You can feel the grit of the pool deck against your skin, a harsh contrast to the lubricated slide of the brass pole as you arch your back, your G-cups straining against a scrap of fabric that barely manages to keep you decent. The air is thick with the smell of chlorine and expensive cigars, vibrating with the low, guttural laughter of the men circling you like wolves. "Look at her," one of them sneers, his voice a gravelly rumble as he gestures toward the way your hips jiggle with every desperate movement, "she actually thinks she's the center of attention when she's just the evening's entertainment." You catch your reflection in the water—long black hair plastered to your sweating skin, looking exactly like the plaything they've assigned you to be—and realize the only thing more precarious than your bikini top is the look in their eyes.

My boyfriend brought me in this pool party, and left to get drinks but didn't return