Chapter 1

Melissa – 2 Days Before Everything Went Wrong

Using the strength of my arms and thighs, I climb up to the metal bar installed in the middle of the room and then slide down to the sound of “Do Somethin’” by Britney Spears, while beads of sweat trickle down my back.

It’s not easy to reach this level in pole dance. It took me years to get this strong, and that’s why I always feel adrenaline and pride when I finally feel as good as the women in the videos I watched to learn. I think I even deserve a round of applause for it, but of course, Edward, my current client, doesn’t appreciate my effort.

No man ever truly appreciates it, and their hands are always busy with other things.

“Can you take off your bra, Kitty?” he asks, panting in my ear because I’m wearing headphones. “Take off your bra for me, I know you’re spectacular.”

I don’t like Edward, and his “compliment” makes me feel more disgusted than happy. In fact, I haven’t liked almost anyone lately because after a while, working so much but getting so little starts to drive anyone crazy.

“It’s not time to take off the bra yet, master,” I say, wanting to dance a little more. Maybe I’ll just help him reach climax at the last second and not have to see his pathetic face as he convulses in pleasure.

I won’t lie, I used to enjoy being watched, feeling desired. At first, I was shocked at how the body that everyone said wasn’t attractive could make any guy climax in seconds. They loved my breasts, my soft, round belly, and my butt.

But now, after seven years of doing this, I can’t take it anymore because that’s all it is. Only they get to climax, only they get the looks, only they get the nice compliments and have their fetishes satisfied, and I still have to deal with idiotic or terrifying messages that make me feel dirty, and I have to spend hours in the shower and afraid to step outside this ship.

“I’ll pay you 300 brons extra if you take off the bra now, kitty,” he promises with his nasal voice, and I know I have no choice because 300 brons is a good amount of money, and I might even be able to leave my boss’s percentage out.

So I stretch my hand back, trying to reach the clasp of my bra, and it’s at that moment I make the big mistake. I focus too much on my shiny bra, and when I look up, I’m already heading face-first to the floor because I panic like a beginner and don’t have the reflex to hold onto the bar.

“Shit!” my curse comes out muffled, and the cat mask I wear on my face digs into my skin, which hurts a lot.

My heart pounds so hard that my mouth goes dry, and I hear a whistling in my ear. It’s a high-pitched, constant sound, and I try to recover.

If I didn’t break any teeth, it’s pure luck.

My arms both hurt, especially my wrists, which absorbed all the weight, and I think I’ve never felt pain like this before. I even feel nauseous.

Shit, Melissa!

I manage to get up with difficulty after a full minute of Edward asking what happened and quickly breathe in, but by doing so, I make another huge mistake. An even bigger one than falling from that height.

“Kitty… are you bald?!” Edward screams in my ear, making me sweat even more as I catch my breath.

FUCK!

My wig fell off my head!

I immediately crouch back down to the floor, holding the white plastic mask on my face to make sure it won’t fall off too. I don’t know how I could’ve made such a stupid mistake. It’s been at least two years since I’ve fallen like this, without anything soft underneath, and my hands are trembling, making it hard to grab the wig back.

My entire room is lit only by a red neon light now, which I use in my shows, so it’s not easy to find the object and put it back on.

I knew I should’ve installed the wig properly, using the special glue and an ointment that needs to stay on my head for half an hour before sticking the hair, but today I was too lazy and just put the lace wig over the cap with some bobby pins.

“It’s okay, master, i-it was just a small fall,” I say, doing my best to use my “work voice,” which means I speak slowly and softly, leaving a certain hoarseness in my tone.

Every man seems to like that, no matter the planet or nationality.

If Edward were a Zin or a Vrawl, it wouldn’t matter. Their females are completely bald, just like them. But Edward is human, like me, just like 95% of my clients, and he’s always loved my supposed dark hair that almost reached my hips.

And to think that about two years ago, I really had hair like that, until everything went wrong…

“A small fall?! You lied to me, you bitch!” he screams, frantic, while I sit in the chair in front of the desk where what functions as a computer is, but much more advanced.

Edward has little hair, was born in space like me, must be around 50 years old, and has a very long beard. He appears on the large, square screen in his dark room, and I’m sure his hand, which isn’t visible, is on his cock.

He always loved to say how beautiful and perfectly straight my hair was, how I looked like a porcelain doll, even though he didn’t know my real face.

I don’t look like a doll—at least, I don’t think so. I’m far from being Barbie: tall and thin. I have light brown eyes, a very round face, I’m barely 5’2” tall, and my skin isn’t super pale because of my Brazilian and Arab heritage, though it isn’t dark either.

I used to have long, thick, wavy brown hair—almost straight—and I pretend I still do for everyone around me. But now, the damn wig fell off my head after the biggest fall of my life, revealing my secret. Trembling from head to toe, I quickly turn off the camera by pressing a red button, leaving only the microphone on, and switch the room’s red lights to white ones to think more clearly.

“I think you’re mistaken… that’s just a skin-colored cap I wear on my head,” I lie, and the excuse gives me a great idea. Despite my thin stiletto heels, I turn off the microphone, leaving Edward yelling alone so he won’t hear my movements.

I run as best as I can despite the pain, grab a short blonde wig, and, after two minutes of sheer stress, manage to put it on.

I hate this almost egg-yolk blonde; I bought it by mistake, but it’ll have to do.

I take off the mask and everything else from my head, which still has red marks from the accident, then put the blonde wig directly on my scalp and secure it with a skin-colored nylon cap. Next, I fasten the cat mask back onto my face and sit down in my swivel chair again, turning the camera back on as if nothing happened.

Good thing he can’t see my face—my cheeks must be red as hell!

“Master? I-I think the connection dropped.”

Edward is my highest-paying client, and besides paying, he sends gifts, which is much better for me. If he transfers money to my account, Unob takes 70%, but if he sends me items—like the bed and wardrobe he gave me—they’re all mine.

“You’re the one who left! The connection didn’t drop at all!” he screams, throwing a tantrum like a child.

That’s why I don’t like Edward. He’s so temperamental; the smallest thing makes him turn red and start yelling. Last month, I wasn’t wearing the necklace he gave me, and he immediately started screaming at me.

Sure, I’ve learned to deal with this life, but not everything can be ignored. It’s hard not to feel irritated or sad. I’m human too, and these guys forget that.

“W-what is the master talking about?” I ask, playing dumb and touching the nylon cap on my head, which matches my skin tone.

I’m already used to seeing myself like this, with the white cat mask covering my face. It has two ears, holes for my eyes, and ends at my nose, leaving my mouth exposed. It’s secured to my face with an elastic strap around my head.

This way, I feel more protected.