17. Feet
Chapter seventeen
Feet
(Danica)
It’s been two weeks since I started at Sinful Moon, and things are starting to look desperate. I am no closer to the Volkovs than I was before I started flashing my tits at strangers.
On the upside, though, I love my new job.
I love the freedom. The power. The purpose.
Who knew I’d be a great stripper? Sorry, I meant dancer.
Well, technically, I’m rubbish with a pole. I may have a core of steel from all my combat training, but those pole skills need to be learned, practiced.
I found that out the hard way by almost falling on my ass the first night I confidently strode to the pole, imagining my life as a movie where I could just walk up to it and instantly swing around like a graceful creature.
It did not happen like that—not at all!
Still, the clientele didn’t care whether I fumbled around or danced like some talented Bollywood movie heroine.
All they cared about were my tits.
Not that I can blame them, these have always been my best assets.
I seriously considered a cam girl life when I was a student, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Well, maybe I could have if I weren’t living with my parents at the time…
And before that, my asshole boyfriend, James, awho was as vanilla as they come.
The dressing room mirror flickers under the unforgiving lights as I trace bronzer along my cheekbones. Around me, other dancers chatter and laugh, the familiar pre-show energy electric in the air.
My altered reflection stares back at me—smoky eyes, red lips, confidence I never thought I'd wear so easily.
It wasn't always like this.
Nobody had to teach me to hate my body. The lessons came naturally, written in raised scar tissue and whispered in every reflected glance.
I learned at an early age that love was meant for others—for whole, unmarked people who didn't carry their childhood trauma etched into their skin.
I remember the heavy sweaters, even in summer. The way I'd pull them down over my hands, creating armor from wool and cotton. My thick glasses became a shield, letting me hide behind smudged lenses and unfashionable frames.
In high school, I had swimming class down to a science—always the last to change, first to leave, scars safely hidden beneath layers of chlorine-soaked fabric.
Only ballet brought me joy. In the studio's forgiving shadows, beneath leotards and wraps, I could pretend to be graceful. Beautiful, even. Until the recital lights threatened to expose me, and I'd retreat back into my fortress of baggy clothes.
Then came James. So many years later. At varsity. After I had already given up on finding someone who could accept me as I was.
He called it love, but love shouldn't need darkness to thrive. "It's more romantic with the lights off," he'd say, but I heard the truth beneath the words. I thought I was lucky—who else would want damaged goods?
But now...
I adjust my leather corset, watching how it hugs my curves. In a few minutes, I'll dance under spotlights that hide nothing.
Dante changed it all. The way he looks at me like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world has worked a miracle on my confidence. I don’t have to fake it anymore; it feels right.
Oh, Dante.
The stage manager calls out a five-minute warning, refocusing me on my mission.
I smile at my reflection, ready to own every inch of who I've become.
Knock ‘em dead, gal.
I step onto the stage, beaming with confidence, ready to put on the show of my life.
But I never finish my act.
I am called upstairs, Nikki pulling me right off the stage mid-number, much to the disgruntlement of the audience, whose boos follow me all the way to the office upstairs where The Boss sits.
It’s happening.
I’ve never met “The Boss.” All I knew was that he was the guy I’d been trying to get to, one of the Volkov brothers—the youngest of three.
If we can’t get them at the ports, we might as well hit them where they are weakest—the clubs.
According to dressing room gossip, Mister Boss-Man is quite the hedonist, with a soft spot for curvaceous divas and French wine.
It turns out Sasha was feeling ill, and The Man Upstairs needed a stand-in for whatever Sasha does for him.
My heart is pounding in my chest as we make our way up the narrow, dark stairs next to the dressing room entrance.
Two guards stand by the door at all times. They let Nikki and I pass with a simple nod. Nice guys, I’ve been chatting to them a lot over the past two weeks. Definitely seems like Mister Boss-Man treats them terribly—poor things.
This is my chance to find a way in. If he doesn’t kill me first. But I’m hoping my fake hair and real breasts can distract him.
“Now, Jasmyne. You want to do exactly as Mister Volkov says, understood?” Nikki straightens out my dress like there is anything to straighten out.
Tonight’s assigned outfit is a red micro-skirt that has half my ass hanging out with straps like dungarees running over my shoulders. No shirt, nope, just two little straps trying to hold my titties in place and failing with every step I take.
I look like a grade-A hooker, and I’m not even mad; it’s a fun fantasy to play out. Though I’m not sure what’s about to happen here will be a fantasy, it sounds more scary than fun.
Nikki knocks and then leaves, instantly disappearing down the stairs again.
Oh god. The urge to flee is overwhelming, but the moment the door slowly swings open, the urge quickly turns to a freezing response.
Another guard stands on the other side, ushering me in. A real thug-looking piece of work, the kind with face tattoos and metal-capped teeth. You could probably scare children with this dude. He sure scares me. But I force my mind to focus and my shoulders to straighten out. Stomach in, chest out.
The room is dark, lit only by a yellow glow from an antique lamp in the corner.
The figure behind the desk waves the guard out, making him lock the door behind us with an echoing click.
“Come here, dear.”
I shiver. The word dear has always just made me cringe—except when Alessio says it with that hint of an Italian accent that has long since been smoothed out by the Vegas life.
I walk towards the bulky figure in the chair, nonetheless. The closer I get to him, the clearer his features become. He’s not bad-looking—for a fucking human trafficker.
The mere thought makes me want to throw up on him, but I keep it together.
His beard is thick, dark against his pasty skin, his neck covered in gold chains. Clean-shaven head, a fancy suit…he looks every bit how I had imagined a Russian mobster would look—full of his own shit. And not my type at all. He’s much older now than in the blurry photos from our intel file.
Keeping my shoulders up high, I lean over onto his desk, letting him get a good view of my breasts.
The man smiles and reaches for my right nipple with his coarse fingers, pinching it.
I keep my poker face firmly in position, willing my body with every fiber of my being to not flinch outwardly.
“Not those,” he says simply in that cliched thick Russian accent. “Feet,” he demands.
This is it, Danica; your moment to shine.
Without missing a beat, I climb onto his table, steadying myself against the low ceiling beams running across the surprisingly non-luxurious room.
Volkov stares at me. I have his full attention.
Holding onto the ceiling beam, I slip my left foot out of my heel to run my toes over his gross, hairy chest that pokes out beneath a shirt that should be buttoned higher up but isn’t.
The man purrs like a cat, grabbing my foot halfway down and stuffing it in his mouth.
I gasp, almost losing my footing, but I hold onto the ceiling beam for dear life to regain my balance.
Oh Christ, what am I even doing?
I push him away, pulling my foot free. It takes every ounce of self-control not to jump down and crush his balls.
Two more girls have disappeared since I started here, and I know this asshole is to blame.
But if I fail to be patient, I will ruin it all.
Quickly, before he can catch me, I jump off the table, kicking off my other shoe, too, before I trip. “Let me tie you up,” I say simply, keeping my distance behind the table.
Big boy is already drooling, I can see his need. “Tie me.” He laughs, crossing his wrists and offering them to me.
There is nothing sexy about the encounter, at least not for me, but I force my hips to sway seductively as I walk to the door where I left my toy bag. Sasha told me to always take it with me when I go upstairs, in case. Her texts also warned me never to get bratty or try to be in control.
Only 50% of that advice will be adhered to. Control is not something I give up willingly. Not anymore.
We have a playful struggle, but I manage to cuff the big man’s hands together.
“Now this.” I pulled the blindfold out of my bag, fastening it over his eyes before he could object.
“Ooh, very kinky, Miss Jasmyne.” He growls in a way that probably seems sexy to him but seems off-putting as fuck to me.
“You have no idea how kinky I can be, Mister Volkov.” I pull his wheeled chair away from the desk and notice his little hard cock, tenting in his pants.
With his eyes closed and his hands bound, it’s somehow easier to stomach the encounter.
It’s just a mission, I remind myself.
“Hmm, I like you. Feisty. Call me Tolya, please, dear Jasmyne.”
“Yes, Mister Tolya.” My voice is sickeningly sweet. It’s a good thing he can’t see the cruel streak in my eyes.
He laughs in that raspy voice of a smoker who should’ve stopped many years ago. “Touch me with your feet,” he instructs despite being the one in the vulnerable position.
For today, I let him believe the reins of control rest solely with him.
“Yes, Mister Tolya,” I say obediently, climbing onto the table again, this time to sit down. It’s a relief not to have that creep stare at my body. I would’ve pegged him a tits man, maybe ass. Definitely not feet. But hey, you never knew what people were secretly into.
I reach for his zipper, but he knocks me away with his wrists. “No. Keep them on.”
“Aww, does Mister Tolya want to make a mess in his pants?” I can’t help it, it’s my Mommy voice, patronizing, sweet, cunty.
He responds instantly to it, pressing his groin into my stockinged feet, desperate to rub himself on me.
“Please, Miss Jasmyne.” I yearn to make him beg, but not tonight.
I’m glad he can’t see the disgust on my face as I drag my feet over his erection, but not as glad as I am for the pants separating my skin from his.
Jesus, Danica. This is a new level of weird, even for you. This man is so revolting.
But I don’t stop, no, I continue to rub my feet over his pathetic erection until he sweats and pants and cries out in a language I will never understand, a little wet patch forming to the right of the zipper.
Quickly, I jerk my foot away. I don’t want to touch it, touch his cum. Gross!
When he’s done panting and grunting, I free my boss’s wrists first before removing his blindfold, stepping back quickly to busy myself with packing up.
“Well, Miss Jasmyne, I’ll have to order you again,” the creepy man says, rubbing his now-free hand over the wet patch on his pants.
I can feel the bile crawl up my throat, but I swallow it down.
“Yes, Mister Tolya.”
Dickhead.