Chapter 3
Chapter three
The Scarlet Muse
Catalina
No one tells you the real power of a double life is in the transition.
The liminality, when you’re not quite one thing or another, but both, skin prickling, head full of static.
By the time I push through the alley door into the Velvet Stag’s inner sanctum, I can feel my heartbeat in every joint, an arrhythmic tattoo that has nothing to do with the cold night or the cab ride or the memory of Aiden St. James' eyes on me all day.
The hallway to the dressing rooms is painted matte black, ceiling to floor, the only light a series of ruby sconces that draw out every rough edge of the brick.
I trace a finger along the wall as I walk, letting the texture ground me.
The door to the performer’s suite opens with a pneumatic hiss and a faint whiff of leather, no expense spared, not here.
Inside, everything is mirrors, chrome, and lacquered wood, the kind of luxury that’s almost pornographic in its lack of subtlety.
I lock the door behind me and let my bag drop on the vanity.
For a second, I study myself in the triple-mirror.
The corporate attire already gone, replaced with black yoga pants and a thrift store tee that says “NO GODS, NO MASTERS.” My hair is a disaster, the once nice bun collapsed into a wild cloud around my face, curls kinked with defiance.
I look like a college dropout getting ready for the world’s worst job interview.
Perfect.
My ritual begins with makeup. It always does because the Scarlet Muse is perfection.
I empty the contents of my kit across the counter, an arsenal of pigments and precision tools lined up like scalpels for personality surgery.
The foundation is industrial strength, and I slather it on, layer by layer, until my skin is blank and luminous and utterly alien.
Next, the contour, cheekbones sliced into sharp relief, jaw sculpted into submission.
Brows are the hardest, but I’ve mastered the arch, something between invitation and threat.
The lips are last, and I paint them in liquid stain, a shade somewhere between “fresh blood” and “cherry cordial.” No one in my day job would recognize me, and that’s the point.
I open my bag and take out the corset: custom, scarlet satin, boned with steel, laces readily tied in the fan position.
I run my hands over it, feeling the heft and resistance, the promise in every tight seam.
I strip, not slow but careful, peeling off the tee, the sports bra, every last scrap of civilian cotton.
I step into the corset and work the laces in stages, breathing shallow, hips twisting as I wrangle myself into the shape I’ve chosen for the night.
It hurts, but in the best possible way, pressure and restriction, a squeeze that’s both punishment and reward.
I tighten until my lungs are half-capacity, then cinch two more loops for good measure.
I stare at myself in the glass, sucking in, pushing up, adjusting until the effect is impossible to ignore.
The birthmark under my left ear, a small near perfect heart, becomes a focal point, the only flaw in the otherwise manufactured face.
Tonight I forgot to cover it, like there was a part of me daring the world to discover who I am outside these walls.
I let my hair fall to one side, a deliberate reveal, the kind that makes people want to kiss or bite.
Tights. A few scraps of fabric around my waist masquerading as a skirt. Garter belt. Heels, six inches of course, platform and as red as the corset. I walk a few paces, relishing the click-clack, the exaggerated sway in my hips. Every movement is a dare that says: Try me.
Next is the robe. Not silk, but something heavier, a fabric with memory and weight, dyed in a red so deep it looks black in shadow.
I shrug it on, sleeves loose at the wrist, hem brushing the floor like a trailing thought.
The mask is last, blackout lace with a glossy hard shell beneath, molded to my face but with enough give to allow for a smirk, a sneer, a gasp.
I anchor it with the elastic, tugging the band low so the mask hugs my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose.
I tie the robe loosely, adjust my hair one last time, and step toward the door. The chill of the hallway hits the exposed skin on my chest and thighs, but I don’t shiver. Instead, I let goosebumps rise, let the sweat start to gather at the small of my back, let my body know it’s time to perform.
The audience is already assembled, patiently waiting. The MC, a lithe figure in a gold lamé bodysuit and matching mask, gives me a thumbs-up and a stage whisper: “They’re fucking dying for you out there.”
I smile. “Aren’t they always?”
It’s a full house tonight. Tables set in concentric half-moons around the stage, velvet ropes separating the voyeurs from the truly depraved.
Behind the last rows, the club’s mirrored walls throw back the scene in dizzy, recursive fragments, flashes of exposed skin, latex, gold, sequined gowns and tailored suits.
I can’t see faces. Only masks. Painted, jeweled, filigreed, or blank as a death mask.
The only rule of the Velvet Stag is anonymity, and nobody here is interested in breaking it.
The platform is nothing but polished black glass, raised two feet above the main floor and ringed in fat, red LED bulbs that pulse with the club’s ambient soundtrack.
The lights swing my way, the curtain splits, and the Scarlet Muse walks onto the stage like she’s been doing it all her life.
The crowd hushes as if someone’s pressed a mute button on reality.
The only sound is the low, syncopated drone of bass.
My pulse is a storm. My stomach is a tight little fist of need. My mind, finally, is clear.
The MC fades into the dark, leaving me alone in the ring of light.
I drop the robe with a flourish. One shoulder, then the other, the weight sliding off and pooling at my feet.
The gasp is audible, a ripple of hunger that moves through the room.
I turn, slow, letting every eye trace the lines of the corset, the swell of hips, the flash of garter.
The heels that elongate my legs make me look taller, slimmer than my usual short and curvy form.
For these ten minutes, I am untouchable.
The routine is simple but precise. Every gesture is calculated, years of muscle memory encoded into the choreography.
I draw the mask’s edge with one finger, trail my hand down the column of my throat, pause just above the lace at my bust. A flick of the tongue along painted lips.
Each time, the spotlight follows, greedy for detail.
I lose myself in the rhythm. The club becomes a blur at the periphery, heat blooming along my chest and stomach and thighs.
I can feel the sweat building beneath the corset, slicking the band at my waist, trickling into the valley between my breasts.
My nerves are livewires, every inch of skin crackling with anticipation.
I tilt my chin up, offering my throat to the audience, and revel in the vulnerability.
But even in the trance, I notice him.
Back wall, stage left. At a table set for two but occupied by one.
Black suit, black shirt, tieless, cuffs turned back on his wrists.
The mask is blackout leather, hard angles, not the usual party-store fare.
Around his shoulders is a coil of red silk rope.
He’s still, almost unnaturally so. Not sipping his drink, not checking his phone, not leaning in to whisper to anyone. Just watching.
I swear I can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy, hungry, and it is nothing if not intoxicating watching him follow me from one side of the stage to the other.
I feel myself reacting, despite every instinct for control.
The next segment, I add an extra hip pop, a deeper bend at the waist, a slower untying of the corset’s back laces.
The crowd murmurs, appreciative, but I’m performing for just one person now.
The heat that started as adrenaline becomes something stickier, needier.
My nipples ache under the crush of the boning, and I’m acutely aware of how wet I’m getting, how the thin strip of lace between my legs is already soaked.
It’s exhibitionism as a drug, and I’m mainlining.
I try to break his gaze. I look at the dancers at the bar, at the regulars in their usual spots, at the MC slouched in the wings.
But every time, I circle back, magnetized.
He never moves. The rope around his neck seems brighter, almost arterial in the crossfire of the LEDs.
There is a rumor in the Velvet Stag of a performer called Weaver.
A rope top with hands like an architect and a sadist’s patience, notorious for his public scenes and his refusal to speak.
I’ve never seen him before. But something about the man, his stillness, his confidence, the unblinking attention, makes me certain. This is him.
I up the ante. Hands behind my head, elbows locked, I arch and rotate, letting the motion hitch the loose corset lower before I slide it down my body.
The skirt is nothing, a wisp, and with a twist it’s gone.
The garter straps snap against my thighs.
I run my hands down, cupping and lifting, presenting myself as a gift.
The crowd’s noise grows, not a roar but a low, animal hum.
I’m in command and also completely at their mercy.
I let my eyes close for one beat, savoring the sensation of a hundred gazes mapping every cell of my skin.
I imagine them seeing through me, through the mask, the makeup, the months of compliance reports and ergonomic chairs, right to the part of me that wants to be seen. The part that wants to surrender.