Sinful Sienna

Velvet Smoke

The pole was cold, but she was fire.

Sienna Blake twisted slow and low, the burn in her thighs as sweet as sin itself. Lights shimmered in crimson across her skin, painting her curves like molten glass. Men leaned forward in their booths, jaws slack, drinks forgotten. She didn't see them - not really - but she knew how they starred. Some with hunger, some with need, a few with worship.

She liked the ones who begged without saying a word.

The quiet ones, even the broken ones.

She understood them best.

A hundred eyes could be on her, but her body only ever belonged to one person now: Her.

Every spin, every drop, every calculated arch of her back was a performance with razor-sharp purpose. She danced not for pleasure, not for power - but for control. Velvet Smoke, Atlanta's most elite gentlemen's club, was her stage. And in six-inch stilettos and a glitter-slick thong, she was queen of the inferno.

Her set ended with a whip of long black hair and a slow descent to the floor that made the front row exhale like they'd just come. A sea of money fluttered down around her like dirty snow.

She rose without smiling, without winking. She didn't need to. They'd be thinking about her long after their wives kissed them goodnight.

Backstage smelled like sweat, hairspray, and perfume called things like "Tempt" and "Lust." Sienna moved past the other girls, ignoring the shrieks and gossip. Someone laughed about a bachelor party that ended with a broken heel and a surprise proposal. Another shouted about the VIPs asking for "Queen Sin."

That was her - the nickname that clung like glitter.

Queen Sin.

Sienna dropped her earnings in her locker, peeled off her thigh-highs, and let her long legs stretch free. Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her: kohl-lined eyes, sweat-touched collarbones, glitter on her bare chest. She was beautiful. Devastating. Dead inside.

She touched her lips with two fingers. Her pulse barely moved.

This was what hunger without feeling looked like.

She could sleep with three men in a night, hit her orgasm twice, and still lie awake until dawn. If no one touched her for too long, her chest would ache. Her skin would buzz. Her jaw would clench until her teeth ached.

It wasn't romance.

It wasn't passion.

It was need. A craving in her bloodstream. A ghost beneath her skin.

Sometimes she paid for it just to shut the noise up.

Sometimes she let strangers fumble over her just so she could breathe again.

And sometimes - like now - she stood in front of a mirror and wondered if anything under her ribs was real anymore.

She used to be a girl.

Once.

Back in Hollow Bend, where everything was small - the houses, the dreams, the lives. A town where the church bell rang louder than justice, and people smiled with teeth that hid too many secrets.

Sienna had lived in a trailer with her mother's sister.

Her "aunt" - if that's what you called a woman who never asked if she was okay.

Her uncle, though...

He asked.

"Are you gonna be a good girl, Sienna?"

"Gonna keep quiet like you promised?"

She had been eleven. Her uncle had touched her before she even understood what a woman was. And the trauma will hunt her forever... Or maybe she would get a chance to redemption.

Her aunt - her mother's sister knew but looked the other way. Maybe out of fear. Maybe out of shame. Maybe just out of habit.

And she kept quiet for six years. Getting abused at intervals.

She could remember her childhood with her parents a little. She was so small and everything was like a dream, she was their little princess, with her cousin sister Rhea. The only memories she had of Rhea was that her mom left her with them because Rhea's father had left them. She and Rhea played together as kids but she heard nothing of Rhea anymore when her parents died. When she was just 8 years old, her parents had died from an accident when they were coming back from a shift from the hospital; both her parents were doctors who on this fateful day worked over-time together and met their cruel end. She was taken in by her mother's elder sister- auntie Rita who lives in Hollow bend, a small town in the countryside. But her cousin Rhea was taken elsewhere, she had no idea who took Rhea.

At seventeen, she ran. Stole eighty-four dollars from her aunt's wallet and left without looking back.

She ran but her past clung to her like a second skin.

Atlanta welcomed her like a wolf welcomes a lamb - sharp teeth, bright lights, and every dirty opportunity she never knew how to ask for.

At first she felt lost with no one to ask for help, like a teenager who lost her Way on earth.

She'd started at clubs no better than gas stations - tiny backrooms, cigarette smoke, limp bills, and managers who thought "No" was an invitation. But she'd climbed. Learned. Adapted.

Now she was at Velvet Smoke. Her new home. Top-tier clientele. No touching without permission. No cameras. No shame.

And she was at the top of the food chain.

So why did she feel like prey again?

She changed into her street clothes - ripped jeans, loose black tank top, no bra. Her nipples pressed against the fabric as she shrugged on a leather jacket. She liked the way men looked at her when she dressed like this - not because she wanted them, but because she controlled whether they got to have her.

Sienna checked her phone. No texts. No one waiting. Just silence.

That familiar ache returned to her gut - low and slow, like a cigarette burn.

She could go home and lie awake again.

Or... she could find someone.

There was always someone.

Outside, the night was thick and hot. Atlanta summer - where the air stuck to your skin and the city never truly slept.

Velvet Smoke's VIPs slipped into black cars and sleek sedans. Neon glowed against dark windows. Somewhere down the street, music throbbed from a rooftop bar. A siren wailed in the distance.

Sienna leaned against the brick wall, lit a cigarette, and watched the crowd. Her eyes scanned faces. Looking for that feeling - that tiny flicker of curiosity, lust, weakness. The thing she could take.

One man noticed her. Tall, suited, maybe early thirties. He smirked. Adjusted his tie. Approached like he had a shot.

"Hey," he said. "You off work, or just warming up?"

Sienna tilted her head.

"If you have to ask," she said, exhaling smoke, "you can't afford the answer."

He blinked. Chuckled. Tried again. "You wanna get a drink?"

She glanced down. Nice shoes. Wedding ring. Small hands.

Would do.

"Not a drink," she murmured. "But I'll let you kiss me. Once."

His pupils flared.

He followed her without hesitation.

Twenty-three minutes later, she left him breathless in the backseat of his own car. Her lipstick everywhere on his neck. His pants still around his knees. No names exchanged.

She walked back toward her apartment with the city humming around her. Her pulse steadied. The ache under her skin dulled. Not gone. It never goes away. But quieter.

And that was enough. For now.

Until she saw him.

A man, standing across the street, half in shadow. She could see the outline of his broad shoulders. He was smoking. Watching her.

Not the suit from before. Not a regular. Something about him made her skin prickle.

Their eyes met for just a moment - nothing dramatic. No lightning. No music.

But her breath caught anyway.

And when she blinked, he was gone.

Sienna shook her head.

No one ever watched her without wanting something.

And no one ever walked away first.

Who was he?

Was he watching me intentionally or just a coincidence. She knew it was the former, but she brushed it off anyways.