She was going to kill Eames.
All right, if she had to be perfectly honest, Ariadne knew this wasn't Eames' fault. He was elsewhere, currently forging the subject's ex-partner, breezing into the building with the passwords and account numbers that he had been looking for. The subject was an ass, apparently cheap with his business partners and lovers, but overly generous with strippers and lap dancers. Arthur was diverting the subconscious security, and Eames had begged Ariadne to keep the subject busy while he worked his magic forgery.
And the subject was headed into a strip club.
Ariadne wasn't one of those moralizing women that thought stripping was the last resort of the ethically destitute, drug addicted or desperately poor. She just hated the thought of strangers looking at her body, ogling and fantasizing about her. That was for Arthur to do, not some skeevy skinflint bastard they were trying to steal from. At least this was a dream, and it wouldn't actually be real, but it was still uncomfortable, and she was going to make sure that Eames knew that he owed her big time for this.
She could shift her clothing in a dream without having to change, a trick she had learned from Eames. Now she wore a glittery, sequined bra and panty set, with garters holding up sheer white stockings, three inch heels on her feet. Tottering on them gave her an exaggerated sway to her hips, and her hair was now done in fancy ringlets and jeweled pins, a style she could never quite get right in the real world, even with an hour and a mirror to try to work at the back of her head with the curling iron. She looked damn good, better than this asshole deserved, and she pasted a smile on her face as she approached him. "Lonely, honey?" she asked.
Of course he fell for it, sure he was every girl's desire. Ick. Gag her.
She led him into the back of the club, winding her way to a private room, and waited patiently until he had settled himself on the plush velvet couch before she closed the door, just in case she needed to make a quick exit. Fortunately (or maybe not, she thought with a small, private grimace) he simply was waiting with an expectant grin on his face. Ariadne pasted on a bright, false smile and started danced along to the sultry beat of the music piped in from the club. The subject did nothing more than look for a few minutes, his eyes greedily devouring her until she tried a move that arched her back, exaggerating the curve of her ass. His hands shot out as she turned away from him, grabbing at her, touching her thighs and trying to pull on the sequined panties.
"I need a better look at that sweet little peach of yours, baby girl," he moaned as she jerked away, trying to keep the smile on her face as revulsion curdled her stomach.
"No touching," she wagged her finger, batting her lashes and trying to sound sweet.
"You’re making it hard," he replied, his meaning all too clear.
She decided ignoring such a clumsy double entendre was better than rising to it and adding fuel to the fire that this guy obviously wanted her to stoke. So she smiled instead, picking up where she’d left off, except this time at a slightly safer distance.
He behaved himself for a little longer this time, and perhaps she shouldn't have let her guard down, getting a little closer and she lifting her leg high in a gymnastic move that usually got Arthur drooling at the thought of her doing it during sex. She must have distracted herself with the thought of Arthur, because she didn’t notice that as soon as her foot was close enough the subject began sliding his hand around her ankle, fondling her calf and making to bring her foot down towards his crotch.
"No!" Ariadne snapped her leg back towards herself, perhaps a little harder than she intended. "No touching," she amended firmly. It made her feel sick inside that she was dancing this way for this lowlife, and the feel of his hand on her made her want to throw up. How she kept that from bleeding into her voice she never knew, but it must have worked.
The subject backed up, hands up in the air and a slick smile on his face. "Sorry, sweetheart, you just look good enough to eat."
"Use your eyes," Ariadne reminded him.
She started moving again, slow and sinuous. Moving in time to the beat, she danced around his chair, shaking either her breasts or her ass. He licked his lips, one hand over his crotch, and Ariadne quickly looked away so he wouldn't see her disgusted expression. That was probably why she didn't notice him reaching out to touch her arm until he grabbed her and pulled her closer, practically on top of his lap.
Wrenching herself away from him, Ariadne barely managed to keep herself from smacking him right across his smug little face. "This is a private dance, not a lap dance. No touching."
That ass just held up his hands again, a playfully innocent expression on his face. When she glared at him, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet, slapping it down onto a small table made to hold drinks. "I'm good for it," he said smoothly.
"This is not a lap dance," she reiterated, voice stern. Now she was through pretending to have any kind of interest in him. "There is no touching."
"Sure," he drawled, but he folded his hands meekly in his lap all the same.
You're fine, she told herself. Just get through the next few minutes, and then you can get out of here. Keep him amused, get the job done and then make Eames pay with interest. She took a deep breath, steeled herself and picked up the beat again, rolling her hips back and forth as she swayed around him.
But the subject apparently had decided long ago that no, however firmly delivered, meant I want you. She was in the middle of a slithery move in front of him when his right hand shot out, grabbed her breast and squeezed.
"No!" Ariadne yelped.
"What a perfect mouthful these are," he grinned, completely ignoring her. "I want a taste, baby."
Oh, hell no. She was not putting up with this crap.
A pipe the length of her forearm dropped down into the palm of her hand and she took a vicious swing with it. The pipe connected with his temple, and it knocked him sideways and out of the chair. For an impossible moment, she feared that she killed him, he was lying there on the floor so still. But no projections were beating down the door to get to him, so he had to be only unconscious from the blow. Lightweight, she thought in disgust.
Dreaming up a cell phone, she called Arthur and then Eames in a three way phone call to inform them of the development; Arthur was none too pleased at Eames because of this. "I say we drop him further in," Ariadne suggested, looking at the subject lying on the floor. "Think we can mess with his head and tell him to treat women better?"
Arthur laughed. "That would be doing the world a service."
"For free," Eames reminded them.
"Subconscious security is gone," Arthur remarked idly.
Eames sighed. "I suppose I do owe you a bit for this, Ariadne. Fine, fine, we're in."
Ariadne gave the subject a kick in the groin and started to get ready.
Once the job was over, she was going to see about doing a similar dance for Arthur. In that particular situation, she would be very happy with Arthur slipping off the panties and fondling her breasts. She could then take it a step further and get his clothes off of him. That would be a perfect ending for a job like this, wiping the memory of this creep's touch from her mind.
The rest of the job proceeded smoothly and Eames dealt with the subject once they got back to the first level of the dream, just to be fair.