Chapter 5: Amateur Night

Sarah Bennett stood in the cramped backstage dressing room of The Velvet Lounge, the air thick enough to taste—hairspray, baby oil, and the distant tang of cigarette smoke seeping through the vents. Muffled bass from the main stage pulsed through the thin walls like a second heartbeat, each thump vibrating up through the cracked linoleum under her bare feet. A single fluorescent bulb flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows across the row of mirrors lined with lipstick-stained tissues and scattered false lashes. She stared at her reflection, heart hammering against her ribs so hard she could feel it in her throat.

This was her now. No corner office. No power suit. Just Sasha the Executive Slut on amateur night.

Her hands shook as she picked up the eyeliner pencil Vince had tossed her earlier. She leaned close to the glass, drawing thick, smoky wings along her lids until her green eyes looked predatory, almost unrecognizable. Glossy red lipstick followed, slick and shining, turning her mouth into a wet invitation. Fake lashes came next—long, dramatic, fluttering against her cheeks as she blinked. The woman staring back was someone else entirely: harder, hungrier, the kind of creature who belonged under stage lights instead of mahogany desks.

The starter outfit hung on a hook beside her: a tiny black thong that left nothing to the imagination, clear platform heels tall enough to make her already long legs look endless, and a sheer black top so transparent it might as well have been mist. Sarah peeled off her street clothes with mechanical precision, the cotton bra and panties she’d worn to the coffee shop yesterday falling to the floor like shed skin. The thong slid up her thighs, the thin strip nestling between her smooth lips, already catching the faint dampness she refused to acknowledge. She stepped into the heels, ankles wobbling for a second before she found her balance. The sheer top clung to her full breasts, the fabric so fine her nipples were visible the moment the cool air hit them.

Former VP of sales, her mind whispered, a cruel echo of the woman she had been only months ago. You used to sign off on seven-figure contracts in conference rooms full of men who feared you. Now you’re about to walk out there in this. Her pulse spiked. Terror coiled tight in her stomach, but lower, deeper, something else stirred—a traitorous clench between her thighs, a slick heat that made the thong feel even smaller. She pressed her palms to the counter, breathing through it. Just one set. Four hundred dollars. Enough for groceries and the electric bill.

The door banged open. One of the veteran dancers— a curvy brunette named Jade—stuck her head in. “You’re up next, newbie. Knock ‘em dead.”