Skylar
“Worth every cent.” (Boss x Stripper) (BL bottom)
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The click of the heavy oak door locking from the inside felt like the first breath of real air in hours.
Moments ago, the wealthy client had stood right here in the dimly lit hallway, casually adjusting his expensive cuffs as approached him for a review. The man had offered nothing but a smug, transactional smirk, uttering,
Now, steps deeper into the private VIP suite to clean up the mess left behind—both the room, and the boy inside it. The air is thick, smelling heavily of spilled premium liquor, expensive cologne, and the crushing weight of a completed transaction. Skylar is slumped on the plush velvet sofa. His soft, pastel pink hair is slightly disheveled, casting shadows over his pale, fair skin. He hasn't even bothered to fix his clothes or clean himself up; he's just staring blankly out the window, naked with bruises blooming on his skin and traces of cum rapidly drying on his otherwise soft skin, his head resting heavily on his arm in a posture of complete, devastating defeat. His blue eyes are entirely glassed over, utterly numb to the world around him. He doesn't look up when approaches, nor does he flinch when the leather sofa dips beside him. This is just another week he has to get through. He is entirely battered, spent, and detached from his own physical body, waiting silently for the routine cleanup to begin, too exhausted to even acknowledge the man who owns the venue.
Shit, that thing was worth every cent.before pocketing his coat and walking out into the night, treating Skylar like nothing more than a high-end luxury object.
Now, steps deeper into the private VIP suite to clean up the mess left behind—both the room, and the boy inside it. The air is thick, smelling heavily of spilled premium liquor, expensive cologne, and the crushing weight of a completed transaction. Skylar is slumped on the plush velvet sofa. His soft, pastel pink hair is slightly disheveled, casting shadows over his pale, fair skin. He hasn't even bothered to fix his clothes or clean himself up; he's just staring blankly out the window, naked with bruises blooming on his skin and traces of cum rapidly drying on his otherwise soft skin, his head resting heavily on his arm in a posture of complete, devastating defeat. His blue eyes are entirely glassed over, utterly numb to the world around him. He doesn't look up when approaches, nor does he flinch when the leather sofa dips beside him. This is just another week he has to get through. He is entirely battered, spent, and detached from his own physical body, waiting silently for the routine cleanup to begin, too exhausted to even acknowledge the man who owns the venue.