notice, it would've probably been really obvious. But at least he'd keep his surname to himself. Smiling, she nodded. "Well, nice to meet you then, Wolfgang... and a handsome name that is. I'm Morgane. Well, Morgan, actually, but people kept joking about it being a boy's name, so I started going by the french version - everything sounds sexier in french, no?"

Again, he couldn't help but crack a smile, especially at the throaty, exaggeratedly french way she pronounced her name. "Indubitably..." he replied dryly. "A rather silly thing to taunt someone about, though, considering that Morgan is a perfectly serviceable unisex name." She rolled her eyes mightily at this, causing a cascade of confusing colors to play across them, and groaned. "I call your name handsome, and you call mine 'serviceable'. Right charmer this one! No wonder that friend of yours is trying to socialize you." It could have been a rather stinging retort, but her tone made it a clear joke, and he couldn't help but laugh - especially since she was right about the response lacking the kind of polish he usually applied when smooth-talking a girl.

He was starting to change his mind about extricating himself from the conversation. Even if he didn't particularly want to sleep_with this vivacious amphibian, she was undeniably good company and a fine conversationalist. Maybe swapping some jokes with her while waiting for Hob to either tire himself out or walk out with some scaly beaut on his arm would be more fun than just drinking alone. "Well, I _usually do better than this, but I suppose that's what all males say..." he quipped, and was rewarded with another sparkling laugh while enjoying another lingering swallow of the fine whiskey.

"You know... I don't think you've actually made up your mind yet..." she then said, changing the subject rapidly enough that it took him a moment to figure out what she was talking about. "I thought we'd already established that my mind has fairly little to do with anything." He replied dryly once he managed to catch up. She grinned, eyes sparkling their way from red to green as she leaned in closer. "Okay, your hormones haven't made up their teeny little minds yet, then. After all, you took the drink instead of sending it back. And walked all the way over here to thank me for it. And despite your totally-not-speciesist lack of interest in us scaly critters, you can't stop checking out my chest, which I have indeed found to be well worth the investment, before you ask. So yeah, at least one of your heads remain undecided, still weighing the options..."

The damnable thing was that she might be right... but at this point, it kind of felt like a contest. "I came over to thank you for the drink because I am a gentlemale, my good lady..." he thus retorted in his most snooty, Harvard-Law-Graduate voice. "And have perhaps gazed on your bounteous chest mostly to appreciate the sheer craftsmanship that went into it - surely, I am allowed to regard such artistry from an objective standpoint, no?" She giggled - again sounding rather younger than she looked, and pushed her chest out towards him, arms back, to make her dress really strain to contain her. "Of course you're allowed... perhaps you'd like to inspect their heft and feel, too? I can assure you that they're every bit as subtle and smooth as they look..."

There were obvious come-ons, and then there were asking a guy if he wanted to fondle your tits for a bit... it had been a long time since any femme had been quite so blatant in throwing herself at him. He could feel his cheeks burn underneath his fur, and found himself trying to remember if salamanders had heat-perception, or was that just certain snakes? Trying to keep his composure, he rattled on - ignoring her offer - in a more normal voice. "As for sending the drink back, would you believe it never occurred to me? Thought never popped into my head. Might have something to do with the scent of the whiskey worming its way in there instead."

Grinning, she shook her head. "I suppose that delectable scent might have played a role, especially for someone with so keen a nose, but I suspect a bigger part of it is that you've just never had it happen_to_ you before, hmm? You're used to being the one who sends drinks down the bar, not the one who receives them, and I bet few femmes would consider turning down such a thoughtful gift from such a big, handsome wolf..." There was that perceptiveness again - the sharpness behind those kaleidoscopic eyes, echoing his own earlier thoughts. The way she'd flipped the roles around had left him on the back paw from the start, and she did not seem particularly interested in relinquishing the initiative.

But just because he was on the defensive didn't mean he was about to surrender this particular, verbal sparring-match. "Perhaps I_have_ had some success in the past, despite my clear lack of social graces..." he thus replied with faux-humility and a wolfish grin, getting another solid laugh in return. "Even with those splendid excuses in mind, though, I do believe you remain on the fence..." she retorted, raising one fiery-red eyebrow. "...even if you won't admit it to yourself - let alone me! And before you start blaming your hormones again, there are perfectly_logical_ reasons why you indeed should consider giving it a shot."

"A reasoned, logical argument in favor of inter-class mating? This I have to hear..." his voice was sarcastic, but considering how perceptive Morgane had proven so far, he was genuinely curious to hear what she meant. He'd heard any number of bizarre arguments in court already, and many more via anecdotes from older colleagues so, if nothing else, this could be educational. Leaning back on her barstool, she adjusted an imaginary pair of glasses and cleared her throat. "Pay attention then... it is really quite simple. You are curious - as anyone would be. We have already established that you were dragged here by a friend who is clearly in_favor_ of such pairings. What does he see in it? Is there maybe something to it? Only a truly intolerant and closed-minded individual would be able to avoid at least contemplating the idea. And as you were about to loudly state before I stopped you, you are most_certainly_ no narrow-minded, bigoted speciecist..."

Wolfgang's courtroom experience ensured that he wasn't tempted to interrupt or interject as she laid out her arguments - after all, that just wasn't done. You waited for your opponent to finish, then_you launched your carefully thought-out counter-argument. In the meantime, he could simply appreciate the fact that he was being treated to a genuine example of Socratic Discourse, where statements he had already agreed to were being twisted around and used against him - this 'independently wealthy' salamander clearly had a fine education behind her. "Now, of course, just because the idea has entered your mind doesn't mean you have to _act on it. That is what maturity and general impulse-control is all about - being able to consider whether that idea you had is actually a _good_idea." She forged on, tapping her finger against the bar as she made her point. "But let's do a cost-benefit analysis of your options in this case, and consider worst and best-case scenarios, shall we?"

Now they were entering the world of economics and corporate forecasting, a field that Hob would probably have been more comfortable in - but Wolfgang knew enough to be impressed as she laid out her idea of his possible futures. "Option one - you decide against, and let your curiosity go unanswered. You leave this club without having shared so much as a quick smooch with a scaly beauty, and never look back. Best case outcome? The idea never returns to your mind, you never think about it again, and it has no effect on the rest of your life. A neutral result, flat zero. Worst case outcome? Your unsatisfied curiosity causes the possibility to linger in the back of your mind, festering, being refreshed every time you happen to have an encounter with a pretty young lizard. Eventually, your willpower is depleted, perhaps at a time when a bit too much alcohol clouds your better judgment, and you finally decide to find out what you've been missing out on... at a time when doing so is likely to have far greater consequences. Perhaps you're married to a nice, fuzzy femme by then, perhaps you have cubs to your name, perhaps you've become a public figure vulnerable to scandal. Either way, bad news, severe negative."

This made him wince. No way his political ambitions were 'just that obvious' - either this curvaceous salamander was _dangerously_perceptive, or else she'd known something of him in advance, perhaps having seen him in court or mentioned in some newspaper-article... there were many ways that an attorney specializing in criminal law could become a public figure, after all. "Option two - you decide in favor, and let this be the night that your curiosity is satisfied..." she continued, ignoring his discomfiture while her voice smoothly shifted from the clipped, professional tones of her earlier thesis to a smoother, more seductive lilt. "Best case outcome? You have a lovely night and something else to chat with your scale-loving friend about. Nice plus. Worst case outcome? You have an awkward and unsatisfying night, and can confirm that it just isn't for you. Minor negative."

Wolfgang nodded slowly, still feeling rather impressed with the way she'd put it together on such short notice - and while she took a sip from her drink, which looked rather fruitier and more complex than his own, he helpfully rounded off her conclusion himself. "So basically: Saying no will, on the balance, lead to a largely negative result since the possible results run the gamut from neutral to negative, while saying yes may result in positive or negative outcomes, balancing out on average? I can't argue with the mathematics, but it's not like the outcome in this case is _random._I'm able to make reasonable predictions as to the results in either case."

Sighing, Morgane put her drink back down and leaned her head against her hand. "It's hard to predict the future, Wolfgang... though, to be fair, I had predicted that you'd be a tough nut to crack." Then she leaned back and stretched in a way that made her well-crafted assets particularly eye-catching, and glanced over her shoulder at the dance-floor behind them. "Tell you what... I'll cut you a deal. Call it a plea-bargain, if you like..." Well, that certainly settled things - she clearly knew he was a lawyer... then he followed her eyes, he found himself suddenly slightly disoriented. Somehow, it was as if the whole club, the dancing throngs, the thumping music, and the other patrons lining the bar had faded away while they'd talked, joked and debated. Like the world had consisted only of him and her - and now, all of a sudden, everybody else had popped back into existence.

"I know the band's regular set, and my favorite song is coming up next..." Morgane continued, clearly unaware of his momentary confusion - and indeed, now that he was actually noticing it again, the music did seem to be winding down, descending into gales of clapping and cheering moments later. "Join me on the floor for just this one dance, and we'll call that a fair return on the investment of that drink." Morgane suggested, her voice slightly raised to be heard over the clapping. "If you're still 'not interested' at the end of that dance, I'll leave you alone - maybe go look for that friend who must've dragged you here instead, hmm?" The idea of her and Hob together was an amusing one - certainly, the party-hardy ferret would have no difficulty whatsoever figuring out what to do about her blatant come-ons.

With that thought in mind, Wolfgang glanced back at the glass of whiskey that had gotten him into this situation in the first place. He'd just about managed to forget about it during the chatting and the joking, but there was still a bit left at the bottom - enough for one last, lingering swallow, followed by a deep breath as he put the glass down on the bar, making the slowly-shrinking ice-cube rattle. "Sounds like a fair bargain." He replied, rising from the bar-stool. As Hob had remarked earlier, he was a pretty decent dancer, and rather enjoyed it - Morgane had proven to be just as pleasant company as he'd hoped, so if he was ultimately going to reject her, he'd at least show her a good time on the dance-floor first.

She led the way onto the floor, dragging him along behind her. The band was starting to wind up into the next song with a tap of the drums' edge and the rustic sound of a tin whistle, as if they were about to launch into some centuries-old celtic ditty - before the drums and electric guitar joined in full-force alongside the lead singer's hoarse and heavily-accented voice to add the 'punk' side of 'celtic punk'. The crowd was jumping and cheering and beginning to shake various parts of their anatomies, suggesting that Morgane wasn't the only one who favored this particular tune. "I gotta warn you, I have no idea how you're supposed to dance to this stuff!" He had to shout it, this close to the stage and surrounded by this many people - several of whom seemed to be eyeing him curiously. It was hard to say if Hob was somewhere in the press of bodies too, but he certainly couldn't see anyone else with a shred of fur to their name. "Don't worry, neither does anybody else!" she shouted back, spinning around to grab both of his hands and pull him in closer. Among the countless, moving bodies and with the stage-lights shining down from above, her eyes glittered in a crazy whirl of color.

Then they were dancing, whirling, moving through the crowd. The music thumped in a primal rhythm that matched his rapid heartbeat and seemed to somehow resonate with the cry of the full moon in his blood. Occasional lulls in the intensity let them move together more slowly, intimately, before the noise rose to a renewed roar, pouring raw, electric energy into the dancers. She was moving against him, her arms warm and smooth against his fur, her breasts every bit as soft and pliable against his muscular chest as she had promised, her movements sure and confident - maybe nobody really knew how to dance to this kind of music, but she obviously had a fair bit more experience doing so anyway than he did...

Suddenly, the press of gyrating bodies around them faded away, and he felt his paws begin to lose traction. His eyes widened, looking over the bare, black-and-orange patterned shoulder of his dance-partner to finally notice what he'd failed to realize, absorbed as he was in the music and the dance - they'd moved inexorably towards the center of the dance-floor, where the Emerald Isle awaited the unwary. Beneath his paw-pads, slick, irregular scales could be felt, his well-trimmed claws catching on the edges at unpredictable times. Dancing on ice would have been easier.

Morgane seemed just as surprised as him - she was stumbling towards him now, eyes wide, her previous confidence giving way to a remarkably fetching expression of vulnerability and insecurity even as her face grew very close indeed. A gasp was squeezed from her lungs, almost a moan, a lingering sound that seemed to carry words he could not decipher. It seemed inevitable that they would shortly become part of the evening's entertainment as they took a spill on the scaly dance-floor like so many other foolhardy patrons.

But something about this unexpected show of vulnerability from the previously unshakable Morgane seemed to trigger a deep, primal response in him... as his already-pounding heart unified with his predatory instincts and the automatic panic that was rising from the loss of traction, the flight-or-fight response that would normally have resulted was replaced with something else: The driving need to protect your mate. He could have tried to rationalize it, of course - sure, taking a spill here wouldn't be likely to harm anything other than their prides, but 'not likely' wasn't the same thing as 'definitely not', and besides, she was clearly a regular here... the humiliation of such a public pratfall could wind up pursuing her for years afterwards.

Truly, however, there was no thought involved. He simply pulled her up tight against his body, and moved. He would not let her fall.

As he struggled to maintain his balance, however, one thought did_occur to him... his immediate response when he stepped out onto the slick scales was that it was a tougher surface to move on than ice, and it _was, but it was also quite similar in ways. And he knew how to ice-skate - the secret was confidence. You had to keep moving to keep your balance - it was when you grew uncertain and slowed down that you wiped out. And so, he dug his claws into the slick-yet-uneven surface as best he could, pushing himself forwards, moving with confidence, refusing to slow down as he pulled Morgane along across the mostly-empty patch of marbled green.

She was a quick learner, however - and observant. Within moments, she'd realized what he was doing, and followed suit. No longer dragged along, she was pushing forwards just as confidently - and pulling to the side, causing them to begin to whirl. He had been heading towards the opposite side of the Emerald Isle, the safety of the regular dance-floor and the anonymous press of bodies, but she had other ideas. Dimly, he realized that the music had dipped into one of its quiet lulls during the moment they had entered the scaly patch of floor, and was now rising back to a fevered pitch as they moved along the edge of it. Somehow, it was growing even more intense, more primal, carrying with it the sound of stomping and rhythmic clapping as some of the people who had been dancing near the edge of the Emerald Isle stopped to instead watch and cheer.

The music, the cheers, the attention, the warm, smooth body against his own, it was all so impossibly intoxicating... his breathing came in hot, steamy bursts as they danced together in solitary majesty atop the slick scales, improvising daring moves on the spot, filled with inexhaustible confidence - because if they started to doubt their ability to keep their balance for even a moment, they would be lost. She spun in his arms, her thick, powerful tail wrapping around his waist, holding him firm as they danced back to chest for a while, moving to the primal rhythm - and deep in his increasingly-creased suit pants, he could feel something stirring, hardening, _emerging,_like a freshly-wakened beast from its den, sniffing at the air and scenting prey.

Around and around they went, carried by the music, the clapping and stomping growing deafening - and just like back at the bar, the world seemed to fade away around him, leaving just him, her, the ancient, celtic rhythm, and the slick scales beneath their feet. Somehow, the dense air of the dance-club, loaded with sweat and the smell of alcohol, seemed to give way to a fresh breeze scented with ripe fruits and the salty tang of the sea. They were dancing on an island, now, as the Celtic instruments played their high-pitched tune in time with his heartbeat, and beneath them, the scaly floor was shifting, rising and falling like the breath of a great beast - as if it was a living thing, a great serpent, or perhaps a mythical dragon... a dragon now rising through the air, as they continued to dance feverishly on its back, dancing through the clouds and towards a gleaming light above...

Wolfgang blinked and looked away. The light was just one of the spotlights mounted above the stage, and with a final call of the tin whistle and crescendo of the drums, the song had ended. The crowd was applauding madly... but most of them weren't looking at the stage. They were looking at him - well, him and Morgane, standing in lonesome majesty in the midst of the otherwise-empty scale-floor, like a king and queen surrounded by gracious courtiers. Some were hooting or cheering. Apparently, the dance had been a sight to behold.

As if drawn by an irresistible gravity, his eyes moved down to the slender yet curvy femme in his arms. She was panting just as much as he was, and sweat glistened on her jet-black skin, running fetchingly down from her collarbone to disappear between her heaving breasts. Her eyes, as colorful as ever, were hot with desire... and victory. Pressed against his body as she was, she could no doubt feel it, poking insistently against her belly - an undeniable, unconcealable, fully-realized erection. There was little point, by now, in trying to deny this emergent attraction to her, or for that matter to himself... so when she leaned in a bit closer, her lips parting, he responded in kind.

The cheers and claps were interspersed with wolf-whistles, cat-calls and laughter as they kissed - deeply, passionately, hotly. He felt her tongue push into his maw, caressing the fangs that lined it, hungry and unafraid - while he returned the favor, feeling her toothless gums against his own question tongue. Amphibians did not have teeth, after all - a fact that he could suddenly see all kinds of intriguing possibilities in. The kiss, however, proved rather short for all its intensity - both of them were still too out of breath to forego panting for very long. And with that show-stopping ending, as the band gamely began to wind up the next song on their set-list, they departed the dance-floor together, with no need to push their way through the press of bodies - everybody instead gave way for them, opening a passage for them to traverse and delivering many heartfelt compliments and shoulder-claps as they did so.

By the time they'd made their way back to the bar, they'd both just about regained their breaths - and found that not only were their previous seats still empty, several more had cleared up around them. Apparently, the passionate dance-floor display had motivated several wallflowers into heading out there to shake what their mamas gave them too. As Wolfgang sank down on the hard bar-stool with a relieved sigh, he could feel Morgane's eyes lingering on the bulge that continued to crease the front of his trousers, and he knew what was coming. "So... what's the verdict, your honor?" She asked sweetly, victory still painting her lips into a hungry smile. "Shall we part ways here and now, all debts repaid, or... not do that?"

At this point, all he could really do was concede defeat with as much grace as he could muster. "Well, my dear Morgane, I do believe that after careful consideration, I find your earlier appeal to the statistical distribution of possible outcomes fairly persuasive, the logic unassailable... In the end, I suppose there is only one rational course to take!" She giggled, and by now he was quite confident that she indeed was at least a couple of years his senior - that mirthful sound merely had a remarkably youthful timbre. "I'm glad you could be reasoned with..." she answered slyly - then pounced forwards, wrapping her arms around him, and pressing her lips against his.

It was different, this time. Without the lingering near-trance of the dance and the music, he was far more conscious of the sensations - and far more able to take advantage. The kiss could also linger for far longer, as both of them let their hands roam freely. He could feel her smooth fingers run through the fur on the back of his neck, caress the length of his involuntarily-wagging tail, even spelunk up the back of his shirt to comb along his spine. He gave as good as he got, though, feeling her smooth, slick skin under his paw-pads, reaching down to cup her ample buttocks, no longer caring whether their proportions had been aided by an expertly-applied scalpel. What difference did it make? He knew that the breasts that were pressing against his chest right now were fake, but they felt just as deliciously soft and subtle as the real thing, so really, it was all purely academic.

By the time they reluctantly parted, his lips felt tingly and he was out of breath again. Morgane seemed little different, considering her heaving chest. He was finding it increasingly hard to ignore the hormones surging merrily through his blood, or the fact that a fair percentage of said blood continued to linger in his groin, hopeful and impatient. "So, your place or mine?" He asked as he saw her begin to open her mouth again, feeling a sudden urge to recapture the initiative - maybe not unreasonable, considering how _she_had been setting the pace virtually from the start.

She grinned. "Ah, the classic question... I can tell you're no local, so I assume you're staying at some moderately fancy hotel while you're in town?" He was, indeed. "That'll do nicely. I like hotel-rooms. It's like they're made for illicit trysts and one-night stands. So, you provide the location, and I'll provide the transportation - the limo I rented should still be waiting outside, and it's from a company known for offering _discretion_as part of the service. Though... hold that thought." Doing so wasn't hard - indeed, said thoughts were already filling up with improbable ideas about how the limo-ride might go.

While Wolfgang tried to regain his inner equilibrium, Morgane turned to the barkeep - the same beefy monitor-lizard that had delivered him the fateful glass of whiskey earlier, and beckoned him in with a wave. "Hey, Vara! I'm pretty sure I spotted Talia further down the bar... send her a Mouseblood Maraschino on me, will you darling?" The barkeep grinned, nodded, and got straight to work while Wolfgang raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Just what do you have in store for me, miss Morgane?" he mumbled, mostly to himself, but she clearly heard him anyway and delivered a mischievous grin. "I think you can already guess, clever boy that you are... ever had a threesome before?"

An almost painful tremor went through the hard-on that his pants were still trying and failing to conceal. He had, actually, sort of, back in college... but everyone involved had been so drunk that they could remember very little of it the day after, himself included. With a deep breath, he turned to the barkeep - Vara, apparently - who was still mixing up the requested cocktail. "When you're done with that, could ya get me something non-alcoholic? I feel like I need to get hydrated..." The monitor-lizard barked a laugh, and while still stirring something dark-red in a tall glass, he used his tail to open a low fridge, pull out a bottle of store-brand soda, and deposit it in front of Wolfgang. "Smart choice - here, have this on the house. Consider it payment for the show you helped put on earlier."

Wolfgang felt a bit better after downing half the cherry-flavor soda, which was all he had time for before the 'Mouseblood Marachino' was delivered and sparked the expected reaction. From further down the bar emerged a tall, slender viper with the drink in one hand and a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. Her scales were a pale olive, her arms glimmered golden, her eyelids were painted a deep, seductive purple, her chest made it clear that she shared certain interests with Morgane, and the little black dress she was wearing did little to hide her impossibly wasp-waisted physique.

As she seated herself on the other side of Morgane, he did a belated double-take. She was one of the barflys he'd spotted while surveying the scene from the balcony, but now that she was closer, he realized that what he'd taken for a coating of golden body-paint on her arms were actually a pair of robotic prostheses that had been glammed up with a coating of golden chrome. They seemed fairly high-quality, the fingers clicking as she pulled the cigarette from her mouth to deliver a lopsided grin to the salamander beside her, her eyes straying to linger on him at the same time. Ah yes... he'd heard about this. Some snakes still wound up born without arms, legs, or both - or with severely atrophied ones - due to some recessive throwback-gene or whatnot. The legacy of their distant, limbless ancestors haunting them still. He'd once defended a 'philanthropist' whose charity meant to secure prostheses for third-world sufferers of this condition had mostly managed to secure two yachts and a McMansion in California for its manager. The guy had been such a slimy creep, the best he'd been able to do was keep the penalty from getting too out of hand - a fact he suddenly found himself not at all minding.

"My favorite drink, Morgane... that mean you want something from me?" Talia said dryly, allowing Wolfgang to identify her as a Cottonmouth thanks to the flash of white visible between her crimson-painted lips. His salamander companion flashed her a naughty smile. "Mostly, I just wanted your attention - but now that I've got it, you got any plans for tonight?" The viper smiled, flashing her folded-up fangs. "I did, but then you went and poached my prey before I could move in... so now it seems I'm all free." Her eyes were still lingering on Wolfgang - specifically, on his groin. Oh yes... vipers could definitely sense heat, couldn't they? No amount of careful leg-positioning was going to hide his raging stiffie from that.

Morgane laughed in delight. "You mean I beat a viper to the punch? I'll consider that a feather in my cap - but hey, even if you didn't manage to pounce on him yourself, that's no reason to give up, is it? How 'bout going scavenger, just for tonight?" Talia's long, forked tongue danced between her lips at this, whetting them and making her lip-gloss gleam invitingly. "Aww, you'd really share him with me?" It sounded mocking, but there was an undercurrent of hungry eagerness in her voice - one that made Wolfgang shudder in some mixture of fear and arousal. As a male and a wolf, he was quite unaccustomed to being treated as prey, but being the focus of such naked desire wasn't... unpleasant.

"Sure I'll share, dear... I mean, look at him! I daresay there's enough to go around." And that, apparently, settled it. Still, despite the insistent pounding of his pulse, he hadn't really let go of his faculties - he wasn't a half-drunk college-student anymore, after all. And so, he asked the ladies to excuse him for a moment so that he could inform his friend of their impending departure - out of pure thoughtfulness, of course, and not at all because he just really wanted to see Hob's face when he let him know that he was leaving with a sleek, scaly femme on each arm.

He found Hob back at their table on the balcony... as was a certain cobra waitress, now apparently off-duty and 'fur-curious'. "I'd seen some of the guests hook up with furs, you know? And then I saw_you_ on the dance-floor with Morgane and it made me feel all_fluttery_, you know what I mean? So I started feeling a bit curious, and then I met this cute fuzzboy, he's a friend of yours right? So, well, you know..." The scales near her snout darkened in a serpentine blush, a condition that - like her newfound case of motormouth - was no doubt aided by the three empty drink-glasses lining her side of the table, their contents now busy loosening her inhibitions and drowning the butterflies in her belly.

Hob, for his part, seemed quite pleased with the 'catch' despite her washboard-flat chest. "The way things are going, I'll get to be her first furry!" He whispered when Wolfgang leaned down to let him know what was up. "That's basically like popping a cherry, kind of... and if she winds up a convert, well, that'd be one heck of a notch for my bedpost!" Which, at least, meant that the energetic ferret was likely to pull out all the stops in order to make sure the young serpent had a pleasurable night. As for Wolfgang's own night, Hob was already aware of how well it was going, having not only seen his already-legendary dance on the Emerald Isle, but also spied Talia joining him and Morgane (who was apparently a familiar face at the club) at the bar. Hence, he quickly waved off his big friend's attempt at explaining, giggling gleefully. "Told ya this place was something else. You can thank me tomorrow, assuming you haven't died from dehydration by then! Now run along and don't keep those two beauties waiting...

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