Episode5
1153 Words
Four months at the club had passed in a way I didn’t expect.
Not peacefully—but steadily.
Like life had stopped trying to punish me every second.
Cooper had been right about one thing: people here didn’t really care who you were, as long as you did your job.
Word got around when I first started, of course. It always does. People talk. But nothing changed. No one looked at me differently in a way that made me feel smaller.
The girls especially refused to let anyone stay on the outside.
Britney was the first to pull me in.
She talked too much—about everything. Her childhood, her first period, her first boyfriend she described as a “walking disappointment with a mouth that never shut.” I learned quickly that Britney didn’t believe in privacy, not even her own.
Too late, I realised that meant she also didn’t believe in mine.
Because the day I told her about my past, I didn’t just tell Britney.
I told everyone.
By the next morning, I walked into the staff room and found what they called a “consoling session.” Every stripper in the club had opinions, advice, and surprisingly strong emotions about my story. Even Tasha had said something like, “he deserved it.”
I disagreed.
But I didn’t argue too much.
Mostly because I suspected that if I did, they would sit me down again and explain at least twelve alternative ways I could have “handled it better.”
“Rue, you’ll be serving the private rooms tonight,” Tasha announced, going through assignments like she always did before a shift.
I nodded, tightening my apron.
The club had changed slightly since I started. Cooper had introduced rotation shifts—booths, lounge, private rooms. No one stayed in one place too long anymore. Tasha said it was to “balance exposure,” but I think it was also so no one got too comfortable anywhere.
Comfort was rare here.
And maybe that was safer.
At first, I worked booths. Then lounges. Eventually, private rooms.
And that was where things got complicated.
A week ago, Mr Richardson happened.
He was one of the regular VIPs. The kind of man who always sat like he owned the air around him. I had noticed his eyes before—lingering too long, too often—but I told myself it was just the usual male attention that came with this job.
I had learned to ignore that kind of look.
The first time, he s*****d me while I was serving drinks.
Just like that.
Like I wasn’t a person standing there.
I froze, then stepped back quickly, forcing a polite smile and telling him it wasn’t appropriate. He laughed it off, like it was a joke I didn’t understand.
I told myself he was drunk.
The second day was worse.
He asked me how much it would cost for me to get on my knees and “prove I was useful.”
My stomach turned, but I didn’t react. I tried to walk away.
That was when he grabbed my wrist.
Hard.
He leaned in too close, voice low and ugly, saying things I didn’t want to remember, things that made my skin crawl long after he stopped speaking.
I pulled away eventually. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear anything else.
Straight after that, I went to Cooper.
I reported everything.
He said he spoke to Richardson.
And that it wouldn’t happen again.
But trust doesn’t come easily when your entire life has taught you that promises are just temporary pauses before worse things happen.
Tonight, I didn’t feel calm.
I tried to.
But my body remembered things my mind wanted to forget.
“Can I do booths or the lounge instead?” I asked Tasha quietly. “Just for tonight?”
She looked at me for a moment, then sighed.
“Rue, he promised to behave.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m comfortable,” I said.
“It’s been two weeks,” she replied. “You’ve worked the other areas more than enough. You still have to do private rooms eventually. Avoiding it won’t change anything.”
She paused, then added more gently, “At least this way you’ll see for yourself that it’s over.”
I didn’t agree.
But I nodded anyway.
Because arguing wouldn’t change the schedule.
The night went on.
Busy. Loud. Controlled chaos.
And for a while, I almost believed maybe she was right.
Mr Richardson didn’t approach me.
He didn’t touch me.
He didn’t say anything.
Just watched.
Always watched.
Like patience was part of his plan.
That alone made my skin stay tight all night.
A few hours before my shift ended, I was assigned to a new room.
Different from the others.
I adjusted my shirt, knocked once, and entered.
And stopped.
Inside, there was only one person.
Sitting alone.
Cigarette between his fingers.
Smoke curling slowly into the air like it belonged there.
Mr Richardson.
But this wasn’t the same version of him from before.
This was quieter.
More deliberate.
More dangerous in a way that didn’t need noise.
I forced myself to move.
Professional. Calm. Controlled.
I placed the drinks on the table carefully, keeping as much distance between us as possible.
But his eyes followed every movement.
Like I was something he had already decided he wanted.
When I turned to leave, I almost made it to the door.
Almost.
His hand grabbed my arm.
And in one movement, the door slammed shut.
The sound echoed too loudly in the small room.
My breath caught.
“I’m going to f*ck you until you can’t walk for a week,” he said with a smirk.
Something in my chest went cold.
Not fear exactly.
Something sharper.
Disgust.
I pulled my arm away immediately.
“Mr Richardson, let go of me.”
My voice was steady, but only just.
“There are plenty of girls here who would gladly do whatever you want,” I said. “Why are you choosing to harass me when I’ve made it clear I’m not interested?”
He laughed softly.
“I’ve had them,” he said simply. “I want you.”
My stomach twisted.
“I want to hear you scream,” he continued, stepping closer. “I’ll choke you while I take you from behind, over and over. You look like you’d break so easily. Pretty thing like you… probably tight as hell.”
My skin crawled.
Every word felt like something trying to crawl under it.
I stepped back again, forcing myself not to shake.
“Mr Richardson,” I said slowly, carefully, “whatever fantasy you have in your head is going to stay exactly there.”
His smile faded slightly.
“And I suggest you think very carefully before you put your hands on me again.”
- Writer
