Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 1: The Spider Web

WARNING: This story contains mature content including strong language and depictions of violence that may not be suitable for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

EMERY

That Night

Look at them all. Drooling. Gawking. Wishing they could touch me. I've had lights in my face my whole life, but not like this. These people aren't trying to find out what's wrong with me. They're not searching for explanations or methods of treatment. No. They're looking at me because I drive them crazy.

Because I'm a fantasy.

A dirty little desire that pricks at the most deranged and degenerate parts of their psyche. They're staring at me because I'm an amalgamation of everything they've ever wished to touch, to hold, to fuck.

And I love it. The attention. I sweep my gaze across the room, acknowledging my regular tippers so they can toss their entire life savings on this stage, so they can tuck their kids' college fund into my lacey black panties so that when they leave, they think they've taken a part of me home with them. To their beds. To their wives. To their miserable lives. Hey, I don't judge. I get it. I get it all too well.

Once I pay a visual visit to all my generous fans, I look out into the audience, to the center alcoves. Those seats are reserved for VIPs. They're not as generous. Not as loyal. They're what the girls and I call takers. We don't fuck with takers at Lux. It's a little funny to think about. The more money they have, the less they're willing to part with it. This isn't the 1% I'm talking about. It's the .001%. The rarest of the rare. Like a cancer. Like a malignant tumor that only a handful of people in the world are unfortunate enough to grow. I give them all a glance, nonetheless. It's important to be polite.

When my rehearsed gaze floats across the alcoves, I catch a set of obsidian black eyes glaring at me, and I freeze. My chest expands as I inhale a sharp breath of air. I know those eyes. I've seen them somewhere. Somewhere dark and deep; a place I seldom let myself visit.

I discreetly scan the man's other memorable features: sharp jaw speckled with stubble, strong nose, big, juicy lips, and his hands. Clasped. Strong and commanding. The rings on his fingers interlocked like a complex puzzle. Inwardly chuckling at his simping demeanor, I sink my teeth into my bottom lip as he refuses to pull his icy gaze from mine.

Someone call TMZ. He's baaack.

Continuing my routine, I make sure to check in on the missing billionaire every so often. Make sure he's still looking. And he is. Always. Even when I'm grinding my pussy on a football player's arm, I feel him looking. His stare stabs me in the back, the blade first hot then cold, then scolding then frigid. I like it, the unknown. It's cute when they get jealous. He doesn't even know me and yet, here we are, already having our first argument.

When my song is near its end, I position myself center stage, thighs spread apart for one last view. They pack dozens of bills into my panties as I lick my lips, open my mouth, and suck on my index finger; every man in this joint, visualizing it as their tiny little cock. His jaw visibly tenses as I snap my eyes upward and slowly drag my finger out of my mouth, a string of saliva glistening under the light like a spider web. And he's the poor little fly trapped inside.

He doesn't like that. Not one bit.

"Give it up for Luna Lush," TJ announces as my set comes to an end.

God, that was fucking fun. I'm exhausted. Leaving the tip collection to the back staff, I get off the stage and rush to the dressing room for a sip of water. It's so draining being me.