sugar daddy || liskook

|introduction|

Her mother always tells her she can't have what she wants but have what she needs.

She wants danger.

She wants pain.

She wants ecstasy.

She wants it all.

But she needs to make sure.

She needs control.

She needs everything to make sense again.

She needs a resolution.

And she needs it now.

He tells her he loves her.

.

.

.

"Kitten, you're up in twenty."

Hard, cat-like hazel shift to the eccentric woman, softening her gaze when she's met with a warm smile. The now-blonde nods her head, being careful enough to limit her movements as she hasn't secured the wig to her head yet. She offers a playful wink and with a—Yes, Madam—she watches the woman leave the room before turning back to the vanity mirror; her intention to finish making herself look pretty. She stares at her reflection and fixes her wig and makeup; the concealer hiding more than pasty alabaster skin and bags of endless sleeping, the mascara spreading and lifting more than eyelashes, the eyeliner darkening and smouldering more than caramel-tinted eyes. A bold, red lipstick stains her lips; full, even, and dangerous—she hides it all behind a crafted mask of a gorgeous blonde bombshell, ready to seduce men and steal their gaping hearts.

She fixes her lingerie, making sure to cover her important lady bits; she doesn't want the last accident to reoccur—the first time was already humiliating enough. The sticky adhesive was not strong enough to adhere to her skin; after fifteen minutes in from tumbling and turning and twisting, the sad excuse of a top same off, exposing a pair of naked, perky breasts. Though the money she's gotten right after was twice the amount she usually makes; she wasn't too fussed about the aftermath or the embarrassment—she was drunk out of her mind and the requests for her skyrocketed, rising up the ranks and went straight to 'the favourite girl' of the month.

The sound of a creaking door reaches her ears and a redhead enters their shared dressing room, her seven inches platforms clack—clack—clacking loudly against the hard wooden floor, immediately noting her of her presence. She turns to the newcomer as the sweaty redhead slumps on the chair next to hers, and with clumsy movements, she slides the heels off her feet. The blonde arches an eyebrow when she pulls her wig off, albeit forcefully, showing wild, messy, black locks.

"Rough night?" She asks the frowning dark-haired woman.

Her companion rolls her onyx eyes and straightens her hair out, "They won't fucking stop touching me, Lisa."

Lisa, upon hearing her name, narrows her glare and crosses her arms, "Don't call me that here, Jennie." The blonde shrugs a noncommitted shoulder and turns to her reflection to inspect her body, "I've told this already—if you don't like it, quit."

Jennie snorts lightly, sarcastic and something more, "As if it's that easy, Kitten." She turns to her dresser and began to search for something, "You know I can't."

Lisa's lips twitch up into a humourless smirk.

Of course she does. And Lisa knows it painfully well, too. The double life is tiring but it's hauntingly addictive at the same time. One does not escape the nightlife so easily; the flashing lights, the drugs, the alcohol, the money, the skimpy clothing, the thrill of being objectified, the lust in their eyes when she's dancing on stage, saying yes to all the new things—all of the factors add up to a huge clusterfuck that made her stay in this toxic industry. Anonymity is a powerful drug; it bends her fluctuating morals and forces her to relish and explore her inner desires... With a wig and a nickname, she could be anybody without being judged by the society's sneering eyes and disapproving frowns.