Chapter Text
Christopher Robert Evans has multiple degrees from the one of the finest institutions in the free world, a guaranteed advancement in his political career just around the corner, the inheritance of an affluent family estate, and a girlfriend who’s as committed to her career as he is. He’s a man of class, philanthropies, and education, but somehow he’s found it in himself to agree on going strip club for his good friend Scarlett’s impromptu bachelorette party on a Thursday night.
“It’s not a strip club,” Scarlett groans. “It’s a… erotic… dancing and private performance club. A very alternative and artistic scene. You’ll appreciate it.”
“Sounds like a strip club to me,” he mutters, synchronizing their stride from the parking garage to the club’s entrance. Scarlett’s half-sister Leyla and longtime friend Amelia from their graduating class at Brown have also been invited to the get-together.
The lively, lavish décor is well worth the twenty dollar entry fee. Oh, and the dozen or so half-naked, shapely women communing with the patrons of the club are certainly more eye-catching than the various wall adornments and professional lighting displays they pass. And as comfortable with his masculinity as Chris is, he could admit the well-built, shirtless men aren’t so sore on his eyes either.
Scarlett leads her three guests to a table bordered by the edge of the main stage. Within seconds, they’re approached by a waitress with short, curled pink hair. “First round’s on the house. What’ll you all be having?”
Chris perks up at the notion of free alcohol. “Does beer sound good to you ladies?”
Leyla and Amelia agree enthusiastically, but with a small wave of the hand, Scarlett declines. “Just some coke for me, please,” and her small smile has meaning behind it that Chris doesn’t catch.
“And we’ll still have the beer, thank you,” Chris pipes up.
“Of course,” the rosy-haired woman hums.
The waitress tallies the order and doesn’t leave before dishing a wink at Chris, causing Leyla to coo. “Haven’t lost your game yet, mister President?”
“Aw, we all know that’s just for the tips,” he chuckles. “And it’s—hopefully—‘mister Congressman’ come 2017.”
Chris’s well-planned career in civil-servitude is really starting to take off. Although he hasn’t got incumbency advantage, the people he means to represent have always had faith in the fellow Bostonian community leader, more so than any other candidate foreseen to run against him in the next few years. Modern politicians tend to reign from behind their cozy desks and offices, but Chris has always been a very hands-on type of leader. From charity work to social work to yard work, the masses of Massachusetts have ample reasons to idolize him.
“Yeah, yeah. Anyone who keeps up with the news knows you as Boston’s golden boy,” Amelia interjects, “but I’m sure you hear enough about your heroism from Emily. That girl of yours is so supportive. I’m almost jealous.”
“Em’s pretty great, I’ll admit it.” He isn’t lying, because Emily is incredible, but he’d rather keep the conversation away from his own relationship. He changes the subject, regarding Scarlett. “How’s Romain been? Last I heard he was more stressed about your big day than the bride.”
Scarlett barks a laugh. “He’s under a lot of pressure ensuring his family can make it overseas, all within our budget, but I think we’ve got everything under control. For now.” Another secretive smile graces her lips, and Chris jumps a little when Amelia screeches.
“Oh my god, you’re pregnant, aren’t you?!”
Leyla and Chris’s eyes widen is disbelief, prodding a very happy Scarlett with their looks of shock.
“I found out about three weeks ago.”
Leyla yells and throws her arms around her sister. “I’m so happy for you!”
“Scarlett, that’s wonderful.” Chris is beaming. He knows how badly Scarlett has always wanted a family and it’s just the perfect time to start one.
“Oh, I love you guys.” Scarlett embraces all of her friends just as the waitress returns with their drinks. “Let’s say we relax and watch some sexy dancers tonight, hm? I think I can still have fun without the booze.”
Leyla’s sympathetic groan is drowned out by the sudden boom of the stage’s speakers. The show is about to begin.
--
Foundation, concealer, primer, bronzer. Skin now evenly toned and without flaw, Sebastian thumbs open his shadow pallet and applies brown and plum color on his lids, gracing gold to highlight around his brows and a white-gold to accent the inner corners of his eyes. He pencils in his eyebrows, accentuating their natural curves. Heavy liquid eyeliner turns his already vibrant eyes piercing, and dark, false lashes are adhered to the tops and bottoms of his lined lids. For his lips, he sides with a very expensive tube of deep rose matte lipstick, and finishes his guise with a bit of blush.
“Your show time’s pushed back to nine-fifteen, doll.”
He hears his manager from the cramped dressing room doorway but makes no move to stop evening the color over his cheeks. “Huh? Oh, right. I know that, Cherry.”
“It’s eight thirty,” the short woman groans, raising a brow.
Sebastian pats his bald-capped hair with his free hand and releases a small sigh. “I know, Cherry. You know I need to take a while to get into character.” He’s already got on most of his costume—hairless thighs to toes coated in white seamless stockings, simple white rounded heels, an elegantly studded corset, and matching little satin panties. But he plans on snapping on some dangly earrings and pasting body gems to the corners of his eyes. So, yeah, he needs a few extra minutes.
“This room is reserved for the dancers who are already dancing or are up next,” admonishes his manager, just as a sweaty, grinning dancer struts into the room to touch up her own makeup. She tries to grab his tin of eye shadow –without asking, so he snatches it and glares daggers before she can get her paws on it. Sebastian chooses to ignore both the other dancer’s and Cherry’s gripes and opens his capsule of body glitter.
“I am up next. Eventually,” Sebastian mutters, dusting the glitter over his exposed collarbones.
Both his manager and the bitchy dancer leave him in peace and Sebastian lets out a deep breath, dabbing his forehead a little as if the action could relieve stress on its own. It was risky enough on his sanity to schedule a prestigious job interview bright and early tomorrow, so he doesn’t need his nerves to get the best of him tonight. Warming at the sight of his prettied face in the mirror, he adjusts the strap holding back his genitals within the confines of his delicate lingerie.
There isn’t anything to be concerned about because Sebastian, or rather, Sabrina, is notorious for his ability to put on a good show.
Outside, Chris joins the thunderous applause for the last act starring a cheeky blonde somersaulting like a circus performer. Scarlett was right. Most of the performances have had some sort of artistic and tasteful value.
The emcee announces the next performer with a promise that her act is well worth the wait. “There won’t be a dry…eye in the house!” Chris laughs heartily along with the crowd. Comfortably buzzed on two and a half beers, he finds her cheesy jokes hilarious. “Give it up for Sabrina!”
Immediately, the stage is bathed in a cool blue light, and Sabrina takes center stage with several resounding rhythmic clacks of her heels. She moves further down the catwalk and Chris is latched on to the view of the tall, curvaceous dancer with the long, auburn hair. The music begins—easily recognized as Sia’s Chandelier—and Sabrina moves deftly, dropping low and swiveling her hips, strength emanating from her core and comely thighs. Chris’s gaze rakes over her musculature beneath white stockings and garter-belts. She’s a little more built compared to the other female dancers but Chris finds that it works on her. She certainly knows how to put it into use.
She reveals the true ability of her form when she reaches the far end of the stage where the pole awaits. Turning away, she sheds her white-gold fur coat with a flourish and mounts the upper half of the pole with impeccable grace and strength. She spins infinitely without ever gracing a landing. Dumbstruck, he takes in Sabrina’s broad shoulders, flat chest, illusive curves caused by the white silk corset, and he concludes that Sabrina’s not—entirely—female. Before he can stop himself, he turns to give Scarlett a desperate look. She just laughs and pats him roughly on the back.
“Quite the looker, isn’t she!” Scarlett cackles as Sabrina performs an artful flip about the pole and the crowd goes wild.
Chris is speechless, his jaw hitting the floor when Sabrina does the same, getting on all fours to elegantly roll her—his?—ass backwards into the pole. She tosses her head back, mouth gaping into a flirty smile. Chris’s stomach vaults and the crowd roars unanimously.
The second chorus swells and Sabrina hops on the upper level of the pole again. Chris feels ridiculous ogling Sabrina, eyes absorbing every movement, but doesn’t consider flipping his lid that this guy in women’s underwear is one of the hottest people he’s ever seen. Because whoever she is, Chris finds her undeniably beautiful.
She twists on the pole so that her only method of suspension is her stockinged leg. Sabrina arches to set her other foot on the stage.
Oh shit! is all Chris processes as Sabrina twists her ankle, loses her expert grip on the pole, and topples over the edge.
Chris’s body reacts. He leaps out of his seat, knocks aside the table, and miraculously catches Sabrina in his arms. They land together crumpled on the floor, safe and sound and shocked as hell. Chris is honestly very glad the dancer isn’t hurt, but he did not think this through at all. Now he’s got a sweaty, trembling, sexy stranger in his lap and all he can think to say is, “Um. You okay?”
Sabrina blinks her thick lashes several beats, trying to compose herself. The music has been cut off and a few members of security gather to extricate Chris from the dancer, but Sabrina gets things back under her control.
“It’s fine! He’s helping me! Hey, I said—” Sabrina grabs Chris— pliable and dumb and eyes still glued to her worried face—from the security guard with a rough hand to his bicep. “I said it’s alright.”
The crowd bursts into applause, and Chris pales when he realizes he’s now the center of attention at the strip club.
Sabrina’s gaze darts about the large room around them and Chris, through his own semi drunk freak-out, can dissect the pure desperation in Sabrina’s blue eyes. “Wow!” she shouts, face schooling into astonishment. “How ‘bout a hand for my hero!” The crown complies enthusiastically, and a few ‘kiss him!’s reach their ears.
Chris blushes furiously and Sabrina turns to him, smirking. “I guess I do owe you a big thank you, stranger. Turn it back up, Dennis!” Sabrina kicks off her treacherous heels and—oh my god—grabs Chris by the belt to lead him up the stage, and he doesn’t have a choice but to follow. The song fades back in and Sabrina gets to work.
Basically what’s happening to Chris now: he’s standing onstage with his hands plastered to his sides in front of dozens of people with a cross-dressing stripper grinding his or her ass into his crotch. The audience goes nuts when Sabrina grabs Chris’s hands around to anchor them to her inner thighs, and Chris, completely against his will, whimpers at the sensation. Sabrina lets out a deep, masculine chuckle, only making the blood rush to Chris’s dick faster.
She tips her lips to Chris’s ear. “Can you drop to your knees for me?”
Chris falls to his knees like lead. All thoughts of his heterosexuality and his girlfriend are the furthest from the forefront of his mind. Somewhere he hears Scarlett and the girls cheering wildly, but Sabrina is his entire world right now.
It takes everything in him to not get his hands on the silk-clad ass in his face, thin fabric occasionally snagging on his stubble. Sabrina turns to swing her thigh over one of Chris’s shoulders, bucking gently and massaging Chris’s scalp with one hand. Chris looks like a total idiot, flushed and immobile.
Sabrina shoves Chris playfully onto his ass to straddle his hips. The song is ending soon, Chris can tell somehow in his addled state, so he tries to soak up this perfect moment while he still can. Sabrina travels up his body, connects their matching blue gazes, grabs his hand and leans into his ear to whisper, “Squeeze my hand if it’s okay for me to kiss you.”
Chris’s first drunken thought is: how is this happening? Then: how is that even a question?
But there’s that note of desperation, this time in Sabrina’s tone. It’s not because she’s terribly hot and bothered to kiss some random guy, Chris realizes, but her fellow dancers, her boss, and the entire club all bore witness to Sabrina’s humiliation. This little display—while undoubtedly sexy—is just that, a display. Nothing more than Sabrina’s effort to right her mistake.
After a few long seconds, Sabrina stills her gyrations over Chris. Finally he finds it in himself to squeeze Sabrina’s hand, and she moves in for the kill. Painted lips meet spit-slick ones with a spark, and this time Chris can’t stop his other hand from reaching to cradle her jaw. The audience erupts.
Sabrina rakes her fingers into Chris’s hair again, causing him to groan into the kiss and his eyes to shut on the close view of Sabrina’s made-up face. Chris is positive he feels some tongue so against his better judgment, boldly moves his own past Sabrina’s lips. The dancer above him shudders. And pulls back. Chris opens his eyes and the kiss of a lifetime is completely over.
Carding her long fingers through Chris’s hair one last time, Sabrina smiles softly at her partner’s awestruck, lipstick-smudged expression. “Thanks,” she whispers, a vow soft enough that only Chris can hear. Chris is speechless, high as a kite from that perfect kiss.
Sabrina stands, curtsies, and walks calmly to the exit backstage. The emcee comes back on with something purposeful and witty, but Chris is still sitting on his ass at the stage’s end, focused on the dignified sway of Sabrina’s retreating form.
After another round of applause, Chris slides gingerly off the stage. He eyes the two discarded white heels, on whole and one broken. The symbol of the night absorbs itself into Chris’s mind.
The celebration ends with another round of free alcohol, and Scarlett and the girls cackling and reminiscing the entire ordeal while the next act on the catwalk serves as ambience. Chris laughs along, teasing himself to play it off.
But on the inside, he’s screaming. He has got to see Sabrina again.
On the opposite end, poor Sebastian can barely hold back his tears as he makes it back to the dressing room when the implications of everything he’s done finally sink in. He broke his damn shoe and almost broke his leg along with it. In front of the entire club. Cherry is so gonna fire him!
If it hadn’t have been for that hot confused guy catching him in time, he’d probably be strapped down in the back of an ambulance with a leg out of commission and thousands of dollars in medical bills up his ass. He really should go back out there and ask for his name or invite him for pizza somewhere for saving him a world of hurt, but Sebastian’s too exhausted. Emotionally and physically.
He settles with angrily peeling off his false lashes and tearing open his make-up remover wipes to cleanse Sabrina from his face along with any tears that began to spill.
As he carefully seals his wig in its case, his ears split at the bellow of his manager. “Doll! Are you okay?! Oh, Sebastian. Please tell me you’re okay!”
Sebastian blinks. “’m fine,” he mumbles, unfastening his hair cap.
“Oh, thank God,” Cherry hobbles over and bangs her small fist on the table causing Sebastian to jump. “Now explain to me what the hell that was!”
He ruffles the short waves of his real hair with a rough hand. “My heel snapped off while I was hooked on the pole, you know with that move I do with just my leg. It was a freak accident. Won’t happen again.”
“Damn right, it won’t. What if you fell on that man and he sued? Or worse, what if no one was there to catch you?”
“I got lucky so we don’t have to worry about it, okay?” Sebastian just wants to go home.
“Oh, Sebastian, darling,” Cherry closes the distance between them to grapple Sebastian’s head to her bosom. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”
Sebastian groans but makes no move to pull away. “Cherry, I’m really tired and—”
“Aye, forgive me.” She frees Sebastian with a huff and stalks over to the room’s exit. “You know how I worry for you. And, you should give that man your number.”
Sebastian lets out a bitter laugh. “Cherry, stop it. He was drunk, and that act was a save to get people to stare at me for the right reasons.”
Cherry’s face melts with sympathy. “Get lots of rest tonight, doll. You performed beautifully. Try not to beat yourself up about things. It’s important to keep your chin up, understand?”
“Sure thing,” he agrees, sounding anything but.