baby

Tommy

It’s Thursday and you would be lying if you said your eyes weren’t flicking around the club at a rapid pace, trying and not trying all at the same time to see if Steve has come in.

“Why so antsy?” Lucy asks you, spinning the small black straw around her drink as you two lean against the counter of the bar.

Your foot can’t stop tapping. “I was sort of expecting someone tonight, but shift is already half over and it’s looking like he might not show,” You say. You try to let your shoulders fall, try to release some of the stress you’re holding in your body.

When you finally got home the other night and counted your money, your mouth had fallen open. Over $5k laid out on your bed, from just one night. And you knew that more than half of that was from just one man. “Holy fuck,” you mutter to yourself.

Your cat Lolita jumped on your bed, her small white and black paws messing up your piles of money as she meowed at you. “I know Lo,” you chuckle, petting her soft head. “Mama might have just made a very nice new friend.”

But he hasn’t shown up yet. And you’re starting to feel a little stupid at the fact that you had overthought how perfect your eyeliner should be, even pulled out your fancy baby blue and white lace outfit to hopefully impress him. You needed to make a lasting impression on him, make him want to keep coming back for more consistently. If you could pull in racks like that every week? Multiple times a week even?

You might be able to leave dancing a lot earlier than you thought you would be able to, pay off your debt, and move on.

Lucy bumps her thick hip into yours, nearly making you fall over as she catches you off balance. “So the rumors about Steve Harrington are true? He pays well?” Lucy asks, a devilish grin adorning her perfectly made up face. You nod slowly, not wanting to give too much information away. You trust her, you really do, but if someone told you that a man was coming in here and giving away thousands of dollars without even buying a dance? You would try and steal him too. It’s just business.

Your eyes stay transfixed on the entrance of the club, as if you could summon him here yourself the longer you stared.

A man walking up to the bar makes your eyes rip away from the door. “Hi Miss Lucyfer” the man says, walking up next to Lucy. He was nearly a foot shorter than her with her heels, and looked at her as if she put the fucking stars in the sky. You tried not to laugh as Lucy looked down at her victim.

“Michael, baby,” she says, turning on her evil dominatrix voice. Her long purple and black nails come to trace his jawline. “Haven’t seen you in here in a while.

He noticeably gulps at her touch. “I-I’m sorry Miss, I had some things going on but, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Lucy chuckles, turning her body and pushing out her hip so she’s facing him front on. “Oh really? Is that why you’re crawling back to me now?”

He nods quickly. “Can I please buy a dance - if if you’re not busy,” he adds, looking between you and Lucy. You smile at him and lift your hand. “She’s all yours big guy,” you say, trying not to make fun of him too hard (though he’d probably get off on it).

Lucy gives you a small wink before she saunters off to the private dance area of the club, Michael following her like a little puppy.

You chuckle to yourself. Sometimes this job almost feels too easy. There’s a man out there for any type of girl, everyone has their preferences, and if you can own your sexuality enough and appeal to what they like, you can make some really good fucking money.

Sure, you wish you had a regular sleeping schedule, and definitely hate when someone touches you unwarranted, and it’s definitely been hard to lie and keep your job a secret from 99% of people in your life, but at this point, the benefits outweigh the costs.

Your eyes scan the floor again, looking to see if anyone else has made their way into the club, or if anyone looks lonely and might want to buy another dance. And of course, your eyes snap toward the door again.

This time, someone does walk in. He may not be who you were hoping, but he’s a close second. One of your regulars - James. He’s a little older, average height, average build with blonde hair and blue eyes. He’s not necessarily your type, but he’s definitely your type when it comes to customers

He’s always charming, never asks you too many questions, generally just vents about work or his (soon to be) ex-wife. And you lend him a pretty listening ear, let him feel your hips when you grind on him, and he tips very, very well. He comes in either once a week or once every two weeks, and ever since you gave him that first dance and offered advice on how to deal with a wife who literally hasn’t given him a blowjob in 5 years…you easily became his favorite.

At this point in your stripping career, you consider yourself a therapist to most of these men that come in to talk to you regularly. The only difference is that you don’t have the title of Doctor and you aren’t wearing a whole lot of clothes.

You eye James from across the way as he slowly makes his way in, heading to the ATM immediately and withdrawing cash, which makes your face light up. His eyes scan the club as well, and immediately brighten when they find you standing at the bar by yourself.

You give him a little wave and a smile, and he returns the gesture before walking over to you.

“Hi doll,” he says, giving your shoulder a small squeeze before leaning over the bar and calling for Jaylyn to give him a drink. “You drinkin’ tonight or no?” He asks you. It always makes you feel better when he gives you an out and doesn’t force a drink down your throat. So many of the men here want you to get fucked up with them, and it’s just never on your agenda.

“Not tonight,” you say, giving him a small smile as you turn around and nudge your shoulder against his. He smiles down at you and checks you out. You stick your ass out just a little for show as he takes a sip of his drink.

He exhales, finally seeming to relax some as he sips. “You’re a sight for sore eyes every time Tommy,” he chuckles.

“Always for you J.”

“I don’t have a lot of time tonight, can I just take you straight back?” He asks, already almost finishing his drink.

You try to hide your nerves, wishing you could stay on the floor in case Steve comes in. But you also know you need to make money, not just wait around. And James always tips you well. “Of course,” you concede. “Thirty or an hour?” You ask. You try not to upsell too much with your regulars, not wanting to insult them by reminding them that you’re providing a service and not actually desiring to spend a long amount of time with them.

“Let’s start with 30,” he says, slamming his drink back and throwing cash on the counter. You smile at him and take his hand in yours, your ritual for customers, always wanting to establish first contact and guide the way.

But as you grab his hand and move forward, heading toward the back, you see someone enter the club.

Someone tall and commanding of the room the second he walks in.

Steve Harrington.

Your breath holds as you make eye contact with him. You see his eyes flick to yours and James’ hands interlocked behind you. He doesn’t react, and his stillness almost sends a shiver down your spine, but you try to keep it cool as you walk toward the privates area of the club.

“Let’s go,” you shoot a smile back at James, pulling him behind you as you ignore the feeling of two brown eyes burning into your back.

-

Your dance with James is tame. He typically likes to watch you start, always taking off your shoes and ending up shorter than him, which he likes to always comment on. He likes to watch you move your hips to the beat of whatever song is playing as he relaxes into the cushions, letting his legs spread wide as he watches your show.

You never mind how he interacts with you, which is part of the reason you keep letting him come back for more. James always starts timid, silent, just watching and checking out your body as it moves and sways. But the second you get closer, his hands starts to wander your sides, your hips, never gripping too hard. He’s tentative, regardless of how many times you been perched upon his lap.

Once you do sit with him, though, he starts talking. Whether you ask him about his day, or comment on his clothes, ask why he can’t stay longer, etc. He reveals whatever is bothering him. Typically, it’s his wife. She’s very vanilla, according to him, and he can’t stand it, which is why he comes to see you. Though he obviously is still traumatized by the times she’s insulted him, called him a freak for wanting to do things to her that she deems unholy, crude, and disgusting. It’s why you often have to guide his hands to squeeze your breasts, grip your hips a little tighter, guide you however he wants to, with your help. It’s sort of endearing, but also sad.

Eventually the dancing stills if he mentions his kids, he’ll just hold you, rubbing your legs or resting his head on your shoulder as you rub his back and arms a little as he vents and vents and vents.

And before he realizes (and you’ve probed him with enough questions to keep him talking), the time is up.

James is always respectful of your time, handing you a decent tip and walking out with you. He often will let you go wander around again, talking to other men or getting on stage, but eventually wants you to come back and talk to him again.

Tonight, he’s holding your hand and immediately pulling you toward a booth, much to your dismay, as it lands you directly across the club from Steve, who’s sitting in the same booth as last time - alone.

As you sit next to James he continues his vent, and you listen with open ears and fake, wide, sympathetic eyes. But your attention is immediately elsewhere. You try your best to be present with the man in front of you, not wanting to insult him or give away that you’re completely distracted, but it’s difficult. You also know that James often pays you for your time if you stay sitting with him. You’ve told him before that unless he’s buying a dance you can’t sit and talk long because you have to tend to other customers, lying and saying it makes your boss mad (when in reality it’s because if he’s not paying you, you can go make money elsewhere). So James has gotten into the habit of paying you every 10 -15 minutes you sit with him as he notices you getting shifty or trying to end the conversation.

Thus, you try to keep your attention on him. Try so very hard not to care about how your ass is tilted on the booth and giving Steve a fucking fantastic view. Trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding knowing that Steve is staring right at you, watching your every move.

But, James said he can’t stay long tonight, right? So you can keep this up, you can let him keep talking until he’s ready to leave and then you’ll go to Steve. Fuck, Steve didn’t even bother showing up until your shift was more than halfway over anyway, so he can wait a little longer.

“Tommy,” you hear a voice interrupting your conversation, a tall frame standing in front of you.

You nearly jump at the interruption. “I’m a little busy right now,” you smile at the security guard through gritted teeth, not wanting to insult your customer and make him think he’s doing something wrong.

“Yeah man, we’re all good here, right doll?” James says, smiling up at the security guard as he wraps his hand around your shoulder, his sweaty palm touching you. It takes everything in your body not to cringe at the feeling, but you resist.

The security guard looks between you and the man next to you, but he doesn’t move.

“Mmhmm,” you nod. “Now if you’ll let us get back to our conversation,” you say, turning your body back to James, trying to get the security guard off your back. But he’s not moving away.

You turn to James. “Ignore him, he’ll have to leave eventually,” you say, leaning forward some and trying your best not to let your tone shift into attitude.

Then the security guard drops a stack of money on the table.

A literal stack. Rubber band and all.

You stare at it, confused, and so does James. It’s not typical for guards to ever offer money for anything - shit you don’t even think they typically carry money on them. “What’s this?” James asks, voicing your own thoughts out loud.

He sits up a little taller as he eyes the stack in front of him. Greedy.

“There’s a request for Tommy,” the guard starts, his voice bland and unwavering. “So you’re encouraged to take the money and leave, Sir.”

Your mouth drops open. He wouldn’t.

Your eyes immediately try to find Steve’s again from across the room, but he’s blocked by the large body of the security guard.

James nearly spits out his drink. “So this is an offer for me?” He chuckles, his eyes flitting between yours and the stack and the security guard. His hand is quick to reach out for the money, but your hand lands on top of his.

You look up at the guard, eyes pleading. “There has to be some sort of misunderstanding-“

“No ma’am, Instructions were made very clear. The money is this gentleman’s if he is willing to leave for the night once he takes it.”

Shock is the only thing running through your system. No one has ever had the audacity to pay off a customer. Especially not one of your regulars. James isn’t as loaded as Steve, but he’s not a cheap man. He always takes care of you when he comes in, and he’s only had one dance so far.

Your eyes finally move to meet James, and the desperation must be evident because he immediately responds with, “Sorry doll, looks like someone else can make better use of your time.” The red on your lips falls open as you search for words, but are left speechless as James pockets the cash and kisses the top of your head before nodding at the security guard and heading out.

He looks around the club a little before making his exit, but he doesn’t even turn back to you once before making his run.

Seething. You are fucking seething.

“What the actual fuck was that?” You spit at the security guard, slamming your bag on the table as you look up at him with nothing short of fire in your eyes.

He shrugs. “Just taking orders.”

“Yeah and who the fuck are you taking bullshit orders like that from?” You ask, though you have a strong suspicion as to what the answer is already. The guard doesn’t answer, just starts to walk away back to wherever he’s supposed to actually be doing his job. His absence leaves you in the perfect line of sight to see him.

A smirking Steve Harrington.

You stomp, literally stomp, your way from your table to his. You stomp so hard you think your heels might actually break under the pressure.

You don’t even care that he’s in a white button up. You don’t care that you can see a little bit of chest hair poking through the top where he has a few buttons undone. And you sure as hell don’t care about how tight his stupid fucking navy pants look around his thighs that are spread out on the leather booth. No, those things definitely do not distract you as you make your way across the club.

You definitely aren’t distracted by the way his forearms flex under the rolled up sleeves of his shirt as you yell at him, either. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Something wrong honey?” He smirks at you, eyes trained on your face, which is burning with rage.

“Don’t ‘honey’ me,” you spit. You lean over on the table, planting your palms on the metal surface with a loud slap. “Why did you just pay off one of my regulars? Do you know how much money you just lost me?”

He picks up the glass in front of him, taking a small sip as he looks up at you through his eyebrows. “How much?” He asks, his voice calm and collected.

“A lot.”

“How much?” He repeats without hesitation.

“At least 2k,” you lie through gritted teeth, but your mind is starting to race. That number is definitely on the high end for James, but some nights he can be more generous than others, and tonight felt good. Until a certain brown-eyed rich demon decided to interfere with your game.

Steve scoffs lowly. “That’s it?”

“Fuck you,” you sneer before turning quickly to go toward the dressing room.

You’re stopped by Steve’s hand on your wrist, which you immediately retract from. “Don’t fucking touch me,” you threaten, eyes hard on him.

That seems to get to him, seeing you put up your defenses in such a way. You’ve yet to recoil from his touches. But you can’t help it. When your business is affected, it’s not a game worth playing to you anymore, he just turns into another man trying to take advantage of you.And you’ve dealt with more than enough assholes in your lifetime to know when to bare your teeth.

He immediately puts his hands up in defense. You don’t back down, your hands clenching into fists at your side. You’re ready to fight if you need to, be it by punching or screaming. Sometimes it comes with the territory of the job, and you are willing to do what you have to do to protect yourself. No one else will.

Steve’s eyes seem to soften toward you, looking at you like the wounded puppy he seems to see you as. “I’m sorry for touching you,” he apologizes, and though it’s quick, it seems moderately genuine. “Here, for running away the little boy toy,” he continues, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He begins to count bills and you wait expectantly. Your morality scale is at an absolute zero at this point, you could almost convince yourself that you are truly deserving of the money he’s about to hand you.

“It’s only $1000, but I can get the rest out of the ATM,” he says, extending a palm holding a stack of bills.

You take it from him without hesitation, blood still boiling at the fact that you even have to be doing this. You refuse to feel guilty for taking money from a man who essentially just stole your client for no reason, especially after you waited for him for half of the fucking night.

As you eye the bills, doing a quick count in your head, Steve watches you in silence. He leans forward some on the table, eyes never leaving your face as you stuff the cash into your money bag.

“Why’d you do it?” You already have a guess, but you want to hear it, want to confirm it.

He leans his elbows on the table, leaning forward as he looks up at you. “You know why,” he replies, his voice still calm and sure.

You refrain from responding immediately, biting the inside of your lip to keep your mouth shut as you look at him. You raise your eyebrows expectantly, as if to say Tell me. Steve sighs at your stubbornness and leans back into the couch, his hands behind his head, showing off the size of his biceps through the white shirt.

“I wanted to spend time with you,” he says, all too casually. His eyebrows lift with a smug shrug of his shoulders.

You roll your eyes. “And you couldn’t have waited until I made my money with him?” you ask him.

“No, you’d spent enough time with that loser,” he replies, taking another sip of his drink. You cross your arms over your chest, unintentionally squeeZIng your breasts together. You catch Steve’s eyes flit to your cleavage. Men are stupid.

“I just wanted you to myself,” he concedes with a shrug.

The blood fueling your anger turns to pang your heart at that sentence. It’s lame and impossible to fulfill - the idea that Steve could walk into the club at any time and “have you to himself”. That’s simply not how this job works. You have bills to pay, goals to meet, and it’s not going to happen by Steve, rarely buy a dance, Harrington dicking you around all night. You’d need him to prove a lot more to you than one night of heavy tipping if he wanted that type of attention at the club.

You try to control yourself and remember the game you’re playing. You have the control here, not him.

“You know what you can do if you want me to yourself?” You ask, your tone changing immediately as you try to sell him on buying a private dance with you.

Steve looks up at you with squinted eyes. He hates what you’re suggesting, because it turns him into another customer, another one of them. And that’s not what he wants to be.

You wait for him to bite, raising your eyebrows as you await his response. You do a small turn, making it so your ass was in view. “Fine, I guess I’ll have to go spend my time elsewhere,”you say, starting to turn around and walk away.

Steve stands immediately and you smirk.

He sighs as he takes your hand in his, pulling you forward roughly as he heads toward the private dance area. You can barely keep up with his strides as you trail behind him in your heels. He approaches the bouncer blocking the entrance to the back. “How much for the rest of the night?” Steve asks the bouncer, and your mouth clamps shut immediately, trying to hide your surprise. But your ego inflates at the thought.

The bouncer looks between you and Steve and you give him a small nod of consent before the man leans over and whispers something to Steve. Steve nods and hands him some money, you can’t tell in the dark how much it is, but you know it must be a lot.

Steve leads the way to the back most room. You’ve only ever danced back here once. There’s more space than usual, and the dim red lights are intoxicating. The room is lined with seats, as if it’s definitely reserved for larger parties.

But it was just you and Steve.

Steve drops your hand as he turns to finally face you. Your breath catches in your throat at the proximity he has between you. It’s dark and more intimidating than you imagined to be led back here by him, and you have to remind yourself that this is your territory, not his.

“Go sit down, Mister,” you whisper to him. He looks as though he’s going to respond, but just chuckles instead and takes a seat in the red velvet booth along the wall. The walls are lined with red LED lights, random curtains placed just for aesthetic, and velvet seats taking up the rest of the space.

You drop your money bag in the far corner, not wanting it to be a distraction. You move one of the stand alone chairs to be in front of Steve. He looks at you questioningly, but you just sit down in it and do your normal routine of taking off your shoes. You put your heel on his knee, your white painted toes exposed as you undo the straps of your shoes.

Steve watches you closely, and is the first to speak over the dull boom of the bass. “You didn’t buy new shoes yet?” He asks, referring to when you first met and he spilled his drink on you.

You unbuckle the small strap, releasing your foot from the agonizing pain of your heels, before lifting your other foot to do the same. “Not yet,” you say. Honestly, you had sights set on a pair of pink lace up boots, but felt too guilty buying them with Steve’s money. But that was a few days ago. Now? After the shit he’s pulled tonight? You’ll order them the second you get home.

You drop the two heels on the ground before you stand up and move the chair to the center of the room. You hear Steve exhale a small chuckle from behind you.

“What?” You ask, trying to refrain from letting your attitude slip through your voice.

Steve stands slowly, and you realize then why he laughed. “You’re so much littler than I thought,” he smirks, walking to he’s at his full height in front of you. The difference is ridiculous, honestly, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on.

“Is that a problem?” You toy with him, letting your finger dance up his chest.

But his hand is quick to grab your wrist, stopping your touches. “Not a problem at all honey,” He says, bringing your hand back to your side. “Makes me like you even more,” he mutters, before dropping your hand and stepping back to sit in his seat.

Your heart pounds in your chest.

The music is more dull in the room, but the bass is pronounced. It makes the air feel heavy, thick with tension as you face Steve and start to slowly move your hips, reminding yourself why you’re here in the first place.

He sits with his legs spread, his dark eyes watching you intently as his large hands rest in his lap. You try to keep your pace slow, considering he said he bought the room for the rest of your night, which was at least an hour.

You let yourself do your usual routine, sensually moving your hands over your body, moving your hips, turning around, bending over, etc. The idea is to give them a good picture of what they have in front of them before you get close up. Men often get lost once you’re on their lap.

But Steve is different. “Come here,” He mutters, his voice low.

You gulp at his words, and feel your confidence a little shaken. You never have men calling the shots in the room, it’s always you.

You walk to him slowly and are about to sit on his lap when he stops you. He puts his hands on your hips and stands you so you’re in between his legs, directly in front of him. “Just let me look at you,” he says. You don’t respond, just go along with his game, whatever fantasy this is fulfilling for him.

He keeps his hands squeezing your hips as his eyes rake up and down your body, making you feel more exposed than ever despite still having your lingerie on. His hands move upwards slowly, hugging your curves and then ghosting over your breasts. His fingers lightly brush over your peaked nipples, and you shiver, which makes him chuckle.

“Cute,” he mutters more to himself than to you, then drops his hands back into his lap.

You stay still in front of him, awaiting his next demand. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at you as you flex your hands at your sides.

“Are you nervous?” He asks.

You exhale a huff at that. “Honestly? A little,” you admit, letting your guard down slightly. It’s too easy to be candid with him in this environment, it scares you.

“Why are you nervous?” He questions, leaning forward a little as he looks at you. “Do I make you nervous?”

You inhale a shaky breath. “A little,” you confess. “I’m not used to men…directing me,” you say for lack of a better explanation. You resist fidgeting under his stare, though everything in you wants to start moving, start dancing, start doing something other than be questioned by him.

“You’re not used to men knowing what they want,” he corrects you.

You don’t respond. You ponder his statement. Is that what it is? Because you feel like a lot of the men that come in do know that they want a girl on their lap, want to touch, feel, be heard, or whatever it is that day. But you’re not used to a man being so…confident about it. So unapologetic.

“Maybe,” you say, not giving him the full satisfaction.

“Maybe,” he chuckles, calling your bluff.

You squint down at him. “Are you going to let me dance for you Mister?” You ask, trying to allow yourself the ability to move the nerves that are enrapturing your whole body rather than standing the stillness.

Steve’s gaze at you is unwavering, but he leans back in his seat, relaxing. “Go on, honey,” he says.

Your lips purse at his words. They feel patronizing, as if he is doing you a favor by having you dance for him. You’ll prove him wrong.

Stepping back, your gaze lowers. You look at him through softer, heavier eyes. It’s as if when you step back, create that distance, you let yourself slip into the character. You let the darkness of the room cover the doubt, the nerves. Your blood warms as you turn around and start to move your body slowly, slower than you ever have. He wants to make you feel like he has some sort of power over you?

This is your game. Your territory. Your place.

Your hips move slowly as you start to move one of the lacy straps down off your shoulder. You turn your head slightly, a peak over your bare skin to see Steve watching you intently. He’s biting his lip, but other than that, remains perfectly still. Your strap falls and you smile. It’s small, but you see a glint of a smile on his freckled face too.

You mimic your actions on your other shoulder, the strap coming off slowly, before you reach your arms behind you and expertly unclasp the gold hook holding you all together.

The flimsy blue material once covering your breasts drops to the floor, but you remain turned around. Your eyes peak again, and find Steve shifting some in his seat.

You move, ever so slowly, turning to face him on the tips of your toes despite being barefoot. But your arms are crossed in front of your chest. Extended, your hands intertwine front of you, pushing your breasts together but covering your nipples and part of your stomach. It’s a feign of innocence.

Heels finally meeting the floor, your head tilts to the side some, but your arms remain crossed.

He looks like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t.

Good.

You take a small step forward before slowly sinking to your knees. The floor is hard, but you’ve done this enough to have expected that, not letting the pain show on your face as you let yourself kneel, your hands landing in front of you.

Steve exhales loudly at the sight.

You look up at him, all wide-eyed, like a little minx. Sitting back on your heels, you let your arms finally uncross, exposing yourself fully before fondling your own breasts, letting a soft sigh escape your lips as your eyes flutter closed. Let yourself go, you remind yourself. This can be as much for yourself as it is for him.

You crawl toward him slowly, letting your hips sway a little extra, your eyes never leaving his face as you land by his feet. He doesn’t move, just watches as your eyes follow your hands that crawl up his legs and land just past his knees, lightly squeezing his thighs.

You’ve choreographed this move down to the eye movement. You look up slowly, very slowly, and take your perfectly painted lip between your teeth. Though, when you usually make eye contact with them, your victim isn’t so handsome. And you know that a blush coats your cheeks as you look at Steve.

“What’s your fantasy, Mister Harrington?” you smile, letting the words dance off your tongue.

He huffs. “Don’t call me that,” he says. The seriousness in his tone almost shakes you. Almost.

You hum. “Then what should I call you?”

There’s a pause. A thick tension in the air as you wait. As if you already know what he’s going to say. He looks down at you in a way that makes your stomach flip, but you keep your ground, staying perfectly in character, in the act. You decide to not ignore the feeling, but instead let it fuel you.

“What do you think you should call me, baby?” He asks. His voice has shifted, and you notice it immediately. He’s buying in, finally. Finally seeming to indulge in what this whole place is about, to release into the fantasy.

Your eyes follows your fingers as you trace a circle on his thigh, your long painted nails making his legs flex under your touch. “Hmmm,” you hum.

Your smile can’t help but creep on your face. You already know what the answer is. If you’re being honest, it’s what a lot of men who buy from you want to be called. It’s part of your game, part of what you sell, and it’s the type you typically get intrigued by you. But none have seemed to fit the title more than the man in front of you.

“Daddy,” you say, letting the letters fall off your tongue, the consonants heavier than the rest.

Steve’s hand comes under your chin, tilting your face so it’s facing his above you. “Say it again,” he tempts you.

“Daddy,” you smirk, this time with a not-so innocent glint in your eyes.

His smirk mimics yours, dark and powerful. “That’s better.”

You take the opportunity to stand slowly, continuing sensual movements as you stand between his thighs. Your breasts seem dangerously close to his face, but he pays them no particular mind as he watches the way your body moves.

You lean forward, your lips finding his ear. “You like to be in charge Daddy?” You ask, your voice fully in character, the lilt, the slightly mumbled speech, the small giggle coating your question…

His hands immediately find your hips, pulling you forward closer to him. “Careful,” you giggle. “I’m fragile.”

Steve chuckles at that. “I have a hard time believing that honey,” He says, moving your hair so it’s behind your shoulder, giving him a better view of your chest.

“Oh is that so?”

You raise your legs, your knees landing on either side of his hips so you’re straddling him, though you don’t let yourself drop onto his lap just yet.

His hands remain on your hips, a ghost of a touch that just reminds you that it’s there.

His dark eyes find your own, and they look at you so deeply you feel like your breathing stops completely. “You’re too good at this to be fragile,” he mutters, his voice low. His eyes flick from your own to your lips. It’s quick, but you notice it.

You hesitate, this is off script. You thought he was done with this, with breaking the image, breaking the wall.

Fine. If he doesn’t want fragile, you can show him how strong you really are.

“I’m starting to think you’re scared of me Mr. Harrington,” you say, an eyebrow quirked. He notices the way your voice seems to come back to it’s regular octave. He also notices the space you create between you two, leaning back so your chest isn’t close to his anymore.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? Too much pressure?” You sass him. “Big bad Daddy can’t handle being referred to by his actual name?”

His jaw hardens. “I knew you were a little shit,” he says. Your mouth drops open at the insult. “Not sure why you keep trying to sell me on the idea that you’re some innocent little doll. Maybe those other losers buy it, but I don’t.”

You go to move off of him but his hands on your hips quickly tighten. Now your jaw is tight. If this is how he wants to play, then game fucking on.

You don’t think before you speak.“Maybe I figured you were too fragile for me. Too scared to let me go make money somewhere else so you have to chase my other men off with money. Yet you think you can actually handle me? Right,” you roll your eyes, but remain where you are above his lap.

You almost feel guilty for saying it, for breaking the illusion and being candid with him. But He pushed you to say it. He wanted this.

And it hits you -

He wanted this.

He smiles at you.

“You don’t think I can handle you?” He laughs. His hands immediately grip your hips and lift you off him before spinning you around and pulling you back down on his lap. Your ass is directly on his crotch and fuck you can feel how hard he is under you.

One of his hands moves to snake up your front, sliding between your breasts and up to your neck, hooking one finger around your choker and giving it a slight tug. You inhale sharply and your hips automatically back into him more.

You’ve been manhandled a little at work before, but never like this. And never did it turn you on so fucking much.

His voice comes to your ear. “Is this too much?” He asks. And the line between if he’s asking about it being too much for your work at the club, and too much for you in general is blurred. You swallow thickly.

“No,” you say through gritted teeth, all of your innocent school girl act gone as he holds you to him.

“No what?” He chuckles behind you.

You scoff, and he tugs at your choker, making you wince and whine slightly. “No Daddy,” you hiss.

He releases your choker and brings his hand to your waist, holding you strongly to where you two meet. You start to grind down on him, which makes him release a huff of a groan. You keep up your movements, dry humping him as your breathing starts to mingle. He starts to pull you down on him harsher, as if he’s bouncing you on his cock. And you swear you could actually feel it happening. Your stomach is twisting, your blood rushing as you let out small whines at each hard contact.

The line between work and pleasure is blurred. But, fuck, it only takes hearing the subtle voice of the DJ through the speakers to remind you that Steve is paying you to do this. He’s paying you to dry fuck him, and you’re not fucking complaining. Is it a little further past your usual boundary at work? Yes. But Steve isn’t your usual customer.

“When’s the last time you’ve been properly fucked?” Steve huffs from behind you. He keeps his cool, not giving away just how fucking turned on he is by having his hands on your body like this.

You lean your head back on his shoulder and bring his hands to your waist, guiding them up to your chest and letting him hold your breasts, squeezing lightly as you continue to grind on each other. “Too long,” you admit against your best judgment.

Feed into the fantasy. You reminds yourself.

“Too long Daddy,” you repeat, turning your head so it’s buried in his neck, letting your breath coat his skin, your small (but elevated) moans gliding past his ear.

He grunts, thrusting up into you hard. You can feel his cock through his pants fairly clearly, and it feels big. “A shame for a girl like you, you deserve to be treated right,” he says.

You plant a small kiss on his neck, which elicits a small groan from him. “Could you treat me right Daddy?” You ask, grinding your barely clothed cunt down on him. Fuck you could almost feel yourself starting to get pleasured from this.

“You know I could baby,” he says matter-of-factly. “You’d never have to worry about another man touching you again, never have to work ever again.”

You whine at the thought. If you had to have some sort of sugar daddy situation, the best possible relationship you could think of would be with someone who looked like Steve.

But you never sell sex. Ever.

Feed the Fantasy.

You slowly remove yourself before turning back around to face him and continue your grind, but at your pace, putting your hands on his shoulders. His exposed chest is gleaming with some sweat, his hair floppy, his lips puffy from the way he’s been biting them. His hands find your thighs and squeeze as you grind your hips onto his center. He adjusts himself so his dick is placed in just the right place for you to grind your cunt on, and you both moan at the feeling.

Your head falls forward, your forehead touching his as you exchange breaths. Your faces are close, so close, closer than you usually let anyone get to you.

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

You hesitate- not even sure if you heard the question correctly. You ignore it, trying to clear your head as your grinding starts to slow. Even if your time isn’t up yet, you might take a break just to relieve some of the tension that -

“Can I kiss you?” He repeats more firmly than before. You back your head up slightly, looking at him with questioning eyes. He awaits your answer, but as he looks at you you’re not sure if he’s seeing you or Tommy.

“Answer me.”

“No.”

Both of your hips start to slow, your grinding coming to a stop as you catch your breath and both regain your composure, starting to come back down to earth.

You’re about to apologize, but refrain. You have nothing to be sorry for.

He slowly rubs his hands up and down your sides, admiring your figure as you sit on his lap. “I should go,” he says, his eyes finally finding yours again.

They’re soft. And you feel your heart twist at the thought of him leaving. But it’s just business. “Okay,” you whisper, slowly starting to remove yourself from his lap. His hands linger as you move, but they don’t stop you, despite the fact that you want him to. You want him to pull you back down and keep the clock running, keep going even if the club was closed.

But that’s not how this works.

You walk back to where your flimsy bra sits on the floor, bending over slowly, hoping he’s looking at your ass as you do so. He is.

He brushes his hand through his hair and exhales, straightening out his pants and shirt. “Let me take you out,” he says.

You chuckle. “You know I can’t do that,” you say with a smile, clasping your bra back on, adjusting your tits to sit perfectly.

He waves his hand in a “come back” motion, asking for you to come back and sit with him. You do, but this time sit next to him instead, letting your legs fall over his lap.

His hands trace lines on your legs. “I don’t know that you can’t do that,” he says.

“It’s not personal, I just-“

“You’re smart, I understand,” he says. He leans over and grabs your shoes, and starts to put them on your feet for you. It’s as if there’s an unspoken conversation happening between the two of you in the silence. Like everything and nothing is being said.

He straps your feet in your heels, as if he’s done it before (he probably has), and you try not to let that fact bother you.

“Buy new shoes please,” he says, patting your feet before pushing them off of his lap. You laugh. “Any preferences?” You ask.

“I prefer you without them, honestly,” He says, standing up from the couch and smiling at you. He pulls his wallet out from his back pocket, and hands you a thick wad of folded up bills. You try not to gawk at the weight of it in your hand.

“C’mon,” he says, nodding his head toward the door. “Walk me out.”

He takes your hand and leads you through the club again, this time walking past the tables and to the door.

But you’re stopped before he can make his exit.

“I knew I’d catch you here!” A loud male voice exclaims, bursting past you and up to Steve. He claps a ringed hand, with chipped black nail polish, onto Steve’s shoulder. He’s about as tall as him, and his hair is even fucking wilder. “And with the most gorgeous girl in this place too,” he adds, acknowledging you with a smile.

You smile back at him. He’s definitely had a lot to drink, and his clothes are absolutely the opposite of Steve’s clean cut look. He looks oddly familiar…

“Eddie, this is Tommy. Tommy, this is Eddie,” Steve introduces you two. Eddie sticks his hand out to shake, which you find endearing, and you return the gesture.

“Wait,” you realize. “Eddie like-“

“Yeah, Eddie Munson in the flesh,” he laughs, doing a small spin in his leather jacket. “Just finished up a gig actually, that Harrington here was supposed to be at. But it seems he got a bit preoccupied,” Eddie says, wiggling his eyebrows at the two of you.

Of course Steve would be friends with Eddie Munson, only one of the biggest fucking names in the music industry right now. You wouldn’t expect anything less from him at this point. Steve looks a little bashful at the insinuation Eddie makes, and puts himself between you and Eddie.

“Hope you’re not too tired princess, I’d love to see what you’re made of,” Eddie says, biting his lip and checking you out.

You laugh at his brazen ways, but also see why Steve stepped in immediately. “Tommy is actually done for the night,” Steve says before you can respond.

“I am?” You ask incredulously.

“And so are you,” Steve says to Eddie, who immediately pouts. “Boooooooo,” Eddie says loudly in Steve’s face, which makes you laugh

“You should be more than taken care of - promise,” Steve says to you as he turns Eddie around. “Go home.”

“But-“ you start, wanting to find some way to tell him to come see you again without sounding like you were desperate for it. You know he liked the chase, he liked when you played hard ball, but you also wanted to keep him coming back, possibly for more reasons than just one.

“My number is slipped between some of the money, I’ll be around,” Steve says before pushing Eddie toward the door.

“I’LL BE AROUND FOR YOU TOO BABY GIRL,” Eddie yells over Steve.

“Goodnight,” Steve mouths before handling a very drunk Eddie Munson and pushing him out of the door.

You’re left standing speechless.

You have no idea how much money you have in your bag. But it’s not what you’re most curious about finding…

Steve Harrington gave you his number. And Eddie Munson says he wants to come around for you too. Maybe you can ignore the feelings, the glances, the almost there’s with Steve. Maybe you can see what lies outside of these doors with him if he runs in the same circles as rockstars as big as Eddie Munson.

You have rules you stick by, but you might have to start making a few exceptions.

-