STRIP ME HOLY

A Taste Of Hell

EMILIA

Sex. Wine. Strippers.

That had been my life for almost Twenty-four months now. This was my new shame—something I gladly bore like an intricate tattoo. Though low on the s*x part, I was still untouched… I bet Carlos had offered me off for the first thousand bucks that came his way.

No one would know and never believe. Besides, I was a very famous stripper here in this local town, away from the life I once knew and had rather leave behind.

This was my decent living—a taste away from hell.

And tonight, I was getting ready to give all these bald men, with colored teeth and protruding bellies, a show for their money.

"We don't have all night," Carlos banged on the dressing room door, his face pulling up a smile at the sight of me.

"Coming," I whispered, forcing my voice steady. My hand trembled slightly as I applied my Mac signature lipstick, tracing it carefully over my Cupid's-bow lips like war paint. My amber eyes glittered—not with pride, but with something far lost in the barns of horses' buns.

"You sure look the part," Carlos said, leaning against the doorframe. Blonde hair, average height, and that fake charm of his glued like fish cologne. His eyes settled on me like a predator sizing its prey.

I bent to strap on my six-inch heels, my fingers stiff from habit, then rose and picked up my signature mask.

"Ready to give them a show?" he asked with a practiced smile.

I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around his hand before I let go. I had done this countless nights, but every time still felt like a first—my stomach fluttering, my heart beating too loud.

With a small, barely audible sigh, I nodded. "Ready, Carlos."

He smirked and smacked my butt a little too hard. My eyes rolled as my lips pressed together. 'Oh, you sure aren't getting a taste of that,' I thought, even as I adjusted my red lingerie and mask, walking out of the room.

I climbed the podium, stopping at the top, and the house hit me like a storm—the applause of men, the hiss of their breath, the stench of alcohol and sweat. If hell had a sound, it would be this.

Aside from being a stripper, I sure knew how to make an entrance.

"Lilith, take me to hell!" As usual, one of my funny-looking fans, who could easily go as my father, shouted, his eyes stuck on me like a leech as he took a gulp of his drink.

Lilith. That was the name they knew me by. My real name was buried with my father. My faith. Along with every prayer that went unanswered.

I exhaled slowly, watching as the lights shifted and the room hushed under the low throb of music. Their gazes pinned me down like an arrow to a target board.

I moved—slowly, deliberately—through the pole’s cold steel, my half-naked body a weapon and a wound. One man shamelessly touched himself as he watched, another’s hand disappeared into his pants, their faces twisted in ugly pleasure.

Well, they said I danced like sin… and their looks were a testament to that. I was their last taste of heaven.

Or so I thought. But last I checked, I wasn't soft lights and wings. I was red—red lights and lace.

"Lilith, spin for me, baby," the drunk in the front row slurred.

A smirk tugged at the edge of my lips as I did as he commanded, bending forward, giving them the view they'd paid for—a view that cost me pieces of my soul.

I could imagine my father turning in his grave at the sight of me. And Mother? Probably somewhere hopping on another man's c**k. I mean, who leaves her husband on his sick, dying bed, running off with someone younger?

But I couldn't quite blame her. My father, Mr. Antonio, a rooted believer of Christ, had owed $200,000 to the most dangerous mafias in town. We weren't well off, and he sure didn't use that money for himself. But yeah, it happened. And when Dad died not being able to clear his debt, I was supposed to be taken as payment.

I ran instead. Far away from everything I had known. And I don't regret one bit. Well, not out loud.

With one final strike and the music coming to an end, I slid down the pole, landing on my knees, my back arched. The music throbbed, my skin glittering, and my heart beating fast.

They clapped. They cheered.

And I slipped behind the curtain, away from their lustful eyes.

"You were amazing, Lilith," one of my colleagues said, brushing past me with a smile, like I was her role model and she was proud of my achievements.

"Thanks," I muttered, meeting her high-five mid-air. My mask still on. My face well hidden.

No one knew my real name, nor the way I really looked—aside from Carlos.

"Jeez…" The words tumbled out of my mouth the moment I pulled the door open without knocking. Public space, my brain had reasoned. But the scene before me snapped the air out of my lungs.

Carlos was seated, smirking, his hands tangled in a woman's hair I was guessing was barely above 20 as she gagged on his c**k. White liquid dripping down her mouth like spilled paint.

The moment he saw me, he gestured for her to leave, then adjusted himself as if nothing had happened.

"I'm sorry you had to witness that," he said, his voice silk-smooth. Though I knew he didn't mean it, and who knows, maybe he did this on purpose so I could see what I was "missing" out on.

Huff.

He was the least sexually attractive person to me.

I grabbed the nearest chair, peeling off my heels, my back stiff.

"You don't need to apologize. This is a workspace. Next time, do yourself a favor finding a private room," I said, rolling my eyes, though my face stayed turned away.

"I heard you were fire up there," he said as he neared me, his breath hot against my skin.

I swallowed hard. "Yes. I was. As always."

"Can we celebrate this sometime?" His voice lowered. "You know… get to see you for you. Get that mask off your beautiful face."

"I'll pass, Mister Carlos. I'll be on my way now." My body was already rising, but he stepped into my path.

"I can give you a better life, Lilith. Away from all this." He gestured around.

And by better life, he meant me being his personal plaything. No thanks.

"I will think about it, Mis…ter Carlos." My tone stretched his title, each syllable dripping with the last of my respect.

My phone dinged—a saving grace. Relief fluttered in my chest.

A smile flashed on my already tired face. All I wanted now was to sink into my bed, hug my pillow and sleep. "My ride is here. I guess I'll see you tomorrow evening," I said, stretching past him to grab my bag from the vanity mirror.

He excused himself, giving me a chance to quickly change into a hoodie, and when I was done, I walked my way through, rushing into the car that was already opened for me.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"Trimo Street. Block Ten." My voice was automatic, my eyes glued to my phone as I typed away.

He should know where we were headed; didn't I specify when I ordered the ride? It was then I looked up, getting a proper glimpse of the car.

It then dawned on me.

Have cabs here suddenly grown fancier overnight?

The car was different. Too clean. Too expensive for a regular cab.

"Uhm…" I was about saying something when a man in the passenger seat in front turned slightly. I hadn't even noticed him until now.

"Lilith," he called out my name smoothly, as if he had been practicing it for ages.

My body ran cold. Dead cold. If he called my name, it meant he knew me. Was he one of the perverts from the club?

I quickly picked my phone to dial Carlos, but the driver ripped it from my hand.

"Lilith, daughter of the saint. Or would you rather I called you Emilia?" the voice of the person in the passenger seat roared again.

He called my real name.

What was all this?

Before I could register what was going on, a sharp pin pricked my skin, and my eyes blurred almost immediately.

The last thing I heard before darkness swallowed me whole was his voice, low and final:

"By the time you wake up, you will be in your new home."