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theperfectawful · 3 months ago

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Waking Up in Vegas

Dieter Bravo x Stripper!Reader

Summary: A bad night at work turns around when you meet Dieter Bravo. Word Count: ~10k Content & Warnings: Vegas nightlife, stripping, sex work, reader goes by “Bunny” at the club but is otherwise unnamed, alcohol use, douchey dudes, unwanted physical touch (not from Dieter), lap dance, unprotected PinV sex, oral sex (m!recieving), hair pulling, light choking, no sleep! bus, club, 'nother club, 'nother club, plane, next place... Author Note: Fun fact - my favorite movie ever made is Pretty Woman. I've been toying for a while with the idea of writing a fic inspired by it, and while Dieter Bravo shares approximately 0 traits with Edward Lewis, I couldn't help but imagine that kind of scenario with him. What I came up with isn't a carbon copy of the first act of Pretty Woman, but it is heavily inspired by it. If you're reading this fic and think to yourself - "did she rip that bit off from Pretty Woman?" the answer is yes! Absolutely I did. This is also my first attempt at writing a smut-heavy one-shot. Enjoy!

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, licking the tip of your finger to smudge away the botched eyeliner wing. You lean in closer to the mirror, trying to salvage what’s left of your makeup, but your heart just isn’t in it tonight.

You’d been tempted to call out of work. Sunday nights at the club were the worst - quiet, boring, with the weekend tourists already on their way back home. The locals steered clear of the strip on Sundays, and you knew tonight would be slow, the kind of slow that made every minute drag on. The stragglers who did wander in would likely be a pain, more trouble than they were worth. But with the 1st of the month looming and you still $400 short on rent, skipping a shift wasn’t an option.

It was time to find a new club anyway. When you first started, they promised you’d be dancing, maybe bartending occasionally. But since the end of the summer, things had changed. It had been weeks since your name was on the schedule for a floor show. Instead, you found yourself waitressing almost every shift. You didn’t hate it, but it wasn’t what you came to Vegas for. This job was supposed to be a stepping stone - a way to keep dancing while making extra cash. But now, your shifts were barely covering the bills, and the weight of barely scraping by was starting to crush you.

You tried not to dwell on it too much, but the nagging thoughts kept at it. Was it something you did? Maybe you had a bad night, and someone complained. Or perhaps you weren’t making the same kind of money at the bar that you used to - maybe you weren’t pulling in enough customers. That suspicion gnawed at your confidence, making you second-guess everything you did. But beyond the sting of that potential rejection was the harsh reality of your dwindling paycheck. Dancing had been your main income, and with fewer opportunities to perform, you were struggling to stay afloat. Whatever the reason, it felt like a subtle push towards the edges of the room, away from the center stage where you’d once thrived.

You’d thought about finding another club, starting fresh somewhere new. But the thought of walking into a new place, rebuilding your reputation from scratch, learning a whole new set of unspoken rules - it felt like too much. This club was familiar, the regulars knew you, and you had a rhythm here, even if it was starting to falter.

You draw another wing on your eyelid, take a step back, and decide it looks good enough. With a sigh, you grab your things and head out into the night, hoping to make the best of whatever the evening throws your way.

—

“We need you in the back,” Gary says as you pass in front of his booth, not bothering to glance up from the stack of bills in his hands.

“The back?” You stop in your tracks, wobbling slightly as you balance the tray in your hands. The request catches you off guard—it's been weeks since you were called into the VIP lounges, and tonight the floor is busier than usual.

He finally looks up, splitting the stack of bills between his hands with a look that makes you feel like you’ve just asked the dumbest question in the world.

“Yeah, the back,” he repeats, his tone clipped and impatient. “Big party tonight. High rollers. I need everyone back there making sure they’re taken care of.”

You nod slowly, your feet rooted to the spot. Were you performing?

“What are you standing around for?” he snaps, irritation flaring in his voice. “They’re waiting for drinks. Go take care of our guests!”

You nod again, quicker, and start back towards the VIP lounges. You can hear them halfway down the hallway, loud, boisterous voices carrying over the heavy bass of the music.

The room is dimly lit, the air thick with cigar smoke, and you can detect at least four different Tom Ford colognes competing to choke you. Men in tailored suits lounge on plush leather couches, their conversations loud and punctuated by obnoxious bursts of laughter.

“Bunnyyyyy!” Your coworker, Angel, exclaims from where she sits perched in Suit #1’s lap like a decoration. The attention in the room shifts to you, a dozen predatory gazes following your every move. You raise your arms, tray aloft, smiling big and feigning enthusiasm as you move deeper into the den of wolves.

“Gentlemen,” you purr, embracing the act. You start around the room, introducing yourself and taking orders.

“Here comes the entertainment,” Suit #1 sneers, shamelessly staring at your chest. He requests a bottle of Clase Azul, something you could have guessed before he even opened his mouth. He leans in close as he says it, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol, and follows up his order by murmuring something you pretend not to hear. Instead, you smile and wink, moving on down the line before he can say anything else.

“Bunny, huh?” Suit #2 leers, the cigar hanging lazily from the corner of his mouth. “How about a little bunny hop, baby? You gonna give it to me?”

Sure, loser. You force a giggle, twisting your hips just enough to appease him, your skin crawling under the weight of his stare. Angel plays along, her laugh a shade too bright as she strokes Suit #1’s chest.

“Alright, baby, alright.” Suit #2 takes a long draw from his cigar, blowing the smoke directly in your face. “Dom. Bring the bottle.”

You nod. As you begin to turn away, you’re stilled by the loud clap of Suit #2’s hand smacking your ass. You yelp, stumbling forward, your tray wobbling precariously as you regain your balance. Your jaw drops as you whirl around to face him, and the room erupts in laughter, every man on the sofa doubled over in delight.

“Did you see that? She jumped like a little bunny rabbit!” one of the suits howls, slapping his knee in delight.

“Better be careful, she might bite,” another one jeers.

For a split second, you catch a glimpse of discomfort on the other girls’ faces, their masks slipping just long enough to reveal the disdain beneath. But just as quickly, they snap back into their roles, the forced smiles and hollow laughter resuming as if nothing had happened.

You swallow your anger, resisting the urge to slap the smug grin off Suit #2’s face. Instead, you keep your composure and swiftly take the orders of Assholes 3, 4, and 5, your movements automatic, your mind focused on getting through the task without any additional humiliation. When you reach the last man in the room, something about him makes you pause.

You hadn’t noticed him before, but now he stands out. His outfit is almost pajama-like - soft silk pants and a floral shirt with sheer panels that reveal glimpses of his chest. Despite the fact that you’re indoors, he’s wearing dark sunglasses, the shades resting lazily on his nose. He looks completely out of place among the tailored suits, disheveled, chestnut gray curls and half-lidded eyes suggesting he’s either too tired to keep up the pretense or too rich to care.

But his gaze isn’t any softer. Beneath his glasses, his deep brown eyes appraise you, traveling slowly down the length of your body with an interest that feels different - more curious than lecherous, but still enough to make you uneasy. Behind him, Michelle, another dancer, rubs his shoulders while chatting with one of the other Suits. You brace yourself, remembering that each of these guys seems intent on one-upping each other in sheer douchebaggery.

“What can I get you, honey?” you ask, leaning in just enough to draw his attention back to your eyes. He doesn’t answer right away, his eyes half-lidded but intense as they look straight into yours.

“Macallan,” he finally says, his voice quiet, almost bored.

Of course, you think, suppressing an eye roll. The way these guys always tried to outdo each other with pricey whiskeys was almost laughable.

“Coming right up,” you reply, adding a playful wink for good measure. He responds with the barest hint of a smirk, his eyes remaining locked on you.

—

Crafting drink trays for customers required a surprising amount of effort and creativity. LED lights, sparklers - some drinks even had entire plastic centerpieces that made them look more like carnival floats than cocktails. You always joked that your customers were like toddlers, so easily dazzled by shiny objects and flashy displays that they’d gladly drop thousands of dollars if the bottle was dressed up enough.

By the time you finish assembling the trays, Angel is bouncing down the hallway toward the bar. She flashes you a smile, raising her eyebrows as she exhales a puff of exasperated air.

“They’re so ridiculous,” she says, moving in to help you carry the trays. “They’re like a pastiche of lame Vegas dudes.”

You give her a curious look, eyebrows arching at the word choice.

“My word of the day,” she explains with a grin, referring to the calendar she kept in her locker. You laugh, shaking your head.

“One of them just snapped Mercedes’ bra strap, like he’s some middle school brat.”

“Oh my god!” you reply, eyes widening. “Is she pissed?”

“Beyond pissed. But Gary doesn’t care - he’ll let them get away with murder because they’re some big movie executives.” She rolls her eyes. “Super rich.”

“Assholes,” you mutter, and she nods in agreement. You light the sparkler on your tray, carefully picking it up as you prepare to follow Angel down the hall.

“You caught the movie star’s eye, though!” She teases as you walk. You look at her, trying to figure out what she means. “He was glued to you when you left. He’s barely said a word to anyone. Real moody.”

You feel a flicker of interest at the thought, but keep your expression neutral. “He’s a movie star?”

Angel nods, telling you his name - Dieter Bravo. She lists off some of his movies, shocked when you tell her you haven’t seen any of them. Now it made sense. He was one of those millionaire celebrities who dressed like they were homeless.

“You should offer him a dance!” Angel suggests, her enthusiasm undimmed by the less-than-ideal crowd tonight. You can’t help but admire her ability to stay upbeat and eager, even with a party full of entitled jerks.

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t be shy!” She bumps your shoulder playfully, her energy infectious. “He’s, like, the least gross guy in there. Someone’s going to snag him if you don’t.”

As you approach the VIP room, the sounds of raucous laughter and clinking glasses grow louder, pulling you back to reality. You glance at Angel, who’s already flashing a bright smile, ready to dive back into the chaos. She’s right - if you don’t make a move, someone else will.

With a deep breath, you make up your mind. “Alright, I’ll give it a shot,” you say, more to yourself than to her.

“Atta girl!” Angel cheers, her eyes twinkling. “Just be yourself, and he’ll be putty in your hands.”

—

You both step back into the room, the smoky air wrapping around you like a thick blanket. She brings the sparkling tray of Clase Azul to the left side of the room, delivering it to Suit #1 as she returns to her spot next to him. Dieter is still there at the far end of the sofa, slouched in his seat, knocking around the ice in his empty glass. His eyes meet yours as you approach, and you catch that same curious look from earlier, like he’s trying to figure you out.

You set your tray down, steadying your nerves, and pour the amber liquid into the glass of ice on the tiny table in front of him. Before you can even straighten up, you feel the light touch of his fingers on your hip. He slips a hundred-dollar bill into your waistband, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his fingers lingering for just a moment before he lets them fall away. “Do you dance?”

“I see you, Bravo!” one of the Suits hollers from across the room before you can answer, laughing boorishly. “You fuckin’ dog!”

The look on Dieter’s face suggests he finds this guy just as charming as you do.

“Atta boy! Thought you didn’t want to come tonight, bro,” another Suit teases, his tone dripping with mock affection. There’s a round of snickering from the men, their eyes flitting between you and Dieter like this is some kind of game.

“Bunny, sweetheart, why don’t you come sit over here?” one of the Suits beckons, patting his lap like he’s calling a dog. “I’ve got a tip for you, too, if you’re nice.”

You force a smile, your skin prickling with irritation, but before you respond, your gaze drifts to Dieter. He’s watching the exchange with detached amusement, his eyes holding a silent apology as he takes a long sip of his drink, setting it down on the table pointedly.

Just then, Angel’s voice cuts through the air, sugary sweet and smooth. “Are you sure, honey?”

You turn slightly, noticing that all attention has shifted to Mercedes, dancing on the pole in the center of the room. Everyone is captivated, except for Suit #1, who’s inspecting the tall bottle of Clase Azul in his hands with a look of disdain.

“I thought you wanted the Azul,” she coaxes, her hand running coaxingly along his thigh.

“I wanted the gold bottle,” he snaps, waving her off dismissively. “That’s what I asked for. I could get this shit anywhere.”

Angel’s eyes meet yours for a brief moment, the silent message clear - you brought him exactly what he asked for. She quickly shifts back to him, lifting her hand to trace it up and down the bottle.

“I love the Azul,” she purrs, attempting to soothe his growing agitation.

“Yeah? You wanna pay for it? 'Cause I wanna pay for the fuckin’ bottle I asked for,” he retorts, his tone hostile.

You stifle a retort and start across the room. The last thing you need is for Gary to come storming back here, demanding to know what the problem is.

“I’ll get you the gold bottle,” you interject, your voice calm and composed. You start to turn away, but before you can take a step, he grabs your wrist, his grip firm and possessive.

“Make it quick, sweetheart,” he growls, his grip on your wrist lingering a second too long. You force a tight smile, carefully removing yourself from his grasp.

“Of course, right away,” you reply, your heart pounding in your chest. As you head out to the bar, you notice Dieter from across the room.

His eyes are dark, shooting daggers into the man across the room. He leans back in his seat, his fingers drumming on the table and his eyes flick towards you for just a moment, his jaw clenched tight.

You grab a bottle of Clase Azul Gold from the top shelf of the bar. You don’t bother with the theatrics this time around, simply placing the bottle on the tray before starting back towards the lounge. You return to much more activity than when you left, several of the girls performing lap dances as the men lounge back, their eyes half-lidded with alcohol and lust.

Dieter hasn’t moved, but there’s a noticeable shift in his demeanor. His glass is already empty. One of the girls is perched beside him, but his gaze is fixed on you, following your every move with an intensity that’s hard to ignore.

“There it is, I knew you could do it,” Suit #1 sneers as you present the bottle, his voice dripping with sarcasm and condescension. You bite your tongue, instead forcing a smile as you pour him a glass, the golden liquid catching the dim light as it flows.

“Such a good girl,” he mocks, the words making your skin crawl.

You busy yourself with clearing ashtrays and empty glasses, stacking them on your tray with practiced precision. The constant stream of tasks provides a welcome distraction, keeping you in motion and away from the men’s leering gazes and crude comments. It’s easier to manage the discomfort when you’re moving, not lingering too long in one place.

You filled the tray, carefully moving through the crowded room. Just as you turn to pick up another glass, one of the suits reaches out, their hand brushing against your waist in a way that’s far too familiar. You flinch reflexively at the unwanted touch, and in that split second, your balance shifts.

The tray tips precariously in your hands, and before you can steady it, everything - half-full ashtrays, glasses, the first Azul bottle - tumbles forward. You watch in horror as the inevitable unfolds in slow motion.

The tray crashes onto Suit #1’s lap, drenching him in a cascade of liquor, ash and ice. The glass shatters against the table, the sound ringing out like a gunshot in the busy room. For a moment, no one moves, the shock of the accident hanging heavy in the air.

Suit #1 erupts, his face twisting with rage as he jumps to his feet, liquid dripping from his tailored trousers. “What the fuck!” he bellows, his voice booming across the room, eyes blazing with fury as he turns on you.

Angel rushes to help, dabbing and brushing at his pants with a napkin. The other suits are no longer laughing; their expressions range from shock to thinly veiled amusement, but none of them move to help. You stand frozen, your heart hammering in your chest.

“I’m so sorry,” you stammer, grabbing another napkin and mimicking Angel’s actions, your hands trembling. “I’m so sorry, I’ll get-”

“Yeah, you’re fuckin’ sorry, I’m sure,” he spits, dismissing you with a wave of his hand. He shakes off the liquid from his suit sleeve, his angry eyes darting around the room before locking onto you. “You just ruined a suit worth more than what you make in a fuckin’ year. I bet you’re sorry.”

One of the suits chuckles. Your coworkers try to distract from the chaos, each picking up where they left off, while you and Angel continue to clean up the mess. Suit #1 pushes you away harshly, storming towards the door.

“Relax, Tom,” one of the other men calls across the room.

“You fuckin’ relax!” He snaps, not bothering to turn around, his back to the hall as he brushes off Angel’s attempts to help.

Just then, Gary’s head pops into the doorway. His eyes narrow as he takes in the scene - the mess on the floor, the shattered glass, the upturned ashtray, and finally, you.

“Is there a problem here?” he asks, his gaze fixed on you, his tone demanding an explanation. You swallow hard, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks as you look down, stacking shards of glass on your tray.

“Yeah, there’s a problem,” the Suit growls, gesturing to his soaked trousers and the shattered remnants of the evening scattered around his feet. “Your little waitress here just fucked up a perfectly good night.”

“We’ll take care of everything, don’t worry” Gary’s eyes flicker to the Suit, then back to you. “We’ll comp your bottle. Don’t worry about her. I apologize.”

You’re too embarrassed to look around the room as you stand. The bass of the music throbs in the otherwise silent room, mimicking the rush of your heartbeat in your ears. You glance up at Gary, who jerks his head toward the door, signaling you to follow him out. Your cheeks burn with humiliation as you gather what’s left of the mess and shuffle out of the room behind him.

—

Gary sends you home for the evening, making a pointed example out of you to avoid any further risks to the tab the Suit party was racking up. The humiliation stung, leaving you frustrated and embarrassed as you stepped out into the cool night air.

It was barely 1am - you had no idea what you were going to do with the rest of this evening. Aimlessly wandering the strip, you debated your next move. Maybe it was time to start scoping out other clubs, testing the waters before word got out about tonight’s fiasco. Better to have a backup plan in place than to wait for the fallout. But the thought of lingering around another loud, smokey club felt repulsive right now.

Eventually, you found yourself at the Wynn, the sleek and glittering resort where your best friend Kat worked as a bartender. The idea of sitting at her bar and bitching to her about your disastrous night over a drink was infinitely more appealing than anything else you could think of.

The Wynn made you feel like a bum. Kat’s bar was swanky and elegant, the kind of place where everything gleamed with understated luxury. Well, understated for Vegas, anyway. The decor was all white - plush chairs and couches arranged percectly, mirrors covering nearly every surface, reflecting the soft, ambient light. Despite its elegance, the bar was quiet tonight, so you didn’t feel too out of place in your hoodie and shorts.

Kat spots you as soon as you walk in, her face lighting up with a warm smile that instantly makes you feel a little better. You slip onto a stool at the bar, sighing as the weight of the night begins to lift slightly.

“What’s up, girl?” she greets you, pouring you your usual. “You look like you’ve had one hell of a night.”

You take a sip, letting the warmth of the liquor soothe your frayed nerves, and slide a $10 bill across the bar. “You have no idea.”

She leans against the bar, her attention fully on you, and you begin to recount the night - the Suits, the accident with the tray, the way Gary had humiliated you in front of everyone. An hour passes in a blur, Kat slipping away occasionally to serve guests but always returning to listen. As you vent, the frustration and anger pour out of you, mixing with the alcohol until you start to feel a little lighter.

“What a bunch of assholes,” she says when you finish, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’ve gotta get out of there.”

You huff in acknowledgement. “I know.”

“You should audition for one of the shows here,” she suggests, wiping down a glass. “It’s the same shit every night, but it beats dealing with all of that.”

“Yeah, maybe…” you reply, though the idea feels out of reach. Your resume wasn’t exactly packed with the kind of experience that would land you a spot in a resort show.

Kat’s attention is momentarily drawn to an older couple at a nearby table, waving her over. She glances at them, then back to you. “Stick around. I’ll be done here in an hour, and we can go grab something to eat, talk it out more.”

The idea sounded perfect. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Kat always made you feel better. You were lucky to have found her here. As she moves off to help the couple, you pull your hood up and linger at the bar, twirling the swizzle stick in your empty glass, trying to avoid drawing any more attention to yourself. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed. Maybe tomorrow, with some sleep and a clearer head, you’d be able to figure out your next step.

A few minutes later, she returns, mixing up something fancy. You’re surprised when she places it in front of you, the glass hitting the marble countertop with a clink.

“Since when do you give me free drinks?” you ask, confused, as you pluck the cherry from the glass and pop it into your mouth.

“It’s not from me,” she replies, her tone mischievous. You furrow your brows in confusion, and she tips her head toward the back of the room. You turn, following her gesture, and spot Dieter sitting alone at a corner table, still wearing his sunglasses. He nods at you.

You shoot him a puzzled glance, not bothering to return the greeting, before turning back to Kat. “What the fuck?” You whisper, biting the cherry from the stem and dropping it on your napkin.

“Were you going to tell me you knew Dieter Bravo?” Kat asks, her eyes twinkling as she removes your other empty glass and places it beneath the bar.

“I don’t know him. He was at the club tonight.”

“The suits?”

“Yeah,” you answer. “He was the only one of them behaving himself.”

“Well, it looks like you made an impression.”

You take a sip of the drink, tapping your nails on the bar as your mind races.

“Is he alone?” You whisper again, even though he’s far enough away that your voice wouldn’t carry anyway. She nods in confirmation.

What was this guy’s deal? He was famous enough. Didn’t he have better things to do than follow you around and hang around a hotel bar alone at two in the morning? He could probably make a call and have a dozen eager girls in his hotel room within a half hour. What did he want with you?

You exhale sharply through your teeth, downing another big sip of your drink. “Fuck it,” you say, sliding off your stool. “Be right back.”

Kat nods. “Let me know if he needs to go,” she reassures you.

Drink in hand, you stride across the room to Dieter’s booth. You slide into the seat opposite his, setting your glass on the table. He tilts his head slightly, peering at you over his sunglasses.

“Do you make a habit of following strippers around after they leave work?” you ask, your tone sharp but not entirely uninviting.

“No, not usually.”

“Not usually,” you repeat, a hint of sarcasm in your voice. “So, I guess that means I’m special?”

He shrugs casually. “I happen to be staying here.”

“Ohh, I see… That’s lucky, huh?”

“Guess so,” he answers, taking a sip from his drink. He seems amused, clearly in better spirits since the last time you saw him, his brown eyes glimmering from behind his dark shades.

“It’s a nice place.” Your eyes wander around the room, eventually landing back on him, still eying him suspiciously.

“And what about you?” He swallows a sip of his drink, big fingers and shiny rings gesturing towards you.

“What about me?” It comes out a little harsher than you intended.

“Do you usually hang out at hotel bars alone at two in the morning?”

“I happen to have a friend who works here,” you tease his tone from before.

“Ah,” he acknowledges.

“Mmhm.”

A brief silence falls between you, punctuated only by the distant clinking of glasses and murmurs from the bar. Dieter reclines back into his seat, once again obscured by the shadows and his sunglasses.

“What’s your name?” He asks.

“It’s Bunny, honey, you knew that already.” You answer, putting on an exaggerated version of the sultry voice you use at the club.

He huffs a laugh, clearly not interested in the act. You tell him the truth.

From across the room, Kat waves an “OK?” sign with her hand, and you nod.

“So, what are you doing here all alone?” you ask, your curiosity getting the better of you. “Don’t people like you usually have an entourage?”

“You met the people I was with. Would you want to spend any more time with them than you had to?”

You grimace. “I wouldn’t want to spend any time with them at all.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Exactly.”

“Really, though. What are you doing here?” you ask, lifting your drink slightly, gesturing with it. “Why this?”

He took a moment to think, studying you. Finally, he shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, finally. “To tell you the truth, nothing in my life is exactly going as planned at the moment.”

You purse your lips and nod, then quip, “Private jet in the shop?”

“Something like that.” He laughs, the sound of it genuine. His demeanor now was night and day compared to the sullen grump you met in the VIP room.

“No, you… I know tonight couldn’t have been a highlight for you, but you’re very… real. I don’t get a lot of that these days. Plus, the guy you spilled that drink on has been pissing me off for weeks, so I had to thank you personally.”

You laugh hard, heat burning at your cheeks as you’re reminded of the incident earlier.

“Oh, well, I’m glad you liked it. If it gets me fired, I’ll at least have that.” You flash a big, genuine smile at him.

“They can’t fire you for that,” he says, shaking his head. “An asshole like that needs a drink spilled on him every once in a while.”

“I’ll let them know you said so.” You laugh into your drink. You can’t believe he actually has you giggling. Lots of big names come into the club; you haven’t been remotely starstruck in a long time, and you can’t even remember anything this guy was in. Something about him was disarming.

You take him in as you continue to chat. It’s obvious he’s a movie star now - he’s stubbly and disheveled, but he’s movie-star handsome. Brown and gray scruff covers his jaw. He’s wearing a soft, chunky cardigan over a dress shirt, the mismatched layers somehow perfectly complementing his broad shoulders and chest. It’s a look that shouldn’t work, but on him, it does. He smells good, too, not oppressive like the Suits, but nice and warm and heady.

A comfortable silence settles between you, and you find yourself relaxing, crossing your legs underneath you in the booth. He glances toward the bar, then back at you, before pushing his sunglasses up onto his head and leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

“Do you want to come upstairs with me?”

The question surprises you.

“For?” you ask, meeting his gaze directly, trying to get a gauge on his intentions.

“More of this. Some company that won’t drive me fucking crazy,” he says, his tone surprisingly sincere. His voice drops lower. “Plus, I never got my dance from you. You girls make house calls?”

Ah, there it is. Your breath catches for a moment, but you quickly regain your composure.

Briefly chastising yourself for believing this guy was any different from any other dude at the club, you worry your bottom lip between your teeth.

“That’s a bold question.”  “I’m a risk taker,” he smiles, his forehead soft and creasing slightly, somehow still endearing despite it all. 

You consider it. You weren’t paid out tonight so you really need the money, and the opportunity is right in front of you. But this is new territory, even for you.

 You glance over at Kat, who’s still keeping an eye on you. Turning back to Dieter, you fidget with a cocktail napkin on the table, folding it and unfolding it. “Not for free.”

“Of course not.”

 “What exactly are you looking for?”

“The dance, some conversation. You can stay for the rest of the night - there’s plenty of room.”

Yeah, right. You raise an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe you just want to talk?”

“I’m not expecting anything,” he replies smoothly. “Just hoping. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”  “There’s lots of girls on the strip who do that sort of thing, you know.”  “I know.”

You glance at Kat once more, then back at Dieter. If you’re going to do this, you might as well take a bold swing.

“Five hundred dollars.”

“I can do that.”

Holy shit. Between that and the hundred he gave you earlier, you’d have rent and then some. You think for another moment. All you had to do was dance. You’d be done in an hour and then you could go home.

“I don’t do any weird shit,” you say. You don’t even know what you even mean by that.

He nods, accepting your terms without hesitation.

“And I’m not entertaining a party. I don’t want to meet any of your buddies up there.”

“It’s just me.” He confirms.

You think it over for another moment.

“Okay.” You say, doing your best to mask the relief surging through you at the thought of that kind of money.  You finish your drink and stand up, gesturing for him to follow. Kat catches your eye and tilts her head, curious, and you shrug slightly as you walk out of the room.

—

As you leave the bar, you’re immediately aware of the kind of attention Dieter gets everywhere he goes. Heads turn as you walk through the lobby, you notice at least three people attempt to subtly snap photos with their phones. He seems unfazed by it - his sunglasses are back in place, but he’s calm and confident.

The hotel is huge. You haven’t even explored most of it, usually just bee-lining to Kat’s bar whenever you visit. He leads you past the main lobby, down a short corridor to a part of this hotel you’ve never seen before. Intricate gold leafing sprawls and swirls on the marble floor before you, yellow gold fixtures evoking a version of old-Vegas that has you suddenly feeling very underdressed.

It’s the middle of the night, yet the lobby is still bustling with people dressed to the nines in suits and cocktail dresses, their chatter and laughter filling the space. As Dieter walks by, he’s noticed in a more subtle way - eyes flicker toward him, a quiet recognition that follows in his wake. An employee at the front desk greets him with a smile that falters when she notices you by his side. She glances over you, her eyes taking you in with a slight but unmistakable judgment. You shrug your hoodie forward, zipping it up a bit higher as your heels click-clack against the marble, each step feeling more out of place.

Dieter’s hand spreads across the small of your back, guiding you to turn towards a trio of tall, golden elevators. He presses a key card to the wall the middle doors open, revealing the mirrored, plushly-carpeted interior.

“So,” you begin, forcing a lightness into your tone as you follow him inside, “your penthouse or mine?”

“Mmm, mine,” he replies with a soft, tired chuckle.

The elevator ride is quiet, the tension palpable but not uncomfortable. You watch the floor numbers tick upward, trying to focus on anything but the nerves building in your chest. It’s a long ride. You count the dings as the elevator rises and lose track somewhere around twenty.

You’re fucking nervous. Really nervous. You were half expecting to wake up from this fever dream of an evening at any moment. The thought that this guy has money to burn flits through your mind, and you can’t help but worry about what he might expect for five hundred bucks.

The elevator doors open directly into his suite. It is exactly what you’d expect: luxurious, sprawling. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a stunning view of the city skyline. You walk over to the wall of glass, taking a moment to steady yourself.

“This is a beautiful view,” you say, more to fill the silence than anything else.

“It’s better now,” he replies, and you turn to see him watching you intently. His glasses are finally off and his eyes are warm and inviting, sparkling with the reflection of the skyline behind you. You find yourself relaxing just a little around him.

“Want a drink?” he asks. He shrugs his sweater off and tosses it over a chair as he moves over to the bar.

“Sure,” you reply, slowly walking around the room, surveying the luxurious decor.

As he pours the drinks, you take a seat on the plush sofa. You fiddle with the tassels on a throw pillow next to you, crossing and uncrossing your legs, trying to control your fidgeting. This was all so bizarre. The opulence feels almost surreal, like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life. You were still waiting for some perverted catch to reveal itself, but at least for now, Dieter seemed like a nice enough guy.

“So, what brings you to Vegas?” You ask, trying to make conversation. “Big Cher fan?”

Her face watched you from outside the window, fifty feet tall, advertising her residency across the strip. He laughs, looking to her, then to you.

“Of course, but that’s just a coincidence,” he says, bringing you a glass of champagne. “I’m here for an award show.”

“Oh, that’s fun…” you answer, taking a long draw from your glass. “What’d you win?”

“The opportunity to present a lifetime achievement award to someone who hates me.” He answers.

You nod, frowning in acknowledgement, unsure of how to respond to that.

“Lucky you.”

“Yeah,” he says, a slight groan in his voice as he sits on the couch with you and settles in. He picks up a remote from the side table and with a press of a button, the lighting in the room shifts to a warm, amber glow, casting everything in a soft, intimate light. “Lucky me.”

You sit in silence for a moment, sipping champagne.

You’re not sure how this is done. You know how to play this part at the club, but this was different. You slip in and out of eye contact with him, surveying the room as you try not to polish off your glass too quickly. Should you ask if he wants a lap dance? Just jump on top of him? Were you supposed to ask for the money before or after?

You take a gulp and put your glass down, deciding to just shift into character like you would for any other dance. Scooting in towards him, you place your hand on his leg and run it up and down the length of his thigh. The buzz from the drinks you’ve had tonight is starting to hit, and the contact sends a jolt of something electric through your nerves. You flip your hair to one side, batting your lashes and gazing up at him.

“So,” you purr, your voice low and inviting. “What do you want?”

His eyes flick down to your hand, then back up to meet yours, a small smile playing on his lips. “What do you do?” he asks, curious.

You lean in closer, tucking yourself into the crook of his neck, your lips hovering near his ear. “I can show you,” you whisper, letting your breath caress his skin.

His eyes darken slightly, drinking you in as you let your fingers trail and explore his chest. “I’d like that,” he murmurs.

You stand up slowly, zipping your hoodie off and letting it fall to the ground.

“Music?” You ask. He points at a shelf on the wall with a set of speakers. You walk over and turn it on, Insatiable by Prince picking up midway through the track.

“Oooh, Prince,” you say, genuinely excited as you turned around. Music you actually liked was a welcome reprise from having to writhe around to Cherry Pie for the hundredth time. He smirks, leaning back in his seat, his eyes following your every move.

You start your routine, taking your time as you peel off your shorts and your top, giving him ample time to appreciate the view. You’re grateful you decided to keep on what you wore to work tonight - this set accentuates your curves perfectly, a far cry from the tired-looking boyshorts and nude, full-coverage bra you usually wore off-duty.

Swaying your hips back and forth to the rhythm, you begin by tracing your fingers slowly up and down your torso. For what he was paying, you figured you’d give him a show. Your fingers linger over your breasts, tracing the edges of your bra as you lower your lashes, then lift them slowly to meet his gaze to make sultry, sexy, in-character eye contact with him. He’s staring right back into you with an intensity that makes you pause for a moment, but you slip right back into it.

You walk towards him, stretching your legs out long as you cross the room. He spreads his legs slightly when you arrive in front of him, his deep brown eyes darkened several shades as he takes you in. You rest a hand on his shoulder, hitching your leg up and placing your high-heeled foot delicately on his bent knee. You watch eachother as you stand there, rubbing your leg up and down, deliberately grazing the seam of your panties a couple of times with your pinky and ring fingers.

Planting your foot back on the floor, you turn around, giving him a full view as you bend down. The fabric of your bra and panties hugs your curves just right. He runs his hands along the outside of your thighs, a long, low groan escaping him as you slowly stand back up and lower yourself backwards into his lap. You roll your hips a couple of times as you squat down, but you swallow your gasp when you finally settle in his lap.

He’s half-hard already and you can feel it, an immediate ick under normal circumstances, but these were not normal circumstances. The feeling of this hardening length against the back of your thighs sent a jolt down your spine, a buzz moving through you straight to your center. You maintain your composure, continuing to move in rhythm with the music, your fingers weaving into his hair as you grind against him. His hands find your waist, supporting your movements as they slide down towards your thighs and back up again.

You lean backwards, pressing your back into his chest and grinding into him, His breath hitches, and you can feel his grip tightening slightly, his fingers pressing into your skin.

“You’re incredible,” he growls into your neck, his teeth just nipping the tender skin there. You try not to moan, the goosebumps spreading down your arms and legs threatening to give you away.

“Mmm, yeah?” You hum, twisting around to face him and lifting your knees up to straddle his waist. Your eyes lock onto his, and a thrill buzzes in your stomach - you’re enjoying this more than you expected. He’s hot, especially up close, especially like this. His chestnut-gray curls have started to break free from their gelled-back position, framing his face in a way that makes him look irresistible.

You reach behind your back, unhooking your bra and letting it fall down. His eyes are glued to your chest as you angle it towards his face. One hand plants behind his head on the sofa and the other traces along his jawline, feeling the roughness of his stubble before settling around the back of his neck. You use it as leverage to hold yourself steady as you settle on his lap.

“You can touch me, Dieter,” you whisper, guiding his hand up your stomach until it cups your breast. He squeezes, his grip firm and possessive, fingers trailing across your delicate skin, making your nipples harden under his touch.

The fingers of his other hand dig into the flesh of your thighs, his eyes locked onto your body. His hands guide your lower half as you rock to the beat of the music, encouraging your barely-covered pussy to drag again and again along the shape of his throbbing cock.

You try to remember that you’re working - that he’s a client, that this is a job, that you’re not here to enjoy it. You try to focus on the music and moving your body to the beat, but it’s difficult. He’s got you lined up perfectly, every sweep along his lap punctuated with a slight push of his hips into yours. You can feel how wet you are and pray he doesn’t notice, the middle of your panties damp with the arousal he’s built up in you.

Then, his fingers pinch your nipple, and a moan escapes your lips before you can stop it. The sound is loud, shameless, and your hand flies to your mouth, eyes wide with shock. He chuckles, the sound deep and resonant, and you feel a flush of heat rise to your cheeks. You lean forward, pressing your breasts into his chest to hide your embarrassment.

“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs. You can hear the grin in his voice, unable to look directly at him. “That’s good. Take what you need.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, leaning back to meet his gaze. The smile on your face fades into a soft O of surprise as he encourages you to resume your movements. He’s getting harder, the thick length of him straining against the fabric of his pants.

Finding your pace again, you reach back to grab his knees, arching your back and rocking your hips. You’re working, you fight to remind yourself. You’re working. It becomes more and more difficult to stay detached as you roll your body for him, angling your breasts towards him. The pressure builds between your thighs, every movement pulling you tighter and tighter at your core. He’s watching you intensely, his pupils blown out in the dim, low lighting and his fingers digging deep into your waist.

Your lower lip draws between your teeth, your brows furrowed and focused as you bounce and grind in his lap. Suddenly, you’re moaning again, the noise coming out of your mouth like a rhythmic hum. You let it out freely, encouraged by his touch, the strong pull of his hands at your waist.

The sensation overwhelms you, the friction of his body against yours pushing you over the edge. Your orgasm hits you suddenly, your hips jerking in his lap as you cry out, waves of pleasure crashing through you. You collapse forward, panting into his neck as his broad hands steady you, stroking up and down your back as you ride out the aftershocks. It leaves you trembling, your body pressed tightly against his.

After a moment, you shift back up and press your forehead into his, feeling the heat of his body through your thin clothing. His hand cups your breast, and he dips his head to drag his teeth along the nape of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. You gasp, angling your head to the side, your fingers tucking a stray curl behind his ear.

“Tell me what you want, Dieter,” you say, your voice just above a whisper, lips grazing his ear. You’re putty in his hands now, ready to give him anything.

“I want to fuck you,” he growls, his voice rough with need. “Can I fuck you?”

Your nod is quick and urgent, your body responding before your brain catches up. You stand, pulling him up with you as your fingers intertwine. Your bodies are pressed close, and you blink up at him through your lashes, lifting a hand to his jaw to trace your thumb along the patchy stubble there.

“Show me where.”

—

The bedroom is gorgeous, all luxurious, soft fabrics and warm lighting. Rich, dark wood furniture contrasts with crisp white linens, and a large window offers a breathtaking view of the city lights below. Although, for all you cared right now, it could’ve been a threadbare mattress in a seedy motel - you felt so incredible, it didn’t matter.

He leads you to the bed, releasing your hand only to turn around and face you. He kisses you without hesitation, hard and intense, as if he’d been doing it all night, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You draw in a sharp inhale through your nose, allowing yourself to indulge in it. You wrap your arms around his neck and lift up onto your toes, deepening the kiss.

Only momentarily breaking contact with him to see where you were going, you gently push Dieter backwards to sit on the edge of the bed.

You grab his knees and drop down between his thighs, paying special attention to the growing bulge between his legs. You run your hands from his ankles to his thighs all the way up to the waist of his pants. Stilling your hands at his belt, you look up at him to make sure you have his permission.

He cups his big hand around your jaw, angling your face up towards him.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing along your cheek and dipping into the hollow as your jaw drops in anticipation.

You undo his belt, the ornate metal buckle clinking to one side as you unbutton and unzip his pants. Your breath catches as you wrap your fingers around his cock, impressed by the girth of it even before you pull it free. The sight confirms your suspicion - he’s big.

Your fingers glide along his length, eliciting a low groan from him. Leaning in, you press a kiss to the tip before taking him into your mouth. You start slow, your tongue going flat and dragging along his shaft. Wrapping your fingers around the base of his cock, you work him steadily deeper into your mouth as you adjust your position on your knees to take more of him.

His hand tangles in your hair, guiding you as you set a steady rhythm. He’s groaning instantly, the sound turning you on as you bob over his still growing length, your tongue swirling up and down the length of it with each thrust. Saliva pools at the corners of your mouth, dripping out as he lifts his hips to position himself deeper and deeper.

He tightens his grip on your hair and you hum and swallow and whine around him, wiry curls at the base of his cock tickling the tip of your nose. You run your hands along his tightening middle, dragging your nails down his stomach to his thighs and pulling a soft, sweet moan from him. You respond by taking him deeper, breathing steadily through your nose as your throat relaxes to accommodate his size.

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” he breathes, his voice a rough whisper. You glance up at him, eyes wide and dark. Gently, he wipes away a smudge of mascara from beneath your eye with his thumb, his touch surprisingly tender. “So fucking good for me.”

Your head bobs faster and faster. Wet, gurgling noises fill the room as his pelvis begins to twitch, losing its rhythm. You can sense he’s close, and you’re determined to make him come, quickening your pace as you fantisize about the taste of him on your tongue.

“Stop,” he commands suddenly, his voice firm as he fists your hair, pulling you off him with a wet pop. “Stop. Stand up, baby.”

You obey, blinking away fat mascara tears as you rise to your feet. He hooks his hands beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly and laying you down on the bed. The cool sheets contrast with the heat of your body, and you prop yourself up on your elbows, watching him as he unbuttons and removes his shirt, his eyes never leaving yours.

He’s back a moment later, working his hand slowly up and down his shaft as he covers your body with his and kisses you again, this time slower. You indulge in it, rooting your fingers into the curls at the back of his neck and pulling him in closer. You arch into his touch, your hands exploring the soft planes of his chest and back, reveling in the warmth of his skin against yours.

His hands roam your body with purpose, sliding under the hem of your panties and pulling them down roughly. You kick them off, sending them flying across the room, and your legs return to hook around his back, pulling your naked body flush against his. The heat of his cock brushes against your entrance, teasing your swollen nerves and sending shivers down your spine.

"Fuck me, Dieter," you beg, your voice breathless and needy. "Please, fuck me."

"I got you, baby," he breathes into your ear, that familiar smirk audible in his voice. He lines himself up at your entrance and pushes forward.

You moan together as he fills you, his head sinking into the curve of your shoulder. It’s a stinging stretch as he enters you, but it feels good. You squeeze around him instantly, the heft of him inside of you drawing air from your lungs. He starts slow, rocking into you gently. Each movement is deliberate, his pace unhurried as he lets you adjust. He works deeper into you, thrusts growing stronger as your body stretches to accommodate him.

He’s groaning in your ear, a depraved voice telling you how amazing you feel and sending tingles down your spine. It’s all you can do to moan in response, your head thick and foggy now. His hand cups roughly around your jaw again as he finds a rhythm, his cock sliding in and out with ease and you bend into him, eager to take as much of him as you can.

“Dieter,” you gasp, the intensity building within you. “Oh, my god. Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. With a groan, he quickens his pace, groaning as his free hand slides down to your clit. The moment his thumb makes contact, pressing and circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, a deep moan rips from your chest, your arms wrapping tightly around him, nails digging into his shoulders.

He shifts, standing and lifting your legs to bend in front of you, his forearm pressing across your calves until your knees are nearly at your chest. His eyebrows knit together in concentration as he fucks into you with an intensity that fills the room with the wet, rhythmic sounds of skin slapping against skin, punctuated by the hoarse, desperate moans pouring from your throat.

“God damn, you can take it, baby,” he praises, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck and using it as leverage to push even harder into you. All you can do is moan and whine - it’s complete nonsense, slurred approximations of “Yes, Please, Dieter, Please”

He fingers strum at your clit and you cry out, the feeling of his fingers incredible. He begins to draw small circles on the bundle of nerves, the movement mirroring his thrusting in and out of you. His hold around your jaw shifts down to your collarbone, his fingers curling around your neck with just enough pressure to make your head spin. The circles turn to quick flicks up and down and you feel your stomach begin to tighten, pleasure mounting with each stroke.

You pull your knees up higher as he pistons into you, your cunt soaked and squelching with each thrust. You try to match his rhythm, but it becomes more and more difficult as the nerves at your core threaten to burst.

“Come on my cock,” he commands, his breath hot against your ear. “Wanna feel you come.”

His words push you over the edge. Your body tenses as a wave of pleasure crashes through you. You can’t fight the high-pitched cry of relief that rips from your chest and you cling to his wrists, his arms, anything you can get your hands on as your orgasm shudders and ripples through you.

He groans, too, his own control slipping as he collapses onto the bed beside you. He turns over, pulling you with him until you're straddling him.

“C’mere, baby,” he says and you nod, unable to speak. You pant, climbing on top of him and lowering your head to kiss him deeply. As you do, you lift your hips to position yourself over him and he buries himself in you, thrusting his hips up and bottoming out inside of you. You moan into his mouth, a deep, depraved cry vibrating through your chest.

His hands grip your waist as you push yourself back up, guiding you up and down his length, and his breath is ragged and hot against your skin. He lifts himself to take your breast in his mouth and you root your fingers in his hair as he latches onto you. His tongue swirls around the stiffened bud of your nipple and his hands stray towards your clit, insatiable, unable to stop touching you. It’s overwhelming and your head is empty as the pleasure turns you into a trembling mess.

“God damn,” he breathes the words into your chest as he buries his head between your breasts, his fingers digging tighter into your waist as he holds himself tightly against you. He’s a man determined now, his thrusts into you unforgiving as you cling desperately around his neck. Your chests are sweaty and slick as they move against eachother, the sounds of your hot, salty skin slapping together echoing through the room.

He lies back on the bed, hands still roaming your body, his chest heaving beneath you. Your hands brace on his thighs, giving him a perfect view of your body as you take him as deeply as you can, his cock buried inside you, slick with your arousal.

Finally, his hips begin to stutter and a long groan escapes him. Noticing that he’s beginning to falter, you pick up your speed, determined to return the pleasure he’s been giving you all night. You lift up and drop down, bouncing yourself on his hips. He slides in and out, burying himself to the hilt and back again, his cock sending sharp pangs through your stomach. You brace yourself with a hand on his chest and he grabs it, guiding it to his throat, his eyes dark and pleading, and you obey, tightening your grip just enough to make his breath catch as you continue to ride him.

“F-Fuck,” he stutters raggedly, arching slightly into you. You squeeze just a little tighter and he’s done for. The feeling of his cock twitching inside of you is unmistakable. You hum happily, tracing your nails along his chest and squeezing around his length as he spills inside of you with a guttural groan. You collapse on top of him to rest on his chest and he wraps his arm around your back, pulling you closer to him. You feel him twitch and pulse inside of you as he steadies his breathing, rubbing circles into your shoulders as he slowly comes down.

You press your lips to his neck softly, fingers trailing through his sweaty curls and scratching slightly at his scalp. Soft, quiet moans follow his orgasm, his breath hitching slightly as you teasingly squeeze your pussy around his softening cock, his release still hot and thick inside of you.

—

You had no intention of spending the night. You don’t even remember falling asleep.

When you wake up, your face is buried in a pillowcase made of the softest fabric you’d ever felt in your life, and you’re drooling. The room is filled with the warm, muted light of the mid-afternoon sun filtering through the curtains. You push yourself up onto your elbow, squinting against the brightness as you try to piece together where you are. The suite was quiet. Dieter was gone.

You sit up fully, ruffling your hair with both hands as you try to shake off the remnants of sleep. A yawn escapes your lips, and you stretch, attempting to soothe your sore, stiff muscles.

Your eyes drift to the nightstand beside you, and you do a double-take when you notice the stack of paper sitting there. Eight crisp, hundred-dollar bills are neatly stacked on top of a piece of hotel stationery. You reach out, picking up the note, curiosity fluttering in your stomach as you unfold it. One word is scrawled across the page in a bold, hurried script: “Stay.”

#one more reblog 🫶

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theperfectawful · 3 months ago

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Heheh 😈 thanks so much for reading!