Page 2 of Owning Nicci

“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 hisother 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. Mark pulls out a ten-dollar bill, slipping 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’tlearned 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 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. 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 are 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. I hit the button that turns on the soft pink lighting—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 theten-dollar bill he threw down as he stumbled out of the room when 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 leaving 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 who 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—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.

It’s not that I recognize him. But if I’d ever seen him before, I’d never be able to forget that I had.

He’d stand out anywhere in the world, but here, in this dingy, sticky place, he looks so out of place that for a moment, I wonder if he’s real. Tall and lean and with the bearing of a man who has both money and power and wields them effortlessly, he stands just in front of the door, looking at me with an appraising eye. His hair is dark, nearly black, cut expensively, and styled back away from his face with just enough product to keep it in place, but not so much that I can’t still see how silky his natural hair texture is. His eyes are a bright, startling green, and for a moment, I can’t look away, not even long enough to take in the rest of him.

Everything about him is expensive. He’s like a ghost from my old life, wrapped in Armani and smelling like cedar and oranges, a devilish smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, as if there’s something amusing about what he’s looking at. There’s a gleam in those green eyes, too, something as predatory as any other man here, but it’s different.

Those men out there are snakes. Crawling on their bellies to poison their prey, unable to do anything but wallow in the muck that they’ll never rise out of. This man is a wolf, hungry and powerful, an alpha in every sense of the word, and something about the way he looks at me sends a shiver of fear down my spine.

Resentment quickly follows it. I don’t know why a man like this is here, slumming it in the pits of despair, when he could undoubtedly afford a black card to any of the exclusive sexclubs in the city. But he is, and whatever money he spends here tonight, I won’t see a dime of it.

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