Page 6 of Deliah
A couple of lads came in around ten and sat near the bar. Crystal grabbed my hand. “Come on, Deliah—time to earn.”
I must’ve looked terrified because she laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll do the talking.”
We walked over, hips swaying like we owned the place. She leaned in, flirted, teased, and within five minutes, we’d each been bought a drink and were heading into a private booth with them. The nerves hit again, but I had two vodkas in me and a stubborn streak that refused to let me crumble.
Crystal leaned in just before the music started, her voice low and wicked in my ear. “Get him to sit on his hands.”
“What?” I blinked, thrown.
She smirked. “It’s policy, babe.”
I swallowed hard, nodded, and turned back to the guy—mid-twenties, already wide-eyed. I flicked my hair over my shoulder, stepped between his legs, and whispered, “Hands under your thighs.”
He obeyed instantly, eyes locked on mine like I was the only woman left in the world. I didn’t know what I was doing, not really. Everything was instinct, panic, and adrenaline. But I let the music pull me under. Reached down. Slid my thong off right in front of him, slow and deliberate, and gave my pussy a little smack like I’d seen Crystal do earlier.
She burst out laughing from the other side of the room. “That’s my girl!” she called.
I laughed, too—nervous and giddy—and strutted out of the booth like I’d just won something.
The group dance room was next. A blur of neon lights, bass-heavy music, and that thick, sticky heat of a packed club. I followed Crystal through the curtain, my heels clicking like gunfire on the tile. A line of young lads sat along the wall—probably eighteen, nineteen at most. Holiday tans, cheap shirts, beers clutched in both hands like lifelines. They looked like they’d never seen a naked woman up close before. I walked in, and they all stared, awestruck and terrified. Crystal gave me a wink, swayed her hips as she moved through them, and I followed, working the room like we owned it. I bent down low, flicked my hair, made eye contact. One of them actually gasped when I opened my legs in front of him, like he’d just witnessed a miracle. We strutted out laughing, tips in our thongs, adrenaline high.
Then the DJ called out: “Deliah, stage time!”
I froze. “What?”
“The pole,” he said. “It’s your turn.”
“I’ve never danced on a pole in my life!”
“You’ll be fine.” He grinned. “Songs?”
“I—fuck—just play whatever!”
He hit a button and smirked. “Go get ’em, girl.”
The club lights dimmed. Music rolled in—something slow and dirty, with a bassline that crawled under your skin. And then, the words I’ll never forget: “Next on stage, we have the beautiful… the spectacular… the wonderful… sexy Deliah!”
Oh. My. Fucking. God. My knees nearly buckled.
I walked out blind, the lights burning my eyes, sweat clinging to my skin. Every pair of eyes in the club turned to me. So I danced. No tricks. No spins. I wasn’t that girl—yet. But I bent low, rolled my hips, slid my hands down my thighs, and let the music move me. I gripped the pole, let my body roll against it. Used my eyes, my mouth, my smile. Made them feel it. Made them want it. I dropped to my knees at the front of the stage. Crawled towards the guys sitting close. I held their eyes like I held the room—tight, shameless, and burning from the inside out. Blew a kiss, then opened my legs wide, holding the pose as if I’d done it a hundred times. Someone gasped. One guy slid a €20 note into my thong, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe his own boldness. And me? I was fucking thrilled. By the second song, I was topless, thong barely clinging on, spinning slowly and letting the lights catch every inch of bare skin. I could feel the power now, thick in the air. Mine. The crowd cheered as the track ended. I stood there, breathless, nipples hard, chest rising fast, heart pounding like a war drum. I scooped up my bra, gave the crowd a wink, and bolted off stage.
Crystal was waiting with a shot of something strong and sweet. “Not bad, new girl.” She smirked.
By the end of the night, I’d pulled in €300 and some spare change. Made some friends. Flashed strangers. And survived myfirst time on stage half-naked and trembling. I walked home as the sun came up, heels in one hand, a fistful of cash in the other, my dress sticking to my skin and my heart still racing.
Welcome to your new life, Deliah.
That Sunday, I collected my wages—just over €2,500. I’d danced my arse off, sold champagne like it was going out of fashion, and had the absolute best time with the girls.
Aneeka had also started behind the bar on Friday, and she loved it. Having her there felt like having a little slice of home with me, someone who reminded me who I was when the lights went down and the heels came off. She was hilarious with the punters, too—flirting, teasing, calling them tight if they wouldn’t splash out on champagne. She’d hype me up to anyone who glanced my way. We were a duo: stripper and sass queen.
Anyway, I stuffed my envelope of cash into my bag and hopped into a taxi to the city. I bought a brand new iPad for Jamie—top of the range—and treated Aneeka to a nice lunch, complete with wine and way too much dessert. It felt fucking brilliant.
When I got back to the apartment, Jamie was sitting in the kitchen, eating pizza straight from the box. I didn’t say anything. Just pulled the iPad from my bag and dropped it on the table in front of him.
“Sorry again, Jamie.”
He blinked. “Fucking hell, Deliah—where did you get the money for that?”
