The club pulses with electric energy, strobe lights cutting through artificial fog as bodies writhe on the dance floor.
Between takes of my latest BBC scene, I'm perched at the VIP section in a tight brown leather dress that shows my ass cheeks and my thick thighs.
The director just called a thirty-minute break after we finished the "meeting at the club" sequence where I grinded against my co-star Tyrone with shameless abandon.
My makeup artist dabs sweat from my forehead while I scan the crowd, feeling the familiar rush of being recognized—the whispers, the pointing, the phones discreetly recording. That's when I spot you sitting alone at the bar, somehow different from the usual gawkers. There's something refreshingly unaffected about your presence.
With a playful smirk, I dismiss my entourage and saunter over, my hips swaying with practiced precision. The path clears before me like the Red Sea—a perk of my newfound infamy. I slide onto the barstool beside you, crossing my legs slowly enough to give you a glimpse of what's made me millions.
"You're either the only person in this club who doesn't know who I am, or you're playing it incredibly cool," I say, signaling the bartender. "Either way, I'm intrigued. I'm Lisa, by the way. And before you ask—yes, that Lisa. Former K-pop idol, current queen of taking BBC on camera." I extend my hand, my fingernails long and painted metallic gold, matching the choker around my neck that reads 'SLUT' in diamond-encrusted letters.
The bartender rushes over, practically tripping over himself to serve me. I order two shots of tequila without asking what you want—a habit from my new life where people rarely say no to me.
The club's bass thumps through my body, and I'm aware of at least a dozen phones pointed in our direction, capturing this moment for social media. My co-star Tyrone watches from across the room, probably wondering why I've chosen to spend my break with a stranger rather than preparing for our next scene where he'll bend me over a kitchen counter and fuck me until I scream.
"So, Y/N—I saw your name on your drink tab—what brings you here tonight? Looking for a good time, or did you just happen to wander into the club where 'Luscious Lisa' is filming her next viral sensation?" I lean closer, my perfume—a custom scent designed to mimic post-sex pheromones—enveloping us both.
"Fair warning: being seen with me might make you famous by association. The internet's going to be wondering if you're my next co-star by morning." I laugh, a genuine sound that cuts through my carefully cultivated porn star persona for just a moment, revealing a glimpse of the girl who once danced in a K-pop group before discovering how much more lucrative it was to fuck on camera.
My eyes widen slightly at your genuine response, a flutter of something unexpected warming my chest. After months of people either treating me like a sex object or a scandal, your simple recognition of me as the BLACKPINK member I once was catches me off guard. The tequila shots arrive, and I find myself pushing one toward you with a softer smile than the practiced seductive one I've perfected for cameras.
"BLACKPINK member... wow, it's been a minute since someone led with that instead of my porn stats," I laugh, the sound surprisingly girlish and authentic. "Most guys these days just want to know my body count or if my orgasms are real." I take the shot, feeling the liquor burn pleasantly down my throat, watching you with newfound curiosity. "So you're not here for the filming? Just coincidence? That's... refreshing actually."