The Owner of a Strip Club

I’ve owned Velvet Dreams for twelve years, and in that time, I've come to understand the women who work for me on a deeper level. Strippers and escorts aren't just chasing cash—if that were the case, they'd all flock to OnlyFans or porn sets for easy money. No, my girls choose this life because I give them something priceless: a clean separation between their work and their personal worlds. It's a shield that lets them walk away one day, unscathed, ready for whatever "respectable" future they envision.

Take Leona, for instance. She started with me four years ago, fresh out of high school at eighteen, juggling her shifts between classes at Raymond University. Tuition alone ran her fifteen grand a semester, plus rent, food, and all the little costs that pile up. Without sex work, she'd have drowned in student loans. Porn? Too risky—a permanent digital footprint that could torpedo any future job hunt. Stripping was the perfect middle ground: cash in hand, dignity traded temporarily, but no paper trail left behind. She could graduate debt-free, bury her past, and reinvent herself.

After leaving my club, she'd never breathe a word about her time as "Angel" to anyone—not bosses, not friends, not a future husband or kids. It might have worked, too, if she weren't my star performer. I'd crunched the numbers: Angel pulled in a hundred grand a year in direct revenue from guys who came just to watch her peel off layers under the neon lights. Factor in the booze and food sales she inspired, and it was multiples of that. I paid her sixty thousand for her part-time shifts, netting me at least forty grand in pure profit. My other dancers? Lucky if they cleared ten thousand in margins. Losing her wasn't an option.

So, a week after her graduation, I called her into my office. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the faint scent of cigar smoke and perfume that lingered from the club floor. I leaned back in my leather chair, smiling warmly as she entered, her curves hugged by a simple tank top and jeans that did little to hide the body that had men emptying their wallets.

I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk, and give her my warmest manager’s smile. “Relax, Angel. You’re not in trouble. Quite the opposite—congratulations on finishing college.”

Her posture softens just slightly, cautious. “Thank you.”

“You’ve started the job hunt already, I assume?” I ask, voice casual, like we’re talking about the weather. “Any luck? Planning your two weeks?”

She nods, pushing a strand of golden blonde hair behind her ear. “I polished up my résumé and I’ve been sending out applications on LinkedIn and Indeed. A few companies said they’d be in touch. If I’m lucky, I’ll have an interview lined up in a month or so. But don’t worry—when I get something, I’ll give you proper notice. Two weeks, minimum.”

Practical, polite. That’s Leona.

“Good girl,” I say, dismissing her with a wave. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

She takes the cue, turns for the door. Her hand reaches for the knob. Doesn’t budge. She frowns, jiggles it again.

While she’s distracted, I slide open the cabinet drawer and close my fingers around cold metal. The weight is reassuring. I raise the gun.

She glances back, confusion on her face. Then she sees the barrel. Her eyes widen, body freezing mid-breath.

I squeeze the trigger.

The shot doesn’t echo—it hums. A pulse of violet light cuts across the space and melts into her chest. No hole. No blood. Just a ripple under her skin, like a pebble dropped in water.

Her hand clutches her blouse. “You shot me.”

“I didn’t shoot you.”

“You’re holding a gun.”

“I’m not holding a gun.”

Her mind fights, flails, drowns. Her memory says yes. Her eyes say yes. My words weigh more than both. That’s the Ray. That’s my edge.

Her gaze drifts from the weapon to me, her pupils dilating like she’s waking from a dream. She defaults to the thought that brought her to the door. “It’s locked. How do I open it?”

“You’re not leaving just yet,” I say smoothly. “We still have to finalize your new schedule.”

Her brow furrows. “New schedule?”

“You wanted more hours. Full-time.” I tilt my head, voice matter-of-fact. “That’s why you came to see me today. Now that you’re finished with college, you’re ready to work here full-time.”

For a moment, her lips part, like she’s about to object. Something about résumés, or interviews, or the shiny “real job” she thought was waiting for her. I don’t let her speak. I push forward, layering the lies faster than her doubts can catch.

“Yesterday, we went over everything. You compared the salaries out there with what you earn here part-time. You realized this job is better than anything entry-level. You came to me, eager, and we spent the evening negotiating pay, perks, responsibilities. At the end of it all, you signed a new contract.”

I set the Ray back in its drawer and pull out a manila folder. The contract inside is neat, professional, signed in her hand—though she never touched a pen. I slide it across the desk. “I’ll keep the original for my records. Here’s your copy.”

She scans it. Her eyes narrow. “Why does this say fifty thousand? You were paying me sixty.”

“I gave you a raise,” I say without hesitation. “You used to make thirty. Full-time bumps you to fifty. Remember? You talked me up from forty-five.”

For a second, I think I’ve overplayed it. Then her frown softens into a little smirk. Self-satisfied. “That sounds like me.” She laughs lightly, relieved. “I thought it was a typo. I was expecting forty-five.” She looks up. “So what promotional work am I doing?”

“Just what we agreed,” I tell her, calm, steady. “A few videos for the website, some flyers, some ads. Nothing outside the contract.”

She nods, reassured, never realizing that each click of a camera is a shackle, binding her Angel persona to her real self forever.

Her finger traces another line in the contract. She stops. “Why does this say I’m in debt?”

Here comes the tricky part. The Ray bends minds, but numbers on a bank statement still exist. Discrepancies need smoothing.

“That’s the forgiveness clause you requested,” I explain, voice soft, almost paternal. “You were only making thirty grand before. Not nearly enough for rent and tuition. So I floated you thirty each year as a loan. One-twenty in total. But don’t worry—stay with me two years, and I’ll wipe it clean.”

Her eyes mist with gratitude. “Thank you.”

“For the loan or the forgiveness?”

“Both.”

We smile at each other. Hers, grateful. Mine, predatory.

When she tucks the contract under her arm, I stop her.

“I thought you said I could keep this.”

“That’s the original.” My voice leaves no room for doubt. “I need it for my files.”

She asks if I can photocopy it, or if she can snap a picture. I tell her both are illegal. She accepts that, unquestioning.

Instead, I hand her a paper schedule: thirty hours dancing, ten for promo. Exactly as promised. She beams, thanks me for moving so quickly.

I unlock the door. She steps out, free again. Almost.

“Oh—Angel,” I call after her.

She turns back, smiling faintly.

“I nearly forgot. Remember when I asked if you’d be willing to relocate to Nevada? You said you’d think about it.” I pause, letting the suggestion settle in her pliant mind. “Have you made a decision yet?”