1
Wren
“Show us what you got, Lola!”
The DJ’s voice booms over the pulsing music. “Let’s give a warm welcome to the sultry vixen of the night!”
I strut onto the stage, flicking a nasty wink at the regular sleazebag who’s shouting my stage name like it’s a prayer.
The bright light shines down on me, exposing my bare skin. Sweat drips down my arms and back, making my sequined bikini cling to every curve, leaving little to the imagination.
It’s Thursday night at The Gentleman’s Club, but the crowd is wild, a sea of hungry eyes and grasping hands. The place is a fucking den of iniquity, a neon-lit palace of sin.
It’s a step up from the seedy joints I used to work at, but the men here are just as sleazy, only with fatter wallets.
The main stage is a glittering altar where girls like me dance for the almighty dollar. It’s surrounded by plush velvet seatswhere the high rollers sit, sipping on overpriced liquor and leering at the merchandise.
Off to the sides are the private rooms, where the real money is made. That’s where the big spenders go to get their rocks off, paying premium prices for a little one-on-one time with their favorite girls.
The walls are supposed to be soundproof, but who are they kidding? You can still hear the moans and grunts filtering through, a whole fucking orchestra of sleaze. It’s like a peep show back there, but instead of porn stars, it’s just us desperate hustlers shaking our asses for a few bucks from these losers who think they’re king shit because they’ve got a little cash to throw around.
But you know what? I’ll take their money and their filthy fantasies as long as it means I can keep Em and Lenny fed and off the streets. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it, and I’m not about to let my family down like dear old Dad does every damn day.
Speaking of disappointing men, here comes one now. A burly dude in a cheap suit, waving a stack of bills like it’s a golden ticket to my panties. I plaster on my best fake smile and saunter over, putting a little extra swing in my hips.
“Hey there, handsome,” I purr, even though he looks like he crawled out of a dumpster behind a strip mall. “Looking for a little company tonight?”
He leers at me, his eyes practically glued to my tits. “You know it, baby. How about a private dance?”
I lean in close, letting my breath tickle his ear. “Sorry, sugar, but I don’t do private dances. I’m strictly a look-but-don’t-touch kind of girl.”
He grumbles something under his breath, but he still shoves a few bills into my G-string. I give him a wink and blow a kiss before sashaying away, my ass shaking like a damn metronome.
“Hey, baby, come closer,” slurs a voice from the shadows below.
A sweaty, bloated asshole, one hand jerking his dick, is trying to catch my eye from the side of the stage. “Get your fine ass over here. I’ve got a special treat for you.”
Still no cash in sight, so I stick to the pole, wrapping my body around it like a snake, a tease of what he can’t have. As I move, his hungry eyes follow me until he finally gets the hint and flashes his dough.
With a slick twirl, I unhook my lace top, letting it sink to the stage like a discarded skin, revealing my perky tits under the spotlight. The beat pounds harder, and I embrace the pole with my entire being, drawing cheers and groans from the crowd.
“Fuck, yeah! Take it off, baby!” a group of college boys chants, their eyes glued to my every move.
Some dickhead once told me my body was a fucking playground for pleasure.
He was dead wrong.
The thought of good sex being a release for pent-up anger only fueled my rage toward the men who had let me down time and time again. Every cock, every man who had touched me, had ultimately revealed their true colors, and they’ll eventually leave.
Fuck’em all!
At my work, I do not sell my body. Not for sex. Because sex is only for pleasure—no money can buy that.
Work is work. I just need to suck it up for a few more months to save enough for Em’s college and Lenny’s tuition fees.
“Enough teasing. Come get your fix,” the bloated asshole hollers, throwing some cash my way and stroking his pathetic excuse for a dick. “I’ve got what you need, and I’m willing to pay top dollar for it.” He leers at me, licking his lips like he’s about to devour me.
“You like what you see?” I sneer, grinding against the pole like it’s my last hope of salvation. His beady eyes follow every move, lapping it up like a thirsty dog.
