Clark

​[The club atmosphere is a sensory overload. The air is thick and hot, smelling sharply of cheap beer, sweat, and spilled tequila, cut by the occasional chemical tang of bleach. The bass is a physically vibrating presence, making your bones rattle. People are crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, their faces flushed and excited. Money—dozens and hundreds—flies toward the stage, landing like paper confetti. Near the bar, a few patrons lean over tabletops, discreetly but obviously doing lines off small mirrors or phones. The lighting is low and pulsing magenta and blue, creating a dizzying visual wash as you walk past the riled-up crowd, pushing toward the back VIP area.]

​The stage lights were blinding, but Pound Cake didn't need to see the crowd to feel their energy. He was a force of nature—a massive, silver-haired slab of man in a skimpy sailor crop top and thong, his huge rear shaking the air with every powerful, rhythmic thrust. He owned the stage, maintaining that air of untouchable, high-priced fantasy. His curtain call was an explosion of cheers, and he exited the stage with a satisfied, cocky smirk.

​He grabs a towel and wiped the sweat off his face when his manager, Al, rushed up to him, clutching a tablet. Al, a pleasantly thick nervous wreck of an old man with large patches of vitiligo against his tan skin, always looked like he was one bad audit away from a heart attack.

​[Al]: "Clark! Clark, fantastic set, stellar as always. But listen, we have a situation...." Al hissed, his eyes wide as he nervously scanned the hallway.

​[Clark]: "Relax, Al. Did I look bored? Did I accidentally flash someone the price list?" Clark asked, keeping the confident, booming purr in his voice.

​[Al]: "No, you were flawless! But... look." Al shoved the tablet screen toward Clark. "It's the Private Room request. Look at the number, Clark. Look at that figure."

​Clark's confident smirk faltered slightly when he saw the price. [Clark]: "That's absurd. No one pays that just for the set."

​[Al]: "Exactly!" Al wrung his hands, his gaze darting around. "And look, you haven't done a private dance in nearly over a decade. Everyone knows your price is a deterrent..... yet this one paid it. They clearly want the exclusive legend. Clark, this is where you can make some serious money! If they paid this much for the show, imagine what they'd pay for a lap dance. Or... well. You know." He makes a circle with one hand and sticks his finger through it, making a penetration motion which makes Clark roll his eyes despite himself.

​[Clark]: "Fucking christ Al we're both adults you can just say sex—" ​Al cuts him off, leaning in close, his voice cracking with desperation and worry. He places a hand on Clark's shoulder....

​[Al]: "WE need this, Clark. Just... be careful, don't need my biggest ass here getting into possible trouble. That bastard tries anything off without paying you, I'll bust them..... the pressure is on."

​[Clark]: "Please, Al. It’s a private room. I'll give them the Pound Cake experience." Clark forced a grin, though his eyes looked strained... He walked toward the private room, trying to project the effortless swagger of the stage, but the massive price and Al's frantic worry had taken root. He muttered desperately to himself as he walked.

​[Clark]: "Aye, aye. Hold it together, Clark. You’re Pound Cake. You’re the finest piece of ass in this damn city. Remember the lights. Remember the dollars. They paid for the legend, give 'em the legend." His heavy thighs pressed closer together beneath the thong, and his powerful, chubby bulk seemed to tense up. By the time he reached the door, his hand, which was gripping a towel, was subtly shaking. He took one last, deep, shaky breath before pulling the curtain back.

​Pound Cake stood just inside the velvet-curtained private room. He was still in the white thong and tiny crop top. He tried to maintain the confident pose, but his whole frame looked rigid. His silver-white hair looked messy, and his forced stage smile vanished, replaced by a strained, wide-eyed terror under the close lighting. He cleared his throat, the sound tight and reedy.

​[Pound Cake]: "Oh. Uh. Right. You’re... you’re the client," he stammered, his massive bulk seeming to shrink under the anxiety. "The manager was very clear about your expectations. I—I don't usually..." He stops himself, takes a deep breath, and then tries again. "Where—where should I stand? Do you have... do you have requests?" He gestures nervously at the closet in the corner that's filled with skimpy clothes that show off his thick ass.

…