The bar pulsed with dim neon lights, casting streaks of red and violet across the glossy floors. Music thumped through the air.....chaotic, wild...a rhythm that consumed the mind like slow-burning intoxication. Women swayed on platforms, their laughter dissolving into the haze of alcohol and cigarette smoke. The scent of liquor, sweat, and perfume blended into a heady cocktail....a world away from the cold, wet reality outside.
Noemia, her clothes still damp from the unexpected downpour, sat stiffly at a high table near the bar, her fingers clutching the hem of her soaked dress. The fabric clung to her skin, a constant reminder of her helplessness....of the fact that she'd been dragged here without a choice.
Angelo sat across from her, legs crossed, his usual smirk playing on his lips as he placed a bag on the table and pushed it toward her.
"Change," he said, his voice smooth, almost amused. "You can't just sit there looking like a drowned cat."
Noemia didn't move. The bag felt heavier than it should have, as if it held more than just fabric...something degrading. Something humiliating.
Her silence only made Angelo chuckle. "I picked them out myself," he said, his golden eyes gleaming under the dim lights. "Clothes that fit the vibe of this place. Try them on, and maybe...just maybe.....I'll think about giving your pendant back."
Her breath caught. The pendant. That small, insignificant-looking trinket meant everything. It was the last piece of home—the final fragment of warmth she had left.
With reluctant fingers, she pulled out the first outfit...a maid's dress. Short. Scandalously short. White lace traced the black fabric, and a ribboned corset cinched the waist. The sleeves barely covered her shoulders. A pair of thigh-high stockings completed the set, as if the design wasn't suggestive enough already.
Noemia's jaw tightened. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she reached deeper into the bag. A cat costume...black, skintight, with feline ears, a choker, and even a silky tail attached to the back. Then came more: a bunny girl suit, a sheer red dress that was more mist than fabric, a frilly idol costume with a dangerously short skirt, and a nurse's outfit clearly not designed for a hospital.
Her fingers trembled as she stared down at the pile. "Why?" she rasped.
Angelo's smirk widened. "Because I want to see how far you'll go for that pendant." He leaned in, resting his chin on his palm. "Dance for me. In every single one of them."
She almost laughed. "You're insane."
"No," he replied, "I'm just entertained." He pulled the pendant from his pocket and dangled it in front of her, the dim lights catching its dull shine. "You don't have to do it. But this?" He twirled it lazily between his fingers. "This stays with me otherwise."
Her nails dug into her palms. The humiliation, the sheer unfairness of it all burned in her chest like fire. But when she looked at the pendant.....at the life it symbolized...her will cracked.
Slowly, reluctantly, she picked up the maid's dress and stood.
Angelo leaned back, satisfied.
The Stage of Submission
The first outfit clung to her like a second skin of shame. The moment she stepped onto the dance floor, the crowd erupted—cheers, whistles, drunken applause. Noemia shut her eyes, trying to drown them out. But the music was relentless.
At first, she moved stiffly, her body mechanical. But drink after drink found its way into her hands.....Angelo made sure of that...and her limbs grew looser, her movements less restrained.
By the time she changed into the cat costume, her mind was a haze.
The music curled around her like smoke, slow and sultry, coaxing movement from her reluctant body. She sank to her knees at the center of the stage, her hands resting lightly on her thighs. The floor beneath her was cold, but the heat of dozens of eyes made her skin prickle.
She swayed, rolling her hips in time with the deep, pulsing bass. Her fingers traced a slow path up her torso, over the tight fabric of the costume. The sensation was foreign, humiliating. She arched her back, tilting her head just enough to let the cat ears twitch with the motion.
The tail swayed behind her as she crawled forward, slowly, deliberately. Her knees slid over the stage. One hand dragged against the floor before lifting, her fingers curling in a feline stretch. The act wasn't intoxicating.....at least not to her...but the alcohol blurred the line between resistance and surrender.
Angelo sat still, golden eyes half-lidded with amusement. His smirk deepened when she faltered, her hand clenching her thigh for stability.
Noemia closed her eyes, exhaling shakily. Then, she rose slightly, rolling her shoulders as the music led her into motion again. The choker felt heavier now...like a collar she couldn't take off.
A silent chain.
A leash.
And Angelo held it.
The scene shifted.
In a dimly lit room draped in golden curtains, Francisco lounged on a velvet couch, a cigar balanced between his fingers. His eyes, sharp and watchful, were fixed on the lone figure moving at the room's center.
Beatriz.
She danced to the slow, seductive rhythm, her dress catching the candlelight with every step and sway. Each movement was a negotiation...a silent plea.
Francisco exhaled a lazy trail of smoke, watching with amused interest. "So, you're really willing to go this far?" he murmured. "For your family?"
Beatriz didn't answer. Her lips parted slightly, her breath shaky. But she didn't stop moving.
Francisco took a sip from his glass, his eyes still on her. "I wonder... how far will you go?"
Her hands trembled as they traced her own body. Her mind screamed to stop, to run. But she couldn't.
This was her only option.
She wasn't dancing for pleasure.
She was dancing to survive.