The music just slammed the sorority house. Bassline? Like a freaking fist pounding the walls. Foundation was basically groaning.

The bass wasn’t music to the closest freshman. It was a leech, biting through her eardrums. Molars rattled close to the speakers, and some kid had quit, hands over his head like a POW.

Fairy lights bled a drunk glow over the couch-crammed living room. Bodies and red cups collided in the sweaty grind of a party hitting its stride. Beer and punch slicked the floors—sacrificial offerings to the night. Every squk of shoes on sticky tile was a eulogy for the floor’s dignity.

Vanilla body spray fought the corpse of a citrus candle. It reminded Sarah of her aunt’s tacky beach house, where every room smelled like a fruit salad had a midlife crisis. Laughter ricocheted, tangled with shouty flirtations and a very wrong rendition of the chorus.

Annie the sorority president, didn’t stand; she occupied, spine like a steel ruler. Black dress so tight it might’ve been painted on. Her hair—fucking flawless. Light caught every wave like it owed her money. Her smile—champagne meets arson—killed the noise. The crowd feared her more than FOMO.

A spoon ting against a stolen cup. Chatter flatlined. The music ducked, leaving only the bass, throbbing like a bruise.

“Alright, you heathens...” Annie barked, ducking a whizzing cup. “Chill, Chad! Our anniversary bash. You’re welcome.” Squk. Squk. Annie’s glare froze the offender mid-step: dog caught pissing on the rug.

“This isn’t a party; it’s our annual descent into chaos.” A phone buzzed. “Tonight? I’m the one holding the matches.”

The crowd buzzed. What’s she up to? Annie’s plans were legend—sometimes iconic, often a felony. This? Branding-iron memorable.

Sarah hovered by the punch bowl, half-invisible, like she’d mastered the art of vanishing. Her cup—sticky, red, tasting like someone melted a bag of gummy bears—was basically glue in her hand. Cardigan buttoned up to her chin, never mind the house felt like Satan’s sauna. Same old Sarah, hiding in her sweater fortress, wondering if anyone noticed she’d been standing there for, like, an hour.

Always the same. Walls up, safe inside her soft, modest cage. Back in high school, after that guy—nobody talked about it—she’d learned to hide. Sweaters were her armor. And for a long time, she felt safe in them.

Used to.

Phil saw through all that. From that first day in the Student Union, hunched over Pride and Prejudice, clutching a soda the size of her head.

“You’ll have to drink that faster if you want to make the Soda Olympics,” he’d said. She’d looked up and laughed. Real, loud, like something broke free. The crack had started there. Then came dates: coffee, pizza. Walks that stretched past curfew, where his hand found hers like it belonged there. “You’re a gem,” he’d said.

He saw her. Really saw her. Nobody else did. And he stuck around. It rattled her, but God, she craved it.

The party raged, but Sarah was background noise. Wallpaper. Her punch was lukewarm now. Gross. Sarah wondered why she even came. Same old nerves, same old hiding ... God, was she always gonna be this way? Shoulda stayed in my room. Too loud, too hot. She took a sip. It didn’t help.

Then Amanda showed up. Of course. Brassy, bold Amanda, her roommate, her chaos magnet. Her accidental compass. Chipped bracelet jangling like it was late for something. “Sarah,” she said, voice low, slicing through the noise. “You’re doing this.”

Sarah flinched, clutching her cup. “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “Really.”

“No way,” Amanda said, leaning close. “Not hiding tonight. This is your moment.”

Moment? Sarah’s pulse spiked. Moment for what? “Amanda, me? On stage? I’d die. I’d actually die.” Her voice cracked. “I can’t even wear a tank top without turning red.”

Amanda’s grin was all trouble. “Exactly why you’ve gotta. You’re not that shy Sarah anymore. Phil took care of that.”

“Amanda!” Sarah hissed, glancing around. “Keep your voice down.”

Nobody knew. Not about last week, that night she’d let Phil in. When she’d wanted, and asked, and let herself feel. His touch— slow, careful, electric, steady and reverent— made her feel alive, and for the first time in forever, she’d felt lit from within. Like someone had turned her on and left the lights glowing. New.

Amanda knew. She’d seen Sarah sneak in at 3 AM, cardigan slipping, hair wild, lit up like a stadium. “Chill,” Amanda said, waving it off. “Nobody’s eavesdropping. Oh, Phil’s here, by the way. He asked about you.”

“He’s here?” Sarah’s stomach flipped. She found him by the door, laughing at something, red cup in hand. Easy and relaxed, like always. Clueless about the chaos Amanda just sparked.

“What’ll he think?” Sarah muttered, picking at a thread on her sleeve.

Amanda snorted. “He’ll lose his mind. Proud as hell. Watching you shine, owning it.”

“Really?” Sarah’s voice was small.

“Yeah. Also? You’ve got the best ass in this house.”

“Shut up!” Sarah laughed, mortified, cheeks burning. Best ass? Her? Hidden under cardigans and loose skirts, unnoticed.

Best ass. Doe eyes. Smile like a secret. Amanda rattled off her assets like she was someone else. Me?

“My family would freak,” Sarah mumbled.

“They’re not here.”

“Our pledge class?”

“They’d be shocked but they’d cheer. Claire’d probably throw confetti.”

“You think?”

“They’d see what I see—a badass stepping up. Owning her power. “ Amanda softened, just a touch. “You’re gorgeous, Sarah. Stop hiding.”

“Think I could?” The question came out small, soft, like it slipped past Sarah’s filters. Like she wasn’t even sure she’d said it out loud.

Amanda didn’t even blink. “I know you can.”

Something shifted. Like a door creaking open inside her chest. Sarah’s heart pounded. Annie hadn’t even mentioned the contest to her, only Amanda and Jennie, her “big sister.” That hurt more than she wanted to admit.

They think I’m a joke. A nothing. They think I don’t matter.

Her breath hitched. Joining Annie’s contest terrified her, but Amanda’s words echoed Phil’s touch—scary but amazing. A quiet yes stirred inside. Small and shaky, but alive.

It grew. Not just stepping on stage. Owning it. Not stripping ... revealing. Music pulsing. Lights spinning. Phil’s breath hitching. Her cardigan falling, not a loss, but a rebirth. They’ll see me.

“I can’t,” she murmured, her voice barely holding.

“You can,” Amanda said, softer now. “You need to.”

“Good girls don’t do this,” Sarah said softly, almost to herself.

Amanda leaned closer, her voice teasing. “Good girls don’t fuck their boyfriends either.”

Sarah gasped. Amanda really went there.

“Remember what you said, Sarah? Scary but amazing? This is like that, only more so.”

Sarah stared into her cup. The punch had gone flat. And warm. She thought of Phil. His hands. His whisper. How she trembled, but didn’t stop. The way he’d made her feel beautiful, not in spite of who she was, but because of it.

“This would feel like that,” she whispered.

Amanda nodded. “Exactly.”

“Come on,” Amanda said, eyes gleaming. “Phil’s jaw dropping. You, shining like a damn star. Not Punchbowl Girl; woman. Kick that cage open.”

She saw it—flashes of it. Blurry, but real. The stage. Her. Not just taking off the cardigan, but stepping out of it. Music flaring. Her body in motion. The crowd going still. Phil’s mouth hanging open. A hush, and then—

Applause. Seen. Not invisible anymore.

“I don’t know...”

“You do,” Amanda said, gentle. “You’ve just never let yourself believe it.”

Something cracked. Sarah swallowed hard.

What if I could? Wanted to? What if this was it? The moment she stopped hiding?

Amanda touched her arm. “Do it for you, okay? Not for me. Not for Phil. For you. For Sarah. Because you deserve it.”

Sarah exhaled slowly, unsteady. Trembling.

“You know you want to,” Amanda pressed. “Admit it. It’ll be fun. Just think about it, okay?”

Sarah hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll ... think about it.”

Amanda grinned. “That’s my girl.” And she vanished.

Sarah’s fingers eased off the cup. Not yes. Not yet. But not no. Her skin tingled.

She couldn’t.

She might.

She shouldn’t.

She wanted to.

The crowd buzzed, drunk on drama, high on beer and anticipation. Annie clapped, voice shrill with excitement. “To our anniversary bash!” she shouted, grin wicked. “We go big, but tonight’s lit.” The room crackled. Annie’s heel tapped, scuffed. “Not just a party ... a Striptease Showdown!”

The crowd roared. Annie listed six sorority sisters, each bold, ready:

Jennie, Sarah’s “big sister,” the six-foot blonde softball pitcher, busty, toned, and blazing with hazel-eyed fire. She didn’t just walk onto that stage; she stalked it like a predator. I’ll own this.

Betsy, Jennie’s “big sister,” cute but wild, a busty redhead with a daring bob and a reputation to match. House VP. Loyal to Jack—mostly. Her barely-there dress made her intentions crystal clear.

Amanda, Sarah’s brassy roommate. Round-titted and fresh off a breakup, dressed to play: red top, leather skirt, and confidence like a dare. She was ready to turn heads and prove something to herself and everyone else.

Debbie, sultry brunette with a history, her vibe electric, teasing Charlie tonight, sparking jealousy tomorrow. She’d once swapped partners with Jennie. The crowd could feel it.

Penny, short, auburn-haired, with a wicked glint and no fear of nakedness. A spotlight addict, ready to charm. She practically wiggled onto the stage.

“And, uh, me,” Annie said, a quick giggle breaking her cool. The crowd went wild.

Sarah clutched her cardigan, heart pounding. They’re fearless. Could I be?

Annie’s voice rang out. “Let’s hear it for our six contestants!” Applause exploded.

Sarah’s throat tightened. She gripped her cardigan. This is it.

“Seven.” Soft. Shaky. Firm.

Heads turned. Chatter stopped. Eyes blinked.

Sarah—quiet, demure, Cardigan Sarah—stepped forward. Chin up, hands shaking. Amanda’s grin spread, slow, like dawn.

Phil’s beer froze halfway to his lips. Sarah? His Sarah? His heart skipped.

Annie blinked. “I count six,” she said, repeating the names.

Sarah climbed onto the stage. Her voice, steady but loud in her ears, cut through.

“Seven, Annie. I’m in.”

Annie’s jaw dropped. She was gobsmacked. “SARAH?!” she yelled. The name came out like a scream in a library, eyes bugging out like she’d seen a ghost. Cardigan Sarah? Punchbowl Girl? Her hand smacked her chest, half-joking, half-pissed. “You sure?” It sounded sweet, like she cared, but it was a shove—This isn’t you. Go back to the punch bowl. But Sarah wasn’t budging.

Sarah nodded, gut screaming, Nope. Her hands shook, but her eyes said, You ain’t ready.

“Totally,” she muttered, tough as nails. Her knees wobbled, but her eyes burned. My moment. She was done hiding, done being the girl who ducked out. Done wondering what might happen if she dared. This was her, strutting out. Gutsy, real, owning it. No turning back. Cardigan Sarah? Toast.

The rickety stage groaned, beer cans rolling underfoot. Girls froze. “Wait ... Sarah? For real?” one giggled, half-choking. Others gaped, like, What the hell? Laugh? Clap? Run? Pretend it wasn’t happening?

But Amanda’s wink hit like a high-five. Phil’s grin—wide, shocked, proud—locked her in. She’s got this. His eyes screamed it. He knew the nights it took—coffee runs, 2 AM talks, cracking her walls like a safe. Porchlight goodbyes, poems he coaxed from her cardigan shield. She wasn’t his gem to uncover anymore. She was blazing, blowing his damn mind, owning the light.

For me. For him. For us.

She was here. She was burning bright.

And even he hadn’t seen this coming.

But Phil’s grin twitched. Can she handle this? The sweaty crowd, buzzing lights, Annie’s glare?

Too late. Sarah was on that stage, not backing down.

The whispers lit up like a fuse.

The crowd went nuts. “Wait ... is that—?”

“No freaking way.”

“Cardigan Sarah?” Whispers hit like a bar fight breaking out.

Annie’s smile cracked, turning stiff and glassy. She gritted her teeth She’s serious? A snicker here, a gasp there. Punchbowl Girl? Striptease? This has to be a joke. Sarah was crashing her party, stealing her spotlight. Hell no!

Sarah. Sarah? In this? Not in a million years.

This wasn’t the plan.

Sarah didn’t fit the vibe: wasn’t brash, wasn’t wild, wasn’t the kind of girl who showed skin or stole stages. Hell, Annie hadn’t even told her about the contest. Sarah was supposed to pour the punch and stay out of the way.

And yet here she was. Shaking, but standing tall. Owning space Annie hadn’t offered.

I swear to God. She’s hijacking my party.

Sarah’s knees were unsteady, but her eyes blazed. This was her moment. She could feel it. No turning back now.

Annie’s voice cracked as she forced the words out. “Our, um, seven contestants!” Her tone hit like dry ice—cold and brittle, breaking on contact.

She’ll choke, Annie thought.Gotta.

Then the crowd erupted. For Sarah. Cheers slammed her ears, wild, raw, like a Bronx bar after a Yankees homer. Wild, electric, alive. A wave of raw sound that seemed to lift her off the ground. Sarah blinked, then stood taller, eyes flashing. I’m here.

Annie’s face fell. They’re cheering her? Punchbowl Girl? Her smirk was gone, smoked like a bad pitch.

Five judges plopped down: Steve, Casey from the baseball team, Charlie—Debbie’s guy—sweating bullets every time she glanced his way, and two frat bros, better at beer pong than brains, names lost in the party’s roar.

Backstage, the contestants drew numbers. One by one, they vanished behind curtains to get ready. Sarah’s hand shook as she pulled hers. Four. Smack in the middle. Her gut screamed, Nope, but something stronger pushed through: heat, resolve, the quiet roar of I’m doing this. “Breathe, girl,” she muttered, legs like jelly but spine like steel.

Annie leaned in, voice syrupy but sharp. “Sarah, you don’t have to do this, y’know.” Total BS. It was a shove: Beat it, Punchbowl Girl. Her second jab to ditch Sarah, like, You’re embarrassing yourself.

Sarah stared her down. “I need to, Annie,” she said, voice low, steady. “I want to.” I’m not hiding anymore. Cardigan Sarah? Donezo.

Annie’s eyes slit, like, Need to? Who the hell does this chick think she is? “Whatever,” she spat, turning away.

Amanda grabbed Sarah’s shoulder. “You’re a damn knockout, girl,” she hissed, all fire. Sarah’s chest lit up.

That did it. Annie’s jaw clenched. Amanda. Of course.

Debbie sashayed out, owning the rickety stage the second her heel hit it. Red dress hugging her like a second skin, barely hitting her thighs. Dark hair tumbling, messy and wild. Her smoky eyes locked on Charlie—judge, boyfriend, squirming like a kid caught red-handed. Her hips rolled slow and smooth, like she was circling prey.

The sweaty crowd erupted, whistles, howls, roars, “Go Debbie!” Debbie soaked it in, savoring the simmer. Then she moved—fluid, dangerous, totally in control.

She smirked, hips swaying, a predator vibe. “C’mon, Charlie, watch,” she purred, dragging a nail along her neckline. The straps slipped. Dress hit the floor, showing lacy black bra and panties.

“Hot damn!” a dude hollered, voice cracking. She spun, ass angled just right, grin all smug. Crowd roared louder.

The bra flew, launched like a trophy. A guy in the back caught it, fist pumping like he’d won March Madness. Panties next—slow, teasing, bending low to flash the room, no shame, eating the gasps. She kicked them aside. Charlie’s eyes burned, half-jealous, half-hooked.

Naked now, Debbie hopped on the creaky chair, one knee up, skin glowing under buzzing lights. She spun, hands on hips, owning the space, the noise, the moment. Charlie’s glare said she’d rattled him—bullseye. She blew him a sassy kiss. “Beat that,” she mouthed, strutting off, hips swaying like an exclamation mark.

“Damn, Debbie!” The crowd went nuts, girls buzzing. Sarah’s pulse hammered. Can I top that?

Then Penny bounded onstage, auburn ponytail swinging, green mini-dress sparkling in the lights. Her grin screamed trouble, all curves and chaos. Tiny but electric, her energy crackled like live wire.

“Let’s get wild!” she yelled, arms up, sparking hoots and claps. Her grin could’ve powered the entire room; she was all curves, loud, carefree, and electric, pulling everyone in with her energy. Short, fiery, every move sent her hips and chest jiggling.

Music thumped. Penny twirled—too fast, too fun—skirt flying, pink panties flashing. “Oops!” she giggled, winking. She flopped on the chair, paint chipping, legs crossing and uncrossing like a hyper burlesque queen. Then—whoosh—her dress flew, landing with a frat bro waving it like a flag.

The crowd howled. Penny threw her hands up, beaming.

“Want more?” she taunted, bra straps sliding. She yanked it off, boobs bouncing free. “Penny! Penny!” the sweaty crowd roared. Panties dropped, no shame, her grin screaming, Gotcha! Stark naked, she slung a leg over the creaky chair, ass out, laughing like she’d just pranked the whole damn room.

Then—bam!—a freaking cartwheel, landing in a sweaty split, ponytail plastered to her neck, arms high like she’d just won gold.

“That’s how you do it!” she hollered, skipping off to deafening cheers.

“Penny’s wild!” some girl cackled. Sarah’s stomach knotted. Can I be that fearless?

Betsy strutted out, red bob bouncing, blue dress hugging her curves. Green eyes locked on Jack. “Yo, Jack, you watching?” she called, all sass and brass. Sarah’s stomach knotted. So sure of herself.

A slow, smoky jazz beat rolled in. Betsy swayed to it, hips rolling, hands skimming her body like she was learning herself by touch. Dress hit the rickety stage, beer cans rolling nearby.

Underneath, emerald-green bra and panties shimmered under the lights, glowing against her pale skin. Gasps and cheers broke loose, the crowd digging her vibe, that sly-ass grin like a shield. “Let’s heat this up,” she said, voice all fire.

Her grin widened as she unhooked her bra, letting it fall, boobs out, free. She stood there a beat, letting them look. Cheers erupted. Panties next—slow, bending just enough for a cheeky flash. She held the moment. Crowd lost it.

Naked now, she slung a leg over the chair’s arm, posed, and did a saucy little curtsy. She strutted off, kissed Jack Hard. On the lips. He grinned, half-smug, half-proud, totally into it. The crowd erupted. Jack looked dazed.

“Betsy’s got game!” a dude yelled. Girls exchanged glances—impressed nods, a few awed laughs. Sarah’s pulse slammed. Can I bring that fire? Can I be that fierce?

Then it was Sarah’s turn.

Annie sidled up, all syrup and venom. “Last chance to back out,” she hissed.

Sarah just smiled and stepped onto the stage. Gonna puke. Her knees wobbled, but her spine screamed, I’m here. I’m doing this. You ain’t ready.

The other girls shifted, eyeing her like a puzzle. Whispers buzzed through the crowd:

“Cardigan girl?”

“No way.”

“She’s gonna bolt.”

“Ten seconds, tops.”

“She’s out.”

“She’s a joke.”

Snickers. Disbelief. Dismissal. Sharp and mean.

“Here comes the punchline!” a frat boy jeered.

Annie froze, eyes slits, smile stretched too tight. “She’ll choke,” she hissed, smirking.

This wasn’t her show anymore, it was a mutiny.

Phil’s grin screamed, She’s got this. She’s tougher than they know.

From the wings, Amanda whispered, “Knock ‘em dead.”

Sarah hit center stage, all layers, a living cartoon. Cardigan. Scarf. Gloves. Hat. A modest black dress. The room howled.

“Oh God, it’s Cardigan Sarah.”

“Knitting club’s that way!”

“Layers at a strip contest?”

“Did she bring her grandma?”

“She’s a joke.”

Someone muttered, “This’ll be good.”

And for the first time, Sarah felt it— not even adrenaline. Rightness. Like sliding into a version of herself she’d been avoiding. Every nerve buzzed. She was alive. I’m doing this.

Sarah’s heart slammed. Fingers shook, popping cardigan buttons, one by one. No stopping. Another button, then another. Phil’s grin broke, proud as hell. She’s got this.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Cardigan hit the stage. The crowd gasped.

“Oh my GOD, she just killed Cardigan Sarah!” a girl squealed. Yes, that was the point.

Sarah yanked her hat off, hair spilling wild. Gloves peeled slow, finger by finger, eyes on Phil. Scarf slid down, caressing her neck, dropping with a flick. A flicker of a shy smile. Still me.

Beneath it all, the black dress hugged every soft, secret curve. Boobs just right. Waist soft, hips, thighs—hers. Ass to die for. Real. Gorgeous.

“Cardigan Sarah’s HOT!” a dude hollered, floored.

Hot? Me? Sarah’s gut buzzed.

She stepped forward. Reached for the hem of the dress. Slipped it off.

Gasps. Then chaos.

Black garters.

Phil’s jaw hit the floor. Garters? Where did she even get garters?

She propped a leg on the creaky chair, sliding a stocking down—inch by inch, eyes locked on Phil. Stocking flew his way, blowing a kiss.

“For you,” she mouthed.

Phil snagged it, grinning like it was gold. Holy hell.

The second stocking came off slower. She bent low, ass out, all grace and audacity. Another toss. Another kiss. The crowd was screaming.

“Wait, what?—Cardigan Sarah’s got a BOYFRIEND?!” some guy shouted. Yeah. I do. He’s sweet. And tonight, he looked at her like she was the moon.

She turned around. Hands shook. Reached behind her. Unhooked the bra. Paused, holding it, breath caught. Then ... dropped it. Round boobs, nipples sharp in the sweaty air. Gorgeous.

The room exploded.

Judges froze, gaped, leaned in. Scribbled notes, stunned. Blinked. Sat up straighter. Noted.

Sarah turned her back, slow ... so damn slow. Breathed in. Spun, thumbs in her panties. Slow—real slow—she bent, sliding them down, her killer ass popping under buzzing lights. Crowd lost it.

She twirled, waving panties like a damn trophy, lips smirking, eyes blazing. Triumphant. Tossed them to Phil. Winked. Another kiss.

“And ... they ... DID IT?!” someone yelled, cracking. Yeah. We did. It was amazing.

Phil clutched the stockings and panties like they were sacred, grinning like he’d won the World Series, Super Bowl, an Oscar, a Tony. Everything. Framing these.

The applause wasn’t wild; it was fierce. Not frenzy. Respect.

“I have to go on after THAT?” Amanda said.

Sarah bowed—low, slow, proud, owning it. And walked offstage with nothing on but fire.

She hadn’t just undressed.

She had arrived.

I’m here. They came to watch her fall. She made them rise.

Gasps followed her. Then cheers. Then a roar.

“Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!”

Debbie whistled low. Betsy raised a brow. Penny clapped like a nut. Jennie nodded, impressed.

Annie gaped, jaw slack. “I can’t believe she pulled it off,” she mumbled to Betsy. “Sarah, of all people.”

At the DJ table, Emily bit her lip, curls bouncing as she shook her head. “If Cardigan Sarah can do that...” She groaned, dramatic. “I completely messed up skipping this. Who knew she had it in her?” A beat. “I’m signing up next year. No way I’m missing out again.”

Then Amanda.

She didn’t walk out. She strode. Like the floor owed her rent. Like the room was hers and always had been. Stormed the rickety stage like it was her kingdom. Red tank tight, leather mini barely hitting her thighs. Chipped earring glinting, the other gone—classic Amanda. Wild hair, lips scrunched up, eyes screaming trouble. Chaos in heels.

“Ready for this?” she shouted, voice cutting through the roar, grinning like she’d already won.

The crowd didn’t roar. They howled, shaking the bitchin’ walls.

No dainty step. She danced like a storm: shoulders rolling, hands on her curves like a lit fuse. Every step a threat. Every glance a dare. Hips smacked the beat like a fist. Fingers slid down her sides, slow, electric. She owned it, every inch.

Tank ripped off in one swift motion. Just like that. Flung into the mob. Some dude snagged it like a knight with a holy relic, waving it like a flag. “Hell yeah!” he hollered. Amanda winked. “Cute,” she mouthed.

Underneath: a black bra, tight and bouncing with her rhythm. She teased—hands on, off, pause—then snapped it off, tossing it like a dare. Cheers hit like a bomb. Like cannon fire.

“Who wants this?” she purred, all heat, all fire.

Screams. Laughter. Someone nearly fell off a chair.

She hiked her skirt, flashing a black thong, then spun it like a lasso. Slow and wicked. Everyone watching her.

Then her eyes found Kenny. Her grin softened. Just a little. Him.

She flung it his way.

Kenny caught it like it had changed his life, eyes bugging, like he’d been hit by lightning.

“Hold that,” she mouthed.

Now she was bare, sweat dripping. Gleaming. Backlit. Whole stage hers. The moment was hers.

Amanda slung a leg over the creaky chair, center stage, ass up, then spun, back arched, eyes blazing, hands on hips. Try looking away.

She dipped low, cheek brushing wood, then rose—slow, deliberate, unbothered. Not a performance. A declaration. This was her.

Hair toss. Grin. Wink. “Catch ya,” she said, strutting off, scoping for Kenny.

“Amanda’s a damn wildfire!” someone yelled.

Girls screamed. Guys lost it. Kenny stood there clutching her thong, grinning like he’d hit the lottery. Sarah watched, heart still racing. That’s my best friend.

Next: Annie.

She didn’t walk on. She arrived. Like a queen stepping off a chariot. That dress—black, clingy, dramatic as hell—moved like it had been trained for this. Hair spilling wild, like a shampoo commercial crossed with a Bond villain. Emerald eyes locking the room. The room just ... fell silent.

“Yo,” she said, voice low, smoky, unimpressed. She glanced at Steve. One brow raised. Already hers. “Ready?”

He gave the tiniest smirk. Hell yeah.

Sarah’s gut twisted. Big leagues.

Annie didn’t dance; she owned. Hands slid over her hips, slow and surgical, like she was doing them a favor. Dress dropped, no warning.

Gasps ripped through the room.

Red lingerie. Bold. Unexpected. So not her usual polish. Bra hugged a body that stopped hearts. She stood, like, So what? Like this was just Tuesday. Fierce, not fancy. This was hunger. Fire. Command.

She sank onto the creaky chair like it offended her, legs uncrossing like a dare. Every movement slow. Measured. Dangerous. Eyes pinned the room. Look all you want.

The crowd leaned in. Someone actually dropped a drink.

“Let’s raise the stakes,” she said, voice silk and steel. Smile like a knife.

Then her bra hit the floor.

And the crowd detonated.

Raising the stakes, indeed.

Panties dropped ... slow, deliberate, like Annie planned every damn second. Not sultry. Calculated. Strategic.

Her ass popped under buzzing lights, daring the crowd to blink. Naked, she didn’t pose. She chilled, leg slung over the creaky chair’s arm, spine loose, like she owned the rattling stage. Long look, like, Go ahead, stare. A spin, hands on hips, smirk locked.

“That’s how you do it,” she said, voice dripping swagger, strutting off. Scuffed heel clicked—mic drop.

Boom. Done.

The place detonated. Crowd roared. Thunderous applause. Gasps. Whoops. A rising, reverent hum.

“Annie’s a damn legend!” a dude hollered. Girls clustered together, whispering fast, shocked-laughing. Half-stunned. Almost reverent. Steve leaned back, smirking, like he’d been kissed by a storm.

“Unreal,” another guy shouted, dazed, like he’d just watched the Second Coming in heels.

Sarah stood frozen, stomach twisting. I held my own ... right?

Then Amanda’s hand squeezed hers backstage, the buzz still humming from Annie’s vibe. Warm. Anchoring. Amanda didn’t say a word, but her eyes did. You got this.

And then ... thunder.

Not applause. Jennie. Jennie charged the stage like a damn tank. Six feet of grit, white dress clinging like it was scared to let go. Blonde ponytail flailing, hazel eyes burning, “C’mon, let’s go!” she barked, and stomped like she was starting a riot. The crowd rose to meet her. On instinct.