The Lagoon was buzzing with energy, the familiar sound of the crowd’s cheers still ringing in your ears after your set. You made your way backstage, wiping the sweat from your brow, when the manager approached with a small envelope—James.

Your heart raced. James rarely made direct requests, preferring to stay behind the scenes. But tonight, something was different.

You adjusted the black lace top, the fabric barely concealing your skin, and the thong that hid even less. You’d never planned to be here—stripping wasn’t the dream. But you had a nice body, and rent didn’t pay itself. So here you were, making a living the only way you knew how.

The private room was quieter, the bass from the main floor a distant thrum beneath your feet. James was already seated in a plush chair, his sharp eyes locking onto you the second you stepped inside. He didn’t speak. He never did. Just watched, his gaze cutting through the dim light like a blade.

No words. No talking. The unspoken rule clear.

You moved toward him, hips swaying to a slow, sultry rhythm. The lace clung to your curves, the thong a whisper against your skin. James’s dark, unblinking eyes traced every line of you.

You straddled his lap, your knees sinking into the plush cushion on either side of him. He didn’t touch you. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers curled slightly against the armrests, knuckles white. But his gaze was its own kind of touch—hot, heavy, leaving marks you couldn’t see but could feel.

You leaned in, arching your back to the slow pulse of the music. The lace rode up, exposing more skin, but James didn’t flinch. His face was stone, but his eyes told a different story.

The song played on, each beat stretching the tension between you until it felt like something fragile, ready to snap. You could hear your own breathing now, soft and shallow, trying to ignore the way your heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the performance.