The Price of Him

Meera Sharma pushed open the iron door of the Loan Lord’s office, her palms damp against the cracked leather of her bag.

The bodyguard blocking her way sized her up with the cold patience of a predator. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought he might stop her.

Then, from inside, the big boss gave a lazy nod.

Permission.

The bodyguard shifted aside.

Meera slipped past him, head down, her heartbeat loud enough to drown out the flickering streetlight above.

The alley was dark, slick with old rain, the air thick with the stench of cigarettes and rust. But this would be the last time she would walk through this street.

Only when she reached the main road did her lungs remember how to breathe.

And then, she let out a smile, letting her body finally relax.

“Yesss!” she hissed through clenched teeth, and before she could stop herself, it burst out of her chest:

“YAYYYYY!”

It echoed down the street, wild and reckless. She spun once, bag clutched to her chest, tears spilling freely down her cheeks.

“I did it,” she whispered to the stars above. “Mom. Dad. I paid off every penny. Every single one. You can rest in peace now.”

A quick prayer left her lips to the Gods who had helped her remain sane through the years.

A passing rickshaw slowed, and for the first time in years, she didn’t wave it off to save money.

She climbed in, sinking against the worn vinyl seat, and cradled her bag on her lap like it was something holy.

She peeked inside. Notes stacked neatly, the Loan Lord’s seal scrawled across the receipt. He’d even canceled a month’s worth of interest since I had been punctual with my payments.

She almost laughed again. Generous. That word didn’t belong anywhere near men like him.

Still, the weight in her bag was proof. The chains of debt she’d carried for a decade were gone.

Her fingers brushed the spare notes, and her mind, for once, wasn’t filled with worry.

It was filled with... possibility... a possibility of finally living a life of a normal girl... a girl who just turned 24.

She watched the streets slip by. College kids spilled out of a café, drunk on freedom she’d never had. Couples held hands.

Flashbacks came rushing in - the parties she had missed, the friendships she had let go, the cafes she was a waitress at but never the customer, the proposals that she had said no to, the vacations and days off that were spent running errands and part time jobs.

All that to repay her debt.

“100 rs madam.” the rikshaw vendor announced, coming to a stop in front of her house.

She smiled at him, paid the money and stepped off.

As she was about to enter the shabby building she called home, loud giggles from across the street made her turn around.

A group of women staggered out of a building, arms linked, laughter clinging to their lips like glitter.

Behind them stood the Temple of Nyx.

She’d seen the place every single day from her balcony. A strip club for women. The kind of place she’d only dared to imagine. Every customer that came out looked transformed—messy hair, flushed cheeks, grins that stretched wide enough to split their faces.

She’d waited tables in bars, scrubbed kitchens, taught kids, begged relatives for extra shifts. But she’d never been on the customer end of a service. Never once chosen joy for herself.

Her grip on the bag tightened, knowing it had a surplus amount of money which wasn’t earmarked for anything.

“You deserve this, Meera,” she whispered. “For once in your life, you deserve something that isn’t about survival.”

Meera hesitated. But her desire to live, to laugh, to take a risk for desire made her step forward.

Temple of Nyx, the strip club.

It was whole other world inside... blinding, flashing lights, laughter of women echoing through, multiple perfumes that seemed to make her more aware of her surroundings.

A half naked muscular man in a mask walked up to her from the dark corners, “Welcome to the Temple of Nyx, my Goddess. May I escort you to a stage?” he said with a seductive smile, leaning in enough to make her blush.

He liked that reaction and smiled back, offering her his arm.

She gently took it as he led her to a table in the front.

It didn’t feel like a club. It felt like crossing into a temple where women worshipped with laughter, with bills, with desire made shameless.

The whole floor had smoke flowing like a river. The vibe was dark with light shining from above as if the God of Sun was showering blessings on the mortals underneath it.

A group of girls, one of them who had the sash with the words “Bride to be”, were throwing cash all over the guy who was stripping for them.

The male stripper was thrusting in the air, entirely naked with the exception of his dick that was barely covered under the stringy vinyl.

He leaned at the pole and slid down it going on all fours, biting the note from her hands.

He shook his head like a wild dog and strutted around the pole eying the girls.

Meera gasped and put her hand to her mouth when she saw that the vinyl stringy thing that covered his dick was not doing it’s job well covering his butt... or maybe that was the whole point because she just could not look away.

Her cheeks burned, part shame, part thrill. She should leave. But her feet didn’t move. Her body betrayed her, aching to see more.

Suddenly, the lights shifted—violet, gold, and crimson streaks flashing across the stage. A voice boomed over the speakers, deep and theatrical like a priest announcing a sacred rite, yet dripping with seduction:

“Daughters of Nyx, Goddesses of the Night!

Prepare your hearts, your voices, your very souls...

For the sons of Zeus descend from Olympus to worship you!

Guardians of fire, bearers of thunder, givers of pleasure—

They are here to strip, to tempt, to awaken your deepest desires.

Raise your hands, raise your voices...

Tonight, the Gods perform for you!"

The crowd erupted—shrieks, laughter, applause that shook the floor.

At once, the strippers on the smaller stages leapt down, disappearing into the shadows. A blinding white spotlight ignited the main stage. Smoke poured across the floor, curling like mist over ancient marble.

And then she saw them.

Seven men stepped into the haze, their God-like bodies cut from bronze and shadow. Masks covered their eyes, but their presence was unmistakable—broad shoulders, gleaming skin, movements so perfectly in sync they seemed choreographed by the heavens themselves.

They were draped in flowing robes, each slit high up the thigh, flashing glimpses of muscle and heat every time they moved—just enough to make the crowd roar for more.

They struck poses worthy of statues, muscles flexing here and under the shifting light, and for a heartbeat, Meera forgot to breathe.

The bass thumped in her chest, the air heavy with perfume and sweat. Desire itself seemed to pulse like a living thing around her.