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Scarlett

It’s been one whole fucking since my conversation with Marina, and that bitch still hasn’t gotten back to me. How difficult is it to get a fucking old man who is interested in a young girl?

My desperation has me calling Marina, but she is not reachable. Who would have thought a day would come when I'd be begging to sell my soul to the devil?

I'll think of consequences later when my mother is out of the hospital and recovering.

Pushing through the velvet curtain, I enter the club’s dimly lit changing room. The air is heavy with perfume and hairspray, but I hardly notice it anymore. My fingers tremble slightly as they work the buttons of my faded jeans, the fabric slipping away to reveal skin about to be put on display.

"Focus," I mutter to myself, shedding my cotton top like an old identity. In its place, I hook the clasps of the black leather bra and thong, its daring cut both a costume and armor. The cool touch of the fabric sends a shiver up my spine, a reminder of why I'm here.

I catch my reflection in the smudged mirror, strands of sun-bleached blonde hair framing my face like a halo in the murky glow of backstage bulbs. Time for the transformation. With practiced ease, I pick up the eyeliner and begin to trace the contours of my eyes. The smoky pigment deepens the steel grey of my eyes until they are almost blue.

"You've got this," I say, my voice steady even as my heart races against my ribcage. My hands are steady now, confident as they wield the makeup brush like a wand, casting an illusion of sultry confidence. I can't afford to be Scarlett with the trembling hands and the worried frown. Not tonight. Not any night I find myself here. In the dim interiors of DanceCheck, I am Electra, the seductress.

The reflection staring back at me is one of calculated allure, a mask that hides the weight of the world resting on my shoulders. There's a power in this facade, in the knowledge that I control the narrative under this spotlight.

The air in the changing room is thick with perfume and anticipation. My hands dive into the depths of my dance bag, fingers dancing over the various props I've accumulated over the months. Like businessmen lug their briefcases to work, this bag must accompany me to work. In here are assortments of handcuffs, dust feathers, foldable whips, and other items to heighten my performance. Each one has its own story, a memory of nights past and the secrets they hold. But tonight, I need something that whispers danger and authority.

I find it—my special whip. I grasp the handle; the leather is cool and empowering against my skin. It feels cool and familiar in my palm; it's power and control. With this in hand, I'm fierce on the stage, capable of commanding attention and demanding respect with just one crack.

"Showtime," I breathe out, rising from the chair with newfound poise. "Time to bare my ass and shake my tits."

As usual, my heart races, but my steps are sure as I leave the dressing room, the whip dragging behind me. Symbolizing the sacrifices I’m making and the ones still to come. Tonight, like every night, I dance for a cause greater than myself. I’m ready to jiggle my boobies if that’s what it takes to keep the cash flowing in.

The club's dim lights cast shadows that flicker like ghosts over the walls. It's another world, a nocturnal kingdom where fantasies reign supreme and reality skulks in the corners, unwelcome. Here, men with more money than they need to indulge in their every whim, and I’m here to lure some out of their pockets.

The pulsating bass of the music is a heartbeat under my feet, and I let it draw me in. Synchronize my steps to its rhythm. I sashay towards the podium, the nerves and determination from the changing room now a cocktail of adrenaline in my bloodstream. My every sense is heightened—the heavy scent of musk, cigar, and liquor, the low hum of conversations, the display of dimmed lights playing over skin and fabric.

A magnetic pull draws my eyes to an unusually darkened corner, and my gaze snags and entangles with the stare of an unfamiliar man. A man with tattoos peeking out his collar and wrists watches me with an intensity that feels like a physical touch.

His powerful gaze sends thrills through my body and my fingers itch to trail his tattoos. In this place of shadows and sin, he's an enigma wrapped in tailored elegance, his presence commanding the space around him.

Time seems to hold its breath. The music in the club fades into a distant throb. The chattering voices blur into insignificance, and there's no one but this smoking-hot stranger who is causing some other parts of me to pulsate with longing. My steps falter, my practiced poise momentarily forgotten.

In that stretched heartbeat of connection, I understand—he sees me. Not the glittering facade or the sultry smiles of Electra. But me. The girl behind the smoky, sultry makeup.

It's terrifying and exhilarating, this thread of electric current flicking through the charged air between us.

But the moment breaks as I reach the podium, and I'm suddenly back in the charisma of my role, my feet moving of their own accord. The encounter lingers, though, a whispered promise on my skin, and it fuels me as I step into the light, ready to become someone else for a while.

My hand grips the pole, cool metal against my palm, but in my mind, it's not the pole—it's him. The fantasy takes hold, my dance a seduction meant for one. I twirl, my hair a fiery cascade around me, imagining his fingers slipping through the strands. Every arch and bend of my body screams for his touch, though we've never met, never spoken.

I'm lost in the fantasy, each movement a wordless dialogue between us. There's power here, in the way I command the space, drawing eyes in a captivating and controlling manner. The crowd is a distant murmur, their cheers, and whistles mere background noise to the roaring in my ears, the sound of my heartbeat keeping time with the lustful gaze locked onto mine.

“See what you do to me?” I mouth along with the music.

I want to scream it, but it's written in the grace of my limbs, the tilt of my chin, the fierce pride in knowing I hold him captive as surely as he's ensnared me. I spin, the silver stilettos glinting like stars against the dark backdrop of the club.

The music peaks, and so do I.

I crack my whip through the air, and just as the lyrics “I need you in between my legs” boom through the speaker, I slide my whip in between my thighs back and forth, and a collective sigh of longing leaves my audience.

There is no doubt that a lot of them wish to replace the whip sliding back and forth between my legs with a rod of their own. With a final, elegant twirl, I bring the performance to its climax, and I'm met with applause that rushes over me like a wave. They're spellbound, these faceless patrons of the night, lost in the fantasy I weave around them.

But even as I bask in the adulation, part of me wonders—where did he go? The stranger had stood up abruptly and walked away. Why didn't he stay?

"Doesn't matter," I tell myself, stepping down from the podium with my head held high. His absence can't distract me. Not when every bill tucked into the band of my thong means another day my mother can keep fighting.

I take a breath, letting the persona of Electra, the dancer, fade away, replaced again by Scarlett, the daughter, the protector. This duality defines me—sweet but feisty, vulnerable yet unbreakably strong. And tonight, like every other night, I've conquered the stage for her.

I glide off the podium, my skin still humming with the rush of adrenaline. The heat from the stage lights fades as I weave through the crowds of onlookers, their applause lingering in my ears like the afterglow of a storm. I push open the door to the changing room, the sanctuary away from prying eyes and leering faces.

Inside, it's quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos beyond these walls. I let out a long breath, one I didn't even realize I was holding. The cool air kisses the cheeks of my naked bum; for a moment, it's just me and my racing heart. But there's no time to dwell; the hustle doesn't stop, not when every dollar brings me a step closer to easing Mom's burden.

I slip into a fresh costume, another layer of armor against the world outside. My hands are steady, but my mind is anything but. It races back to him — the man with the striking blue eyes. Why does he stick out among the faceless crowd?

He was different. His gaze wasn't like the others, not hungry or lecherous, but intense ... searching as if he saw right through the facade to the desperation woven into every move I made.

But why then did he vanish like a ghost?

Shaking my head, I force his face out of my mind. Focus, Scarlett. This is no place for daydreams. I have a job to do, a purpose that outweighs the luxury of curiosity. With each step I take towards the next performance, the weight of my reality grounds me once again.

"Keep it together," I mutter under my breath. "You need to keep going."

Heels clicking against the floor, I walk away from the sanctuary of the changing room.

I allow my mother's face to swim before me, her sweet, gentle smile marred by the dire reality of hospital bills and whispered diagnoses. I can't let her down. Not now, not ever. Love, pure and unyielding, fuels every step I take towards a different podium in the club.

We, strippers, rotate among the dance stages until you have covered all the dancing platforms in the club. That way, the guests are entertained by different strippers, giving them value for their money.

I fucking feel like a cheap commodity.

The music envelops me once again, its beats pulsating through my veins. My body responds naturally, a marionette to the rhythm, but my mind is miles away—in a quiet hospital room where beeps and soft murmurs paint a picture far removed from the vibrant chaos of the club.

As I twirl and sway, each movement a silent prayer, a vow stamped into the space between heartbeats. ‘I will save you, Mom.' And somehow, I know she hears me, her strength woven into the very core of my being.

A collective gasp rises as I arch my back, offering a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability wrapped in the guise of seduction. I release an inner sigh as I spot wades of notes waving in the dim light. It's working—they're enchanted, trapped by the narrative I spin with my almost naked body.

Turning on the charm comes as easy as breathing. A second nature born from nights spent mastering the art of the tease. Around the dance pole, I move with calculated grace, every inch the temptress they crave. A strategic bend, a slow pivot, and I gift them a view of my perfectly round bottom—a promise of what could be, but never will.

In this fractured moment, I am both the architect of fantasies and a warrior in a battle all too real. Every dollar that falls at my feet is a step closer to buying my mother’s health back.

Keep going.

I urge myself silently, the mantra a steady pulse amidst the chaos. For her, for me, I will dance until dawn breaks, until hope is no longer just a distant dream.

And then it happens. Like leaves in an autumn storm, the bills flutter around me, green promises of hope. I exhale silently, grateful for the club's strict rules that keep hungry hands at bay. The distance between us is sacrosanct — they can look, they can want, but they cannot touch. This barrier allows me to dance with abandon, to lose myself in the music and the movement.

With one final move, I run my tongue across my lips while cupping a lace-clad breast in one hand. I strike a pose that says sorry, you can’t touch, but I can. My audience erupts in appreciation. For a moment, I bask in the adulation, the mistress of illusion who has left them spellbound.

Once again, my fingers fumble with the lock, and I push into the changing room again to switch my outfit for a bunny costume. Keeping my clients satisfied and giving them different versions of me keeps the bucks rolling in.

How I hate feeling like a dangling piece of meat that must somehow make itself remain fresh and alluring.

"Scarlett," I whisper to my reflection, "Concentrate."

My hands are steady as I pull on the outfit. It's a second skin now; black and white lace mixed with satin hugs my curves, whispering promises I won't keep. The heels come next. Pure silver glinting under harsh lights.

I hurriedly redo my makeup. My face stares back at me, all smoky eyes and steel gray that seem to hold secrets.

"Electra, you're up in five," calls the manager from outside.

"Got it," I call back, but really, I'm talking to myself.

"Got it," I say again, quieter this time, a self-reminder that I’ve got this.

My hand closes around the duster handle I chose with this outfit. It's solid and real. Unlike the phantom pull towards a man who should be nothing more than a paycheck.

"Did he even feel the pull between us?" The question slips out, a whisper meant for no one, not even me.

I shake my head and laugh at my silliness. This isn't a fairytale; no hunky knight in a tailored suit is coming to my rescue. There's just me with a mother to save and no time for distractions.

"Go get them girl," I encourage my reflection, but it's a battle cry disguised as encouragement.

The door swings open, and I step out, back into the fray. Back to the dance and the dollars that'll keep Mom's heart beating. But as I walk, I can't help but search the crowd, looking for those come fuck me eyes I know aren't there.

"Survive," I whisper. And with that, I let the music carry me away. Swaying my hips and bare bum as I imagine certain hard eyes in the crowd.