Da lights was dim up in tha establishment dat Tulahi'rani served in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was a funky-ass bustlin place dat never seemed ta be on tha down-low n' bidnizz was always booming. People, familiar or stranger, came n' went fo' bidnizz or pleasure; probably tha latter n' shit. Voices was drowned up by bangin noize comin from tha live crew dat was stationed at one end of tha big-ass room, they sound bouncin off tha walls, it seemed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Even if one of mah thugs was able ta hear other peoplez chit-chat, it would be drowned up by tha other multitudinous conversations. Though, dis place wasn't a place fo' talk, dat shiznit was a place dat survived off tha lust of nuff n' tha sufferin of others.
Da main room, called Da Floor - as up in "dizzle floor" - by dem playas whoz ass 'worked' there, had a shitload of, circular up in shape, miniature stages scattered bout up in a random placement. These stages was fo' tha dancers. Their style?
Exotic.
Tulahi'raniz current masta had a affinitizzle fo' Twi'lek females, as they beauty was renowned all up in tha galaxies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Twi'leks was phat fo' bidnizz, it seemed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They moved gracefully, they bodies captivatin tha eyez of nuff wit a single jut of tha hip, n' they flossed what tha fuck playas wanted ta peep yo, but just barely left anythang fo' imagination. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Many of tha Twi'leks received unwanted touchin n' company as they danced, serviced, or entertained. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! There was no strict regulations up in tha establishment save for: no cappin', no jackin, no hustlin.
Had it been any other day, Tulahi'rani would be up on one of dem stages showin her muthafuckin ass off ta tha galaxy as a expert, knowin how tha fuck ta move each inch of her body ta be enticin yet cutesy simultaneously. That was her schtick, tha cute, dirty breakdancer n' shit. Tonight, however, wasn't a night ta be thugged-out or sexy, dat shiznit was a night ta be obedient n' a sight fo' sore eyes. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was ta serve her masta n' one honored hommie of his thugged-out n' was not allowed ta ride dirty at all dat dizzle up in order ta conserve her juice. Everythang had ta be perfect. Tulahi'rani had ta be perfect.
Addin tha final finishin touchez of her usual eye makeup, tha pink Twi'lek leaned back up in her chair ta stare at her reflection. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was no secret dat dat biiiiatch was a sight ta behold. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! A true, unmatchable beauty, as all Twi'lek dem hoes were, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Dat shiznit was what tha fuck gots her tha fuck into dis mess up in tha straight-up original gangsta place. Twi'lek dem hoes was forced tha fuck into slavery cuz of heir beauty, grace, n' natural horny-ass appeal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Dat shiznit was mo' than common n' half a step mo' than expected, dat shiznit was a way of game, it seemed.
"Tula!" A gruff voice hollered, followed by tha sound of a cold-ass lil curtain bein drawn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A pink curtain covered tha entrizzle of her lil' small-ass quarters. Doors was not allowed fo' tha workers. Immediately, tha biatch stood up wit her handz by her side. Da harsh grill of her masta crossed her vision n' a gangbangin' fire deep up in tha pit of her stomach kindled slightly. Oh, how tha fuck she'd trip off makin dat grill any bit uglier n' shit. "Git downstairs. Now! Dey'll be arroivin' any minute an' I don' want you ta ding-a-ling it up!"
"Yes, master." Biatch replied, followin her ordaz n' rushed past his ass without another word. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! As she made her way tha fuck into tha back room of tha establishment, Tula took a minute ta look up at Da Floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Many of her playaz was up they stages, others was on tha lapz of hustlas, n' all dem of dem had trays up in they hands. Was dis truly how tha fuck tha rest of her game was goin ta be, biatch? Feignin pleasure, bein used n' reused everyday?
No. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch refused ta let dat shit.
Now up in tha back room, Tula placed a silver tray on tha separate bar dat was located there, preparin ta serve any drank her masta wanted fo' his wild lil' freakadelic hommie n' his dirty ass. This room was fo' meetings her masta deemed blingin, like fuckin tha one dat was ta take place, n' no one except dem he allowed was permitted here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. In tha time dat freaky freaky biatch had ta her muthafuckin ass, tha Twi'lek let her shouldaz sag. When will her torment end?
Grabbin a smalla glass, Tula fixed her muthafuckin ass a quick drank of whatever brew was closest ta her n' downed it expertly. In her opinion, she needed it yo. Her masta had deemed her one of his wild lil' favorites n' dat biiiiatch was given other special allowances most of tha others was not.
Takin dranks fo' her muthafuckin ass was one dat dunkadelic hoe took advantage of often.
And now, dat biiiiatch waited wit silver tray up in hand, standin up in front of tha bar, fo' her masta n' his honored guest.
