𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 ୨ৎ 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐨
Chris has everything he’s supposed to want, but his relationship has gone cold. his way of coping is escaping to a stripclub, paying for the attention and intimacy he can no longer find at home.
the lighting remained a permanent bruised purple, casting long, distorted shadows that swallowed the edges of the room, turning every guest into a silhouette of their own desire.
Chris sat in the furthest booth, leaning back with ease. he didn't look like a man falling apart; he looked like a man who owned the room. but behind the confidence, there was a void. for months, he had been living in a house that felt like a museum. beautiful, quiet, and dead. he and his girlfriend had reached a point where the silence between them was a physical wall. he was starving for something he couldn’t explain. something raw, and something that didn't require the exhausting effort of emotional honesty.
the spotlight hit you, and for a moment, the noise vanished. you were dressed in champagne-colored silk that clung to every curve of your hips and chest, the fabric so thin it looked like liquid poured over your skin, shimmering with every breath. a delicate gold chain draped across your waist, catching the purple light and throwing sparks across the room. your heels were towering pillars of clear acrylic that made your legs look endless. your hair fell in heavy waves, and your makeup was sharp, a dark smoky wing that made your eyes look distant and dangerous.
you didn't just dance; you manipulated the air around you. you gripped the pole with slow deliberate strength, sliding down on it so controlled. you arched your back, your spine a perfect taut curve, you let your head fall back, exposing the long line of your throat. you weren't just performing; you were commanding. there was a weight to your presence, an aura that made the other women on the stage seem like static.
Chris watched you, his gaze heavy and focused. he didn't lean forward; he didn't need to. he let his eyes roam over the line of your thighs, the sway of your hips, the way your fingers trailed over your own skin—starting at your collarbone, sliding down the valley of your chest, and pausing at the edge of the silk. he felt a sharp, sudden prick of spark pierce through him. it wasn't just lust. it was the hunger for a distraction that could drown out the image of his girlfriend’s disappointed face.
you noticed him. it was a flicker, a momentary lock of eyes across the haze of cigarette smoke. you saw a man who looked composed, yet his eyes were screaming. you saw the hunger, the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how much it cost.
you didn't smile. you didn't blow a kiss. you simply held his gaze for three seconds too long, a silent invitation that cost more than most people earned in a month.
you slide off the stage, the heels of your stilettos clicking against the polished floor. you move through the crowd, the men parting for you like a tide. they want you, but they fear the coldness you radiate. if you let them in, you become just another girl in a costume. you need to be the one in control.
you stop at the edge of the booth. he’s leaning back, watching you with a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes. he looks like he’s playing a game, and he’s very good at it.
"you’ve been watching me non-stop for twenty minutes," your voice is devoided of the rehearsed sweetness the other girls use.
Chris lets out a short, dry laugh, his voice smooth and confident. "hard not to. you’re the only thing in this room that looks real."
you lean in but you don't touch him yet. you let the anticipation do the work, letting the heat from your body radiate against his. "real is expensive," you murmur.
"i’ll give you all i got, ma," he replies, the term of endearment sliding off his tongue with a casual, gritty confidence. "the question is, do you have enough time for me?"
he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thick roll of bills, sliding them across the table without a second glance. the amount is obscene. he isn't bargaining; he's buying a sanctuary.
you look at the money, then back at his eyes. the confidence is there, but underneath it, there's a tremor- a crack. he isn't looking for a dance; he's looking for a place to disappear.
the private suite was of crimson velvet and dim amber lamps. the door clicked shut, sealing out the thumping bass. the silence here was heavier and more intimate.
Chris stood in the center of the room, his hands in his pockets, watching you. he looked composed, but the way he was breathing- shallow and fast betrayed him. he wanted to maintain the upper hand, to be the customer in control, but the atmosphere of the room was designed to strip that away.
you didn't go to him immediately. instead, you stepped back into the center of the floor, the light catching the gold dust on your collarbones. you began to dance for him, and this time there was no pole, no stage, no audience but him. you moved slowly, your body swaying to a rhythm only you could hear. you let the champagne silk slip slightly off one shoulder, your arms rising above your head, fingers curling like smoke. you spun slowly, the fabric fluttering around your hips, your eyes never leaving his.
you dropped low, your knees bending as you hovered just inches above the plush carpet, your hips rolling in a circular motion that seemed to draw all the air from the room. you arched your back again, a slow stretch that complimented the curve of your waist and the swell of your breasts against the silk. every glance you threw him was a calculated strike, a promise of a pleasure that was just out of reach.
you began to move toward him, and as you approached, you didn't stop the dance; you brought it to him. you circled him once, your body grazing his back, the silk of your outfit a fleeting touch. you could hear his breath hitch, the sound of a man losing his grip. you paused in front of him, your chest rising and falling in time with the muffled beat of the club outside. you let your hands roam over your own body, trailing from your hips up to your throat, your eyes locked on his with a gaze that was both inviting and distant.
finally, you closed the gap. you climbed into his lap, your movements fluid and feline, the acrylic heels clicking softly as you settled. you didn't just sit; you molded yourself to him. you could feel the tension in his thighs, the hardness of his body beneath you, and the way his heart was now hammering against his ribs.
you leaned back, creating a sliver of space between your chests, and began to roll your hips. it was a slow grind, a friction that pushed the boundaries of his control. you watched his expression shift from confidence to something desperate. your movements were hypnotic, a slow-motion that mirrored the bass of the club, each roll of your hips a silent demand.
you leaned in, your lips grazing his jawline. you didn't kiss him yet. instead you drifted toward his ear. you felt him shiver, his breath coming in jagged gasps. then you sank your teeth into his earlobe.
"mmm..." Chris groaned deep, his hands snapping to your waist to hold you in place. he gripped you with strength, his fingers digging into the silk.
you pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, "still feeling confident?" you whispered.
he didn't answer with words. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling you as if you were oxygen and he had been drowning for years. the confidence was gone, stripped away by the friction and the heat. he pressed his forehead against your shoulder, his grip on your hips tightening.
"you're shaking," you murmured, your voice softening.
"m’ not," he lied, "i’m fine."
you pulled back, looking into his eyes. you saw the lie instantly. you saw the heartbreak, the relationship that had probably torn him apart, the addiction to a pain he couldn't quit. you shifted your weight, pressing the curve of your thigh against him, molding your body to his until there was no space left between you.
"you're not fine," you whispered. "you’re falling apart."
Chris closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours. "just for an hour," he whispered, his voice finally breaking. "just make me forget everything. forget who i am, forget where i have to go back to."
you wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his neck. you began to kiss him, not with passion, but with a calculated tenderness designed to soothe. it was a professional intimacy, polished and precise. you tasted of expensive lip gloss and a hint of mint.
he groaned again, a sound of agony and relief, and gripped your waist. "please," he gasped.
he pulled back, his eyes wide, searching yours for something that wasn't there. the desperation had peaked, overriding the confidence, overriding the money. he didn't want the dance anymore. he didn't want the physical friction. he wanted the lie.
you froze. the request was a classic. the most expensive request in the book. it wasn't about the words; it was about the shield those words provided. he wanted temporary affection to protect him from the cold reality of a home where he felt invisible.
"you know i can't do that," you said softly.
"i don't care that it's fake," he pleaded, "i know you don't. i know this is what i’m paying for. but just... just say it. tell me you love me, even though you don't."
you look at him and for the first time, you see the shattered pieces of a heart that has been handled too roughly. you feel a flicker of something… not love, but aching empathy. you know what it is to pretend. you spend your entire life playing a role, carving yourself into an actor every night so that no one sees the human underneath.
you are both frauds in this room. he is pretending to be okay, and you are pretending to be untouchable.
you reach up, cupping his face in your hands. your thumbs trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble, the heat of his skin. you lean in, your breath warm against his lips.
"i love you," you whisper.
he shudders, a tremor that racks his entire frame. he clings to you, sobbing silently into your shoulder. the words are empty, devoid of truth, but to him, they are a lifeline. he drinks the lie like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
"again," he chokes out. "say it again, with my name, Chris"
you continue to whisper the lie, over and over, a mantra that lulls him into a state of peace. you hold him while he breaks, your hands stroking his hair. you don't feel the love, but you feel the weight of his need, and for a moment, that is enough.
as the minutes tick by, the tension begins to bleed out of him. the frantic grip on your waist loosens. the sobbing stops, replaced by exhausted silence. he pulls back, his eyes red and swollen, looking at you with a mixture of gratitude and sadness.
he knows the clock is ticking. he knows that the moment he steps out of this room, the words will vanish, dissolving like sugar in rain.
"how much more time do i have?" he asks.
you glance at the clock on the wall. the session is almost over. "ten minutes."
he leans back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. the numbness is returning, but it's different now. it’s not the sharp, jagged void from before; it's a dull, heavy blanket.
"i can't go back there," he says, gesturing vaguely toward the door.
"you have to. that’s the game."
Chris feels the cold air of the club hit him the moment he exits the suite. the transition is jarring. the purple lights feel harsher, the bass more intrusive. he feels stripped bare, the fake warmth of your words already evaporating from his skin.
he stops at the edge of the exit, looking back. you’re standing in the doorway of the suite, the light behind you casting you in a golden glow. the empathy is gone, replaced by serene distance. you aren't the woman who held him while he cried anymore.
"will you be here next week?" he asks, his voice hollow.
you don't smile. you don't promise anything. you simply nod once, a professional acknowledgment of a returning client. "i’ll be here."
he turns and walks out. the city air is freezing, smelling of exhaust and rain. he gets into his car and sits in the silence, the echo of your voice still ringing in his ears.
he closes his eyes and leans his head against the steering wheel. he knows it was a lie. he knows he is addicted to the lie. and as he starts the engine, he knows he will count every second until he can pay to hear it again.
you watch as his car pulls away from the curb through the tinted glass of the club's window. you feel a strange lightness in your chest, a residual hum from the intensity of his breakdown.
you think about the way he clung to you, the way his heart hammered against your ribs. he was a broken man, and you were the glue made of money and performance.
"you’re up next," the floor manager calls out. you straighten your posture. you slide your mask back into place, the eyes turning distant, the expression becoming a void. you step back onto the stage, the purple lights swallowing you whole.
the following week, Chris is shaking again, but this time it's a hunger. the numbness has returned, and it's clawing at him, demanding to be silenced.
he enters the club and doesn't even look at the other girls. he doesn't look at the drinks. he walks straight to the booth, his eyes searching yours.
when you see him, you feel a tightening in your throat. he looks worse. there are dark circles under his eyes, and his clothes hang off him as if he's shrunk. he looks like he’s haunting his own life.
you approach him, the click of your heels the only sound he cares about. "back so soon?" you ask.
he doesn't answer with words. he simply slides a larger stack of bills across the table. his hand is trembling violently.
"i can't breathe," he whispers. "i can't breathe out there."
you don't say a word. you take his hand, your fingers interlocking with his, and lead him back toward the suite. you know the cycle. you know the desperation. you know that you are the only thing keeping him from sliding completely into the dark.
he doesn't wait for a dance. he doesn't wait for grace. he collapses into you, his face burying itself in your neck, his breath coming in jagged, panicked gasps.
"tell me," he sobs. "tell me again."
you wrap your arms around him, pulling him in. you feel the familiar weight of his misery, you know that this is a slow-acting toxin that makes the real world unbearable. but as you look at him, really look at him, you realize you don't want him to leave.
you like the way he needs you. you like being the only person who knows how broken he is.
"i love you, Chris," you whisper, and for the first time, the lie doesn’t feel as heavy.
ella’s notes: tysm for the request anon! i hope i lived up to expectations :s to be continued….??
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