Cherry

Celestia

There are two types of men in this world. The ones who pay to look, and the ones who pay to touch. I entertain both. It’s not the life I dreamed of, but dreams don’t pay rent. So, one pays my bills. The other pays for my peace. And more bills.

No little girl grows up dreaming of stripping for money, but what can I say, I grew up fast. Fast enough to know survival costs more than dignity.

Pretty. I think and smile to myself before tucking back a loose hair strand. My nine dollar lipstick was nearly at its end as I lightly press color back onto my lips before I head out the door and down to the elevator at the end of the hall. As the elevator slows down to a stop, so does my breathing, then, it slightly picks up again when I get off and give my usual wink and flirtatious wave to the old doorman and make my way out of the apartment complex and into the busy streets of East Village, New York.

The music from my earbuds pours straight into my veins. Warm, familiar and loyal. It wraps around my chest like a promise no one ever had to make. Unlike him. He promised. But he left. Music and dancing held me together when his silence tried to tear me apart. I sigh and glance at my screen. 6:52 a.m. Shit. I had eight minutes to be at a job half a mile away, and I wasn’t about to start running. It’s fine. As long as I get there before Mr. Osgood does.

I pick up the pace anyway. By the time the glass doors of Virello came into view, I could already see James giving me that look. The one that said I was cutting it close. I pull one earbud out, swipe my ID at the scanner, and didn’t miss the smug little grin tugging at his lips.

“I’m not late,” I say, brushing past him like I had time to spare, even though I was already kicking off my tennis shoes and swapping them for heels. I wobble for half a second, then slip the first heel on with a pivot I’ve perfected from years of performing.

“Sure, right on time huh,” he replies.

“Every time,” I toss over my shoulder, clicking the second heel into place as I sit on the chair behind the front desk.

James is the reason I even have this job, or either of them, really. He found me years ago on one of the worst days of my life: heartbroken and drunk off my ass. Somehow always in the right place at the right time. He saw through the mess and decided I was worth helping. He introduced me to the office gig first, then later to the club when he found out I could dance. He’s a bouncer there too, so we’ve been in each other’s orbit ever since.

I’ll always be grateful to him for that. Not one, but two jobs? Yeah, if it weren’t for James, I’d probably be face-down in a ditch somewhere.

I boot up the phone system and click through the monitor to open my emails. I skim, trash the junk, and flag anything Mr. Osgood might actually care about. Then I glance down at the oversize desk calendar in front of me, shuffling a few loose papers aside to check his meeting schedule.

Not much today. A light day. Doesn’t mean it’ll be quiet, though.

The number of women who come through here, crying, angry, or both, is almost laughable. I’m not judging him. Mr. Osgood can do whatever and whoever he wants. He doesn’t owe anyone anything. But these women? They show up like he’s about to change their lives, and all they end up doing is wasting his time. And mine. And on top of that, showing up to his job is just trashy to me. I don’t care if he owns this company. He needs to let these women know there’s a time and place for everything. I’m tapping my pen against the desk, already bored, when I spot movement outside. His driver opens the car door. James opens the building door.

Ramon Osgood.

Don’t get me wrong, I do understand the hype about him. His eyes are a deep, unreadable brown, like wet earth after rain. Dark, steady, and just a little too good at seeing straight through you. Has matching dark hair, that he probably gets freshly cut every two weeks. And don’t get me started on his lips that probably do damage.

His suit fits too well to be off the rack. Tailored close to a body that clearly spends time in the gym. Broad shoulders, trim waist, chest built like discipline.

“Good Morning Mr. Osgood! Your first meeting will be online with the entire Corporate of BTM at seven-thirty.”

“Morning Miss Crowe, Thank you. Did you get my coffee by any chance? I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Oh, I wonder why.

“No sir, I ordered a while ago and was just heading out to grab them now,” I lie.

“Thank you, once you get it bring it right up,” he says as he steps into the elevator.

I let out a troubled breath. How could I forget his usual coffee?

“You definitely forgot about his coffee didn’t you?” James grins.

“Oh shut up, like you haven’t forgotten to close the doors once or twice.” I say as I make a face. Nose scrunched, lips twisted, the universal expression for “boy, please.”

I run out to the cafe across from the building and give a silent thank you to God that there’s no line yet. Small miracles. I go straight to the counter, place the order like muscle memory, and add a Dalgona coffee for myself, because why not? Lord knows I’m gonna need it before noon.

I swipe the Virello business card with zero hesitation. Perks of working for someone who believes in caffeine-fueled productivity. The barista hands over the drinks, and I’m out the door in less than five minutes.

I drop mine off at my desk, then cross the lobby with his in hand and head for the elevator. I press the button for the sixteenth floor, already mentally preparing to walk into Mr. Osgood’s office like I’ve been up there for hours. The elevator doors slide open, and I barely take one step before I freeze.

My breath catches.

Seated in his chair, calm as ever, with some blonde practically glued to his neck like she’s trying to bite his soul out. She’s straddling him. Tight dress, and lips all over his skin like it’s hers to claim.

The weird part? He looks completely, bored. Emotionless. Like she’s a chore he forgot to cancel. I take a slow step forward, lowering my head just enough to give them a chance to realize they’re not alone. Then I clear my throat. Sharp, deliberate. If they didn’t hear the elevator ding, they’ll definitely hear that.

His eyes lift slowly, like he’s taking his time. Like he wants me to feel it. Our eyes lock, and something flickers behind his. Not surprise. Not embarrassment. Something else. Something low and heavy and sharp, like heat held in check. There’s no apology in his gaze. Just intensity. Heavy and unreadable, like he knows exactly how this looks, and he’s daring me to react. I hold it together. Barely. I look away first. Because if I keep looking, I might forget whose name is on my paycheck.

“He-here’s your coffee, Mr. Osgood,” I mumble as I place down the coffee on the edge of the large desk and quickly turn back to the elevator. I jab the L button with one finger and will the doors to shut faster than my sanity. The second I reach the lobby, James is standing behind his desk looking way too calm.

“You let her up?” I ask, deadpan, not even trying to hide the accusation in my voice.

He shrugs, not even pretending to be innocent.

“You know I live for the drama. I wanted to see how this played out.”

I squint at him, lips twisted in disbelief.

“James.”

“What? Don’t act like you’re not curious too.”

“I’m curious why she thought crawling on our boss like a damn house cat was a good idea. That’s it.”

He smirks like he doesn’t believe me for a second.

“Now thanks to you, I have to avoid him all day.”

“And why is that?”

“I don’t want to look at him, that image is now embedded in my head.”

“You work at a club, where you see things like that every night. Why get all flustered now? Jealous?” He smirks.

“In your dreams. He’s my boss, everybody’s boss for that matter.”

I’ve dodged the aftermath, the rumors, the perfume trails they leave behind like pathetic little love letters. I’ve rolled my eyes and kept my mouth shut. To hear and know about it is one thing, but to see it happen before you? It’s like watching something you’re not supposed to see.

The rest of the day crawls by in a haze of emails, polite nods, and carefully avoided eye contact. I stay behind the desk, answering phones like my brain isn’t stuck on the moment I walked in on earlier. By the time the workday ends, I’m emotionally exhausted and more than ready to shed the receptionist act.

James is already posted up by the door, keys in hand and that same “ready to stir chaos” smile on his face.

“Ready to make some money Cece?” he asks.

“Always,” I say.

✦❋❦✢❦❋✦

At the club, they call me Cherry. And not because it’s my favorite fruit or some kind of cliche. It’s a code name. We all have one. It keeps things clean. Safe.

The club has rules, and protecting our real identities is one of them. No real names, no real personal details, just whatever fantasy we choose to serve. I picked Cherry because it’s sweet with a little bite. Innocent on the outside, but you take one taste and you know better.

“Cece!” Lucinda squeals like she hasn’t seen me in a month, then wraps her arms around me in a warm, tight hug that smells like vanilla body spray and trouble.

“Hey, Lucy Lu,” I laugh, hugging her back.

“You’re here early,” she says, tugging up the flaming red corset she’s somehow already halfway sweating through. “Did Mr. Big shot let you off early?”

Before I can answer, James strolls past and answers for me.

“Why yes, he did, and hey Sunshine,” he says with a smirk, leaning in to plant a quick kiss on Lucy’s cheek before saying a general hello to the other club members and heading out toward the front of the club. “Building closed slightly early, he’s got somewhere to be.”

“Well, that worked out,” Lucy says, looping her arm through mine. “You need to get ready ASAP. Kevin just told us the club owner’s coming tonight with friends. He wants your best solos, full fire, full fantasy.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I groan, yanking my shoes off as I head to my little space. “He decides to drop that on us now?”

“You know how Kevin is.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile as she slumps into her chair next to mine, already kicking her legs up like the night hasn’t even started yet.

“Yeah, well,” I mutter, digging through my bag, “maybe Kevin should try being a little more professional sometime. Just a thought. Ugh, can’t blame him though, running this is probably hell.”

“By the way, it’s masked night tonight.”

“Better for me. Those people won’t have to see my face.” I say to her.

I pull my hair out of the bun it’s been trapped in all day and let it fall down my back in loose waves. It’s a little tangled, so I’ll have to brush it out later, but it’s good enough for now. I strip out of my day clothes and slide into my practice fit: a pair of shorts I cut from fishnet tights, a bright red crop top that hugs just right, and my basic black six-inch leather boots that stop just above my ankles. Scuffed, broken in, perfect. I head to the practice room, the walls lined with mirrors, and the hum of the club behind me fading as I close the door.

AirPods in.

Music up.

I toss my phone gently toward the mirror so I don’t crush it and step into the center of the floor. I turn around, wrap both hands around the cool, slim pole, and close my eyes.

The bass hits. And just like that, I’m not Celestia anymore. I’m Cherry. And the stage is mine.

✦❋❦✢❦❋✦

The song fades out, but the rhythm stays in my body. I rest my forehead against the pole for a second, catching my breath, not from exhaustion, but from the build-up. The fire. The want.

Tonight has weight to it. I can feel it in the way the music lingered. The way the club buzzes behind the walls. The way Kevin looked at me when he said, “Bring the heat tonight.”

I grab my phone, wipe my palms on my thighs, and head out of the practice room. A few minutes later, I’m in the changing room, fully dressed, fully glossed, and trying not to pace. The walls are lined with mirrors and perfume bottles. The low hum of the music from the floor bleeds through the walls. I sit on the bench, legs crossed, eyes on the curtain just outside the door, waiting for my name, waiting for the moment.

Waiting to become her.

I look at the mirror one last time, fix my mask, and head out the door.

All red for this number. They called it Caio Cherry, my grand introduction. A debut dripping in temptation. The thong I wore was strappy, red, and barely there, each ribbon slicing across my ass like scarlet silk stripes against bare skin. My top, a sleeveless mock turtleneck crop, shimmered under the dressing room lights, cut just high enough to flirt with a glimpse of under boob. The whole set sparkled with tiny white gemstones, catching every sliver of light like a trap.

My heels? A bold eight inches, lace-up, cherry red, and winding around my thighs like they had something to say.

I stood in the pit, hidden in the shadows, listening to the crowd bubble with voices, clinks of glasses, and the bass vibrating through the floor. Waiting.

Then I heard Kevin’s voice boom over the mic.

“And now, the one you’ve all been waiting for, put your hands together for Cherry!”

The room pulsed.

I climbed the stairs, each step deliberate, like I owned the ground beneath me. I reached center stage, heels clicking softly against the polished floor, and leaned against the pole.

A slow, tempting smile curved my lips beneath the mask.

Let them watch. Let them want.

Ramon

When the music begins, my eyes shift toward the front of the room. I haven’t seen her before. She must be new. Then again, I haven’t set foot in my own club in years. Not truly. Not to watch. But now, I’m watching. She grabs the pole with a grace I wasn’t prepared for and climbs. No hesitation, no falter. At the top, she slips her legs through her arms, bends backward toward the crowd like liquid fire, then pushes out into a clean spread eagle. I sit up, finish the rest of my Jack and Coke in one hard swallow.

She reverts to her upright position, one arm gripping the pole, and begins to spiral downward, controlled and deliberate. Her legs mimic a step-down motion, like she’s walking on air, then snap. A sudden change, she lands in a middle split, the kind that forces the entire room to pay attention.

She crooks a finger.

Right at me.

And smiles. Cunning. Like a cat who already knows the kill is hers.

Something inside me ignites. Claim her. Take her. Devour her.

But I can’t. I don’t know her. And if I try, she’ll run. Like the rest. Like they always do. I grit my jaw, closing my eyes for half a second. The tight heat in my pants turns from an ache into something hungrier. Bigger. I hiss under my breath, low and sharp, trying to suppress the reaction but it’s no use. I open my eyes and scan the room.

There. The brunette beside me, she’s been circling all night like a moth to flame. Desperate. Eager.

She’ll do. I lean in, lips to her ear, voice like silk laced in steel. She nods before I finish. No questions. No hesitation. I lead her to one of the private rooms upstairs.

The door closes. I unbuckle my belt and slide out of my pants, cock already heavy in my hand.

“Suck,” I order, slow and low.

She obeys. Good girl.

She’d make a good submissive. She listens. She performs.

But there’s no thrill. No resistance. No spark.

Just, empty obedience. And I’ve had enough of that kind.

I need something else.

Someone else.

But hell if I know what I’m looking for.