The Dancer, Part Seven

Read Part One

Part Seven

The phrase “Sunk Cost Fallacy” had never been so apt than when I stood in just my plain black lingerie, surrounded by former classmates and total strangers. 

Everyone had already seen my top half swaying and bouncing and shifting as I danced in just a bra, and now the whole room could see most of my bare legs and ass. When I put on a thong earlier, it had been for the sake of avoiding panty lines in the tight skirt. In retrospect, panty lines would have been much preferable to showing dozens of people just about everything aside from my most private area.

But the current problem was the same as the previous problem. I had already come this far. If there was a time to bail, it would have been before I removed the skirt. But Ashley’s lap dance, especially the choice of song, had distracted me enough that my main focus was getting off her lap and to the next part of the evening. 

The moment my skirt pooled at my ankles, regret and reality washed over me. This was too much. Somehow, I had managed to justify topless lap dances, but being bottomless on a ‘stage’ raised the stakes. Everyone behind me could see my bare ass cheeks, and everyone else could see my bra stuffed with cash and only a triangle of fabric protecting the rest of my modesty. On top of the exposure, I was suppose to keep flaunting my body in this state of undress, and give more dances? No way.

Degrading myself like this was NOT worth $500. It wasn’t worth triple that number.

Could I just grab my skirt and run? Pull it back up first? There were a ton of problems with the ‘run away’ strategy. My purse was back up in the bedroom, and I had no idea where my shirt ended up after I stripped it off for the crowd. Getting out of here was going to be an enormous headache, and I was beginning to accept the fact that I’d be driving home topless with no money to show for giving up so much of my dignity. Ashley didn’t seem like the type to pay for an incomplete job. God, why did I let her talk me into this in the first place? I could have just left.

Making an executive decision, I stepped one foot at a time out of the skirt, trying my very hardest to keep the faint smile on my face like nothing was wrong. It would be easier to flee with skirt in hand than by making the plan obvious by partially dressing myself before running. Seeing countless cameras capturing my newfound exposure, I suddenly felt a wave of validation in regards to my choice to run away. My current image would require a ton of damage control if family or college friends saw any of this. No need to supplement that material with even more damning pictures and videos.

My hips swayed just enough so I wouldn’t awkwardly be standing on the table, and time seemed to slow down as I allowed an entire house party to stare at me in just my underwear. I used those mortifying few seconds to map my escape route; between the sofa and the armchair, past the DJ’s table, and back to the kitchen. Before I could overthink it, I leapt off the table, snatched up my skirt, and ran.

For a few moments, everything was a blur. From all around, I could hear jeering and complaining as the night’s main entertainment lost her nerve. No one tried to stop me, but pushing through the crowd left me vulnerable to all kinds of violations. As I was shoving my way past the pocket of audience members who had congregated between the furniture, I felt a few rough squeezes and slaps of my bare ass, but that was nothing compared to what came next. 

One of the last guys standing between me and the kitchen squared off with me and, with a disgusting grin, grabbed both of my breasts and squeezed. Gasping, I shoved him hard, so hard that he probably would have fallen on his ass if it weren’t for the kitchen table he ended up colliding with instead. Ignoring the insults and profanities he yelled after me, as if I was the bad guy for overreacting to him GRABBING my BOOBS, I raced for the stairs without looking back. 

The silver lining to publicly degrading myself? There were no other obstacles between me and the bedroom. Apparently my little show was enough to drag the whole house over to watch. I bounded up the stairs and back to the room where Ashley convinced me to go through with my ‘commitment,’ and slammed the door behind me. 

One big breath. And then I had to keep going. The privacy was much needed, but this wasn’t my bedroom and wasn’t my house. There was no time to relax or process or decompress. I quickly stepped back into the dark gray number, pulled it up my legs, and let out a sigh of relief once the skirt was situated where it was supposed to be. Next I pulled the money out of my bra cups, the sensation of paper-against-skin causing me to blush to myself now that I was thinking more clearly. God, I really was a stripper for a few minutes, wasn’t I?

Not bothering to count the total, I folded the stack of bills in half and went to put in my purse. Except my purse wasn’t there. I could practically feel my heart drop as I took in the empty dresser top. That meant no phone, no wallet, no keys. I distinctly remembered placing my things there before heading downstairs for the biggest mistake of my life, but now they were nowhere to be seen.

Before I could begin tearing the room apart to find where my stuff might have been moved to, however, I was interrupted by the telltale sound of a doorknob being twisted.

Read Part Eight

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