Page 72 of Fatal Bonds

The man closest to me leers the moment I’m within view, his gaze drifting over me with a sickening slowness. I can see him taking in every inch of my body—the sheer black long-sleeved shirt that I’m wearing over a black satin pushup bra, the impossibly short skirt with nothing but a thong under it, the sky-high stripper heels. “Onyx,” he calls out, and I look at him, answering to that name as if it’s my own. It’s the only concession I’ve been given, this fake name that gives me some separation between who I used to be, who Iam, and this hell that I’ve been shoved into.

I force a smile onto my face, swaying closer. He grabs my hip, pulling me in close, and I smell the sour scent of alcohol clinging to him.

“It’s my buddy Mark’s birthday,” he says, fingers digging into my ass through the thin fabric of my skirt as his friend leers at me. “Show him a real good time, will ya, honey? Here’s a tip for your trouble.”

He pulls out a crumpled five dollar bill from his pocket, and slides his hand under my skirt, up my thigh to where the string of my thong is stretched tautly across my hip. I try not to wince as I feel his fingers play along the skin there, touching me more intimately than I would ever let any man like him touch me of my own free will.

But that’s not something I really have any longer. Free will went out the window months ago for me, and now what’s left is this— standing next to a group of men I never would have given the time of day to before while they eye-fuck me, one slides what used to be pocket change to me into my thong with meaty fingers.

“Go sit on Mark’s lap, honey,” he tells me, grinning lasciviously as he slaps me on the ass hard enough to push me in the direction of his friend. I almost stumble in my heels—the platforms I’m required to wear here are far more precarious than the highest of Louboutin stilettos—and Mark uses it as an excuse to throw an arm around my waist, pulling me down into his lap.

His hand splays over the thin chiffon of my shirt, over my stomach, fingers toying with the waistband of my skirt as his other hand grips my hip, grinding my ass down onto the bulge that I can feel growing in his jeans. I can feel how hot his breath is on my ear, and I wince, feeling my stomach flip with nausea. He smells even more strongly of cigarettes than the others, and I blink back the heat of tears that burn at the back of my eyes.

At some point, I’m sure, I’ll get used to this degradation. The humiliation will become normal. I’ll forget who I used to be, and I’ll slip fully into being Onyx, this woman who grinds on the laps of filthy men for five dollars and doesn’t bite back when they abuse her. But I haven’t quite gotten there yet. Not here, anyway.

Outside of the club, I’ve long since gotten used to it. But some men are too dangerous to bite when they hurt you.

The music changes, something faster that signals the change between sets on the stage, and Mark pulls out a ten-dollar bill, slip- ping it into my thong next to the one that his friend tucked there. His fingers worm further beneath my panties, sliding over the smooth waxed skin of my folds, and a look of disappointment crosses his face when he finds that I’m entirely dry. I press my lips together, fighting back a bark of laughter. I can’t imagine how delusional these men must be, to think that he’d find me dripping wet forhim.

Actually, I can’t recall the last time any man got me wet. I don’t remember what it feels like to want someone. To feel actual, unmanufactured desire.

Mariah handed me a bottle of lube on my first day here, and suggested I use it as part of my routine as I got ready. “Get yourself wet so they’re fooled, and they’ll pay more,” she told me. But I haven’t been able to bring myself to actually use it. I hate the idea that any of these men would believe that they’re turning me on.

I already know what’s expected of me. I try to lose myself in the music, to detach from what’s happening as I turn on Mark’s lap and start to gyrate over him, but it’s difficult. I haven’t learned the trick yet of letting myself dissociate from how awful this feels—how shameful and degrading it is.

The rules of better strip clubs don’t apply here, and they definitely don’t apply to me. Some of the other girls manage to dodge the groping, but if I’m caught not allowing the men to do whatever they want, it will be worse for me later.

“Oh fuck yeah,” Mark breathes into my ear as I grind down into his lap. One of his hands is still working between my legs, and he seems to have forgotten to care that I’m still dry as a desert. His other hand fumbles out another crumpled bill, shoving it into my panties as the music thumps around us and he groans.

A heavy weight settles over me, because I know what I’m supposed to say next. These men can touch me however they want, but when I’ve gotten them this worked up, I’m supposed to tease them into the back room, where they have to actually pay the doorman a fee before they’re let in—a fee that I’ll see very little of. If Mark comes in his pants before I get him back there and anyone finds out about it—especially the boss, my father—then I’ll be in for a world of trouble later.

“I can make this a lot better for you if you come to the back with me, baby,” I purr into his ear, swallowing back bile. “You’ll feel so good by the time we’re finished. I’ll make it extra special for your birthday, how about that?”

Mark’s friends, already drunk and eager to spend money, egg him on. They thrust enough twenties at him to cover the door fee—not handing me anything else, naturally—and I climb as gracefully as I can off of his lap, extending a hand as he gets out of his seat and follows me drunkenly back towards the curtained-off rooms. Behind me, I can hear the strains of Mariah’s signature stage song starting, an old Britney Spears tune that she won’t let go of.

The stage is where the best money is made—which isn’t saying much for this place—but I don’t get to go up there. My father wants to make sure that I never occupy center stage of anything, ever again. Not even my own life.

Mark sways as we approach the doorman, a tattooed guy in his thirties who is lazily leaning against the wall and sucking on a vape, chains draped over his chest and visible in the open space of his too- big button-down shirt. He takes the handful of twenties, counts them out and pockets them, and then tugs the curtain aside for me to take Mark back—but not before letting his eyes drag lasciviously, pointedly, over my body from tits to toes and back up again.

“See you later tonight, Onyx.” His voice is thick with anticipation, and my stomach twists again. The doorman—Bryce—can’t outright say he’s going to get to fuck me later in front of a customer, but the look and that offhand comment is all I need to know that that’s what he’s going to expect when I finish my shift. And I’ll have to allow it. Whatever he wants.

I swallow hard, nodding, and lead Mark back into the room. It’s small and dim, and I hit the button that turns on the soft pink light- ing, just enough to let him see everything he’s paying for as I switch on the music while he settles back onto the black leather couch in the center of the room.

It’s a blessing and a curse that he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t have much patience. I’m less than five minutes into my dance before he has his dick out, and he grabs my hand, yanking me forward hard enough that I topple onto his lap as he shoves my palm down onto his sweaty, stubby cock.

“Fuck yeah,” he groans as I wrap my hand around it. “Oh god, use your mouth, Onyx. I want it?—”

I have no choice but to comply. It’s another small blessing that he comes before he can demand any other part of me, but it’s short- lived. I’ve barely wiped my mouth and collected the ten-dollar bill he threw down as he stumbled out of the room before the door opens again, and one of Mark’s other friends—the one who called me over in the first place—comes in.

He’s not so drunk that he doesn’t insist on fucking me. And the other two guys at the table follow him in shortly after, using me together, before they leave me in the back room, sore and fighting back tears.

I have to go back out onto the floor after that. Twice more, I end up in the back room, Bryce’s shit-eating grin getting bigger and bigger with every handful of twenties he collects as I go back and forth. He’ll get a cut of it—and me—when the night is over, and despite the fact that I leave this place every night with almost none of the money I make, I make plenty of it for the club. Men love a woman that they can degrade without repercussion, and I’m the punching bag for the worst of the worst here. Security here will stop anyone who tries to go too far with the other girls, but with me, there are no lines. Anyone who wants me can have me, for a price, and they can do what they please.

By the time I’m done in the back for a third time—this time with a group of five men who wanted to play all at once—I stay on the floor where they left me, pressing my forehead against the now-warm faux leather of the couch. I swallow hard, fighting back tears. My shift is almost over, and I don’t want to have to go back and fix my makeup. I’m exhausted and in pain, my entire body sore, and all I want is a hot shower, even if it won’t really make me feel clean.

The door clicks open again, and I have to fight with everything in me to stop a sob from spilling out at the thought of entertaining someone else. And I haven’t even dealt with Bryce yet tonight, who is dead sober and will want a lot more than what the drunk guys filtering in and out of this room wanted tonight.

Footsteps click across the wooden floor as the door shuts behind whoever just walked in.Even, steadyfootsteps, not wavering or stumbling. Curiosity gives me the push to raise my forehead from the couch, looking up to see who’s in the room with me—and my heart briefly stops in my chest.

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