Lipstick Money

By Anastacia Snelleksz

Young, beautiful and talented, Natasha Ray has always had a secret longing to become an exotic dancer, a life forbidden by her family. The only way to live out her desires is to escape to Japan, a country where she knows no one and doesn’t speak the language. But Natasha is determined and it’s not long before her real adventures begin.
 
Completely alone, Natasha embarks on a new life. Can the shy, sheltered girl who left her home navigate the sensual world she finds herself in? Natasha realizes she must find a side of herself that she’d always known was deep within her but never had the chance to explore. With the help of a sexy new job and a devastatingly handsome teacher, Natasha discovers a powerfully seductive, in-control woman who thrives on her own terms.  
 
Fifty Shades of Grey meets Magic Mike, Lipstick Money is a sensual, daring adventure that vividly portrays fantasies turned into reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Feb 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781504316606

Anastacia Snelleksz

Anastacia Snelleksz is a passionately creative entrepreneur. As a creator of well-known businesses in the exotic dance genre, Anastacia realized there was a need for more people to explore this form of creative expression, if not physically, then emotionally through her book Lipstick Money. Best known for her Australian pole dance company, Pole Princess, she is passionate about helping people explore their sexuality through fantasy. Follow her on Instagram at www.instagram.com/itsjustanastacia

Book preview

LIPSTICK

MONEY

Anastacia Snelleksz

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Copyright © 2019 Anastacia Snelleksz.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com.au

1 [phone]

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Print information available on the last page.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-1659-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-1660-6 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 01/28/2019

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

About the Author

Dedicated to every person out there that dared

to live without fear, and to those who are about to. Live your best life.

Acknowledgements

I WANT TO acknowledge the following people that had a part in the journey that lead me to write this book:

To my dad, Carlisle Snelleksz, you were gone too soon but your spirit and sense of adventure lives through me and I can feel you walking beside me more so now than ever before, watching over me and leading me in the right direction. Thank you for always giving me the answers when I can’t find them myself.

To my mum, Kathleen and Aunty, Susan, although you may both have simultaneous heart attacks when you read this book, at least you can recover together and keep each other laughing with your witty senses of humour. Thank you both for always encouraging me.

To every person that has ever been courageous enough to walk into one of my pole dance studios, whether as a student, a staff member or as a franchisee, thank you for allowing me to be part of your journey towards exploring your own sexuality through dance and to watch how this beautiful dance called pole dance has transformed the confidence within yourselves.

To my friends and supporters that never once judged me for wanting to write on this subject, thank you for your encouragement and excitement in all that I do.

To the person known only as Gina, you know who you are, thank you for working with me on this with the same level of passionate creativity and the powerful focus it required.

Last and definitely least, to Joseph and all the Josephs out there, this is not a thank you but a confirmation that no actually does mean no.

Chapter One

THE ROOM WAS white, cold, and the size of a jail cell. It was about as cosy as a jail cell as well. The only furniture was a single chair and table, which the customs officer had gestured at when she’d ushered me in here. I think she told me to sit down, but since my Japanese was limited to saying ‘please’, ‘thank you’, and asking where the toilet was, I couldn’t be certain. I suppose I should have learned what the Japanese words were for, Oh god, what did I do wrong and am I going to get deported? before I left Melbourne, but for some reason I didn’t think I would end up needing to know how to say that.

How silly of me.

I thought back to six months ago, when I first made my decision to move here. It had seemed so simple. A little scary, sure, but still simple. I didn’t think it was going to begin—and possibly end—in a cold, white room in customs at Narita Airport. I imagined swanning through the gates looking fabulous while a sexy soundtrack played. Instead, I wasn’t even allowed into the country, and had no idea if I was going to be arrested, deported, or both. And no one looks fabulous after spending ten hours on a plane, and another hour crying hysterically on top of that.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember all the reasons that had brought me to this moment. Something about independence? Or was that what I’d told my family? I couldn’t think straight. All I could think about was that what I was doing was completely and utterly crazy, and that was before I even got on a plane.

At first it was just a fantasy. I did some research, sent a few emails, but I’d never actually really considered what would happen if I got any replies. But then Tom had asked me for a Skype interview almost straight away, and the next thing I knew I was telling my family and friends that I was off to Tokyo… though they thought it was because I got a job dancing at Universal Studios. Yeah right. I hadn’t even bothered auditioning. But the lie made sense. If my family knew what I was really up to, they would disown me. And I’m not exaggerating.

It wasn’t as if I was entirely lying. I was going to Japan after all, and I was going to dance. It shouldn’t really matter who was actually employing me. Or what kind of dancing I was actually doing. Though it certainly meant that calling home and asking them what I should do now was completely unthinkable. How could I explain to my friends and family that I’d been locked up by Japanese custom officials because my fake job didn’t issue me a fake visa?

My only contact in Japan was Tom, the owner of the Willow Club, and all I had from him was an email saying he’d give me a job on the condition I covered my own travel costs. I could just imagine what would happen if I’d called the number on his email signature telling him I was stuck in customs. He’d probably tell me that I was fired before I even started work, if he answered at all. What did I know about him really anyway? Only that he said I didn’t need a visa, and now look where I was. The Willow Club probably didn’t even exist. Tom was probably some crazed serial killer who had lured me over just to kill me in a basement somewhere.

For some reason that didn’t make me feel any better about my situation.

The officials had confiscated my passport but had left me my suitcase, which was small comfort considering the embarrassment it caused me an hour earlier. Every time I looked at it I wanted to burst into tears all over again. Everything had been going so well up until the customs gate. Considering the lies I’d told to get here, everything was going perfectly. My plane was on time. My flight was good. No one from home had any idea what my real reason for coming to Japan was, and then, before I could even think about the fact that I’d made it, that I was finally doing what I’d wanted to do for so long by betting everything on a dream… the customs gate.

Visa? the man at the window had said to me, after I’d shown him my passport.

Um, I said slowly, Visa? What do you mean?

Visa, said the man again. Visa for entry.

I was told I didn’t need one… I stammered, feeling a flash of panic, but remaining calm. I’d been so careful to ask Tom what paperwork I needed, and he definitely said I didn’t need a visa. Something about Australia and Japan having some international agreement or something.

The man frowned and gestured over to a female officer at the next counter. She beckoned me to approach her, and I couldn’t help but notice the glares of the people in the line I’d just pushed in front of.

Visa? she said.

"I don’t have one," I said again, feeling the panic grow into something more than a flash. What was going on? I looked around and saw everyone at the other counters down the line hand over their passports, plus another document that I didn’t recognise. Was that what they were talking about? Why did everyone have one but me? I felt tears welling up in my eyes, and I think the woman noticed, because she sighed, and took my passport.

What you do? she asked, opening it and looking at my photo.

What?

Do! What do in Japan!

Um… work, I said. I mean, dancing. I’m a dancer.

Where you dance?

The Willow Club, I said, desperately. The guy who hired me said I didn’t need a visa, I swear I asked. He said I could just have my passport and make sure I put that address on my boarding card and he’d arrange the visa once I arrived. I can show you emails…

No working if no visa.

But… he said because I’m Australian…

Australian not matter. This you address?

Yes, that’s the address that they told me to write down.

I keep this. Please open bag.

What?

Bag! Open bag, please!

My heart sank, not because of the visa this time, but because I’d just remembered what I’d packed at the very top of my suitcase before I zipped it closed back in Melbourne.

It’s not really… I started to say, but the woman cut me off with her hand, and huffing, pulled my suitcase towards her. She unzipped it and sure enough, just where I’d left them, sat a pair of 7-inch clear plastic heels, the ugliest shoes you could ever imagine, right on top. Tom had sent me pictures of the outfits and shoes that I’d need in order to work at the Willow, and like the good girl I was I’d gone overboard in following instructions.

The customs official looked at them for a full minute, then burst out laughing.

"Kore ha nan-desuka?" called the man who’d spoken to me earlier, and the woman waved him over, still laughing. He took one look inside my suitcase and then he started laughing and they started talking to each other in Japanese, and I may not have understood their words, but I certainly understood their tone.

You no dancer! said the woman and laughed again. "You fancy girl, neh!?"

I felt myself blush a deep crimson, and I could feel the other passengers in the queue behind me craning their necks to see what was going on.

The male officer looked me up and down, and it turns out a leer is universal no matter what country you’re in. He said something to me that I didn’t understand but combined with the look he was giving me the meaning was unmistakable. My blush turned even deeper and I felt the tears prick the corner of my eyes again. Humiliated, I felt one slowly escape and roll down my cheek.

I don’t understand… I stammered, and then, before I could help myself, my single tear turned into a flood.

The woman abruptly stopped laughing and shut my suitcase. She murmured something to me which, though I didn’t understand the words, sounded soothing. She then turned back to the man and talked rapidly in Japanese. Dimly I recognised the tone of someone being told off. It was a small comfort.

The man glared at her and slouched off back to his own counter. The woman turned back to me and gave the slightest bow of her head.

"Gomen’nasai, she said. My name Hiroko. He rude. Not okay."

Oh, um, that’s okay. I mean, thank you, I said, confused at her sudden change in attitude.

She nodded thoughtfully and waved her hand at me. He not matter, she said. Come. She gestured me to follow her and my humiliation made way for panic again.

Come? Where? Where are we going? Am I in trouble?

Hiroko didn’t answer but kept walking, through a door behind the row of customs counters and into a white corridor, stopping in front of a door.

You wait in here, she said, opening the door. She waved at the room inside, saying something else in Japanese.

But…

You wait! I sort out.

Can I get a translator?

I see. I speak for you though. That man very rude. I am just joking, not rude.

Oh… okay. Thank you.

She smiled at me, shut the door, and I was left alone for the next hour with nothing to do but think about the huge mistake I’d made. What had I been thinking? What on earth had made me think that I, of all people, could handle moving to a foreign country where I knew absolutely no one, and do something so ridiculous as dance? If I could even pretend to call it dancing. Those officials certainly hadn’t, and that was from something as simple as a stupid pair of shoes. Was this what was going to be my life from now on… people looking at me like I was trash?

With nothing to do but think about how humiliated, scared, and stupid I was, the minutes ticked by until the hour started to feel like about a thousand. I thought I was coming to Japan on a great, independent adventure. I was 23 years old, and the most adventurous thing I’d ever done up until this point was try and dance at all… though the dancing I’d done in Melbourne looked nothing like the dancing in the videos that Tom had sent me.

Then, just when I thought I was going to go absolutely stir-crazy and was starting to consider drinking all the liquid foundation that I’d packed in my makeup bag just for something to do, Hiroko re-appeared.

Alright, you go now, she said, cheerfully, like she’d just left me for five minutes.

Go? I stammered. Go… home? Or stay? I can stay?

You stay, she said, looking at me like I was crazy and there was never any doubt. She stood impatiently by the door, and slowly I got up and walked out, wheeling my suitcase behind me.

Enjoy Japan! Good luck with audition! Hiroko called after me, beaming like we were best friends.

Audition? I thought. What the hell was she talking about? I didn’t ask, terrified it would mean another hour locked in the room and possibly an interrogation under a bright lamp if I did. I just nodded politely and made a bee line for the big doors leading out into the arrivals hall… and finally… Japan.

* * *

I came out into the arrivals lounge, still dazed. Tom had said he’d come and meet me, but at this point I wouldn’t have been surprised if Tom’s existence began and ended with his email address.

A sea of faces swam in front of me, families and friends waiting to meet people who weren’t me. I didn’t have any family or friends this side of the world, a circumstance that was becoming harder and harder to forget. Not even the fact I was free could shake the feeling that had been creeping up on me in that white room… that I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.

I concentrated on a group of men grouped together who were holding signs—obviously drivers waiting to meet people. I felt slightly encouraged that I wasn’t the only one getting off a plane who didn’t have any one who cared about them enough to pick them up… but that encouraging feeling disappeared as quickly as it had arrived as soon as I noticed that every single sign being held up was written in Japanese characters. Oh god. How the hell was I supposed to find my name? I pulled out my phone, ready to Google what the Japanese translation for Natasha Ray was, if I even could Google something like that, but the only thing I learned when I clicked my phone on was that it was out of service in this country and I had 2% battery. I managed to frantically click into settings to try and turn on international roaming when it died on me completely.

This is fine, I told myself. You’re in a foreign country, you can’t speak the language, you have no phone, you don’t know anyone, and you’re completely, and totally fiiiiine.

I wondered what the airport procedure was for a hysterical westerner having a meltdown in the arrivals hall. Would they take me to the embassy or the hospital?

Before I could completely break down though, a man stepped out of the crowd, holding, to my extreme relief, a sign with Natasha Ray splashed across it in English. I nearly passed out from the relief.

Tom? I said, approaching the guy, trying to smile. I knew it came out looking a little wobbly though, and from the look he gave me when he glanced up I knew he got the full tremble. Great. I probably looked unhinged.

Natasha? he said, taking me in, wobbly smile and all.

Yeah… Tash. Hey.

Finally, she appears! he said, shoving his phone in his pocket and throwing my name in a nearby bin. Great. I’d been made to feel like trash since I landed, and now my literal name was garbage. Was this a sign? Because if an actual physical sign with my name on it wasn’t a sign, then what the hell would be? I opened my mouth to tell Tom that I’d changed my mind and could he please direct me to the departing flights, when he surprised me by saying, I’m not Tom, by the way.

Yep. The universe was definitely telling me something.

Excuse me? I said, no longer even surprised at my luck. Right. Of course you’re not Tom. Cos he said he would meet me, but I guess he’s not. That’s awesome. You know what? Don’t worry about it. Sorry to have bothered you. Where’s the departures hall?

Wait, what?

I need the departures hall. There’s been a mistake.

Whoa, whoa! said the guy, stepping towards me, but putting his hands out like you would if faced with a wild animal. "Slow down! You are Natasha, right?"

"Yes, I am, but there’s been a mistake, and I practically got deported just now, and now Tom isn’t here, which isn’t that surprising really, because it’s not as if I even know him, and I don’t know who you are, but—"

Wait, wait, calm down. It’s okay. I’m Jack. Tom sent me. He said to say sorry, but he got caught up so asked me to come instead.

Oh.

Jack grinned and stuck out his hand. Dazed, I shook it. A driver? Well, okay, that made sense. I guess. I couldn’t even tell anymore. It even sounded a little classy, but I was probably delirious.

Good thing he sent me as it turns out, considering the time you took to get out of there, Jack continued, grabbing my suitcases.

I thought they were going to send me home! I said, hearing my voice go shrill as I remembered the stress of it. "I don’t know what I did wrong. Tom said I didn’t need a visa but apparently I do. I have no idea why they let me through—"

Oh, that was me, interrupted Jack casually, ushering me around the crowds towards the exit, before I could remember I’d wanted to leave via the other direction.

What? You? How? I said, still overwhelmed and confused about what was happening. Jack was walking quickly and wasn’t giving me time to think.

"Oh, yeah. See, technically you do need to have a visa if you’re working here. But this is a cash job, so no one knows you’re working. But since cash jobs are technically illegal—"

"Wait, what!?"

Oh, calm down, said Jack, rolling his eyes. No one’s deporting you. I told them you were here to audition, not work, so you’re fine!

He smiled brightly at me and I managed another wobbly smile back, but his attitude wasn’t exactly comforting. I wasn’t sure if I liked this incessantly cheerful and cocky ‘driver’, which just proved how freaked out I was because in any other circumstances I’d think he was kind of hot. Or at least, he could have been hot, but hadn’t tried at all. He looked like he should have been one of those guys you see in movies about Wall Street, striding around with perfect hair and oozing money in an expensive suit, but instead he looked like he’d forgotten to put the suit on and actually do his hair. At best, he looked like one of those guys on a day off. At worst, he reminded me too much of the guys who always got detention back in high school. Not exactly the white knight he evidently believed himself to be.

He was tall, with brown hair, that was aching for some kind of haircut but just kind of flopped over his eyes when he bent over to grab the suitcase handle. I couldn’t tell if he had a good body, but he walked like he did, and the leather jacket he was wearing was just snug enough to convince me he had pretty good arms. It’s such a shame when good looks are wasted on people who don’t deserve them.

I shook my head, realising I was dealing with my trauma by checking out a stranger that I didn’t think I even liked when I should have been asking him what the hell I was doing here illegally.

Jack was still talking as he led me towards the carpark. You’re here now, he said, so don’t worry about it. I gave him a tight smile. Easy for him to say, he wasn’t just practically in jail.

He grinned back and came to a stop in front of a luxurious black Mercedes. In you get, he said, opening the door for me. It was sleek and shiny and looked like the type of car presidents ride around in. My estimation of him and my situation went up a few notches.

Nice car, I said, impressed with the car as much as the valet treatment.

Not mine, said Jack. I’m just driving it.

My estimation slid back down to where it’d been thirty seconds earlier.

Jack slid into the driver’s seat and pulled out of the carpark, and as soon as we were out I pressed my forehead against the window, trying to soak up as much of Japan as I could and remember why I’d come. This had just been a rocky beginning, I told myself. It didn’t have to be how everything was going to go. The leather seats and the view of another country rushing past suddenly made the last couple of hours fade into the background, and I could feel the knot of anxiety in my stomach slowly give way to excitement. Finally.

Thrilling, isn’t it? said Jack, glancing at me from behind the wheel. "My favourite part is how highways in Japan look totally different from highways anywhere else in the world. Really fascinating, no?"

I smiled weakly at him, but inwardly I glared. He had a point. The view from my window looked depressingly familiar to what anyone saw driving to and from the airport back home… cars and roads and freeways.

Don’t worry about it, said Jack. You’re gonna see plenty of the real Japan before you know it. Wait until you see Kyoto. Trust me.

He grinned and I smiled like a good girl again. I didn’t want to stuff anything else up on my very first day.

How long have you worked for Tom? I asked, politely.

With Tom? A couple of years, off and on, said Jack, vaguely.

And what, you just drive him around? I asked. Jack shot me a glance, and I blushed. So much for being polite. I’d just sounded like a massive snob, and I knew it.

I don’t ‘just’ anything, he replied, coolly.

Sorry, I muttered, but also feeling irritated again. Who even was this guy anyway? I had just been on a ten-hour international flight and left to sweat my ass off in customs for a billion years. Anyone would be a little off their game with general good manners at this point.

I decided that the safest thing to do would be to claim I was jetlagged and pretend to go to sleep for a while before I put my foot in it again. This turned out to work beautifully and lasted me all the way up until we finally pulled up at the front door of the apartment building that was my supplied accommodation that all the dancers at the Willow Club were given. Jack propelled me through the tiny foyer, which looked, in the brief glance that I had of it, decent if not fancy, and into a tiny elevator, which was less decent, and nowhere near fancy. Jack pressed for the 24th floor, and for the next 23 floors felt the need to hum elevator music, which I tried to ignore, not least because there wasn’t even existing elevator music playing for him to hum along to. I’d never been so thankful to hear an elevator ding.

The first thing I saw when the doors opened was a dingy hallway with off white walls and a green carpet.

And here we are! said Jack, cheerfully, picking up my suitcases and rolling them down the hall. By the way, wait till you see how close this place is to the club, he called over his shoulder. Practically next door.

Mmm, I said, wondering if the fluorescent lights in the hallway ceiling flickered all the time, or just today.

Stopping at door 2417, Jack flourished some keys at me.

Home sweet home, he grinned, and opened the door, and my heart sank. I may have thought I had no idea what to expect but I was wrong… I definitely wasn’t expecting this.

If the corridor outside was less than elegant, the apartment was worse. The ‘kitchen’ was a space smaller than the lift we’d just exited and was fitted with a single sink and nothing else. The bathroom was just as miniscule, though had miraculously managed to cram in not only a hand basin, but also a toilet, and what looked like a second sink built into the floor. I stared at it for a full minute before realising it was actually meant to be a bath with a shower positioned over it.

Needless to say, there wasn’t a lot about it that screamed, ‘pamper palace’.

Last, and definitely least… the one, single room. This, apparently, was supposed to be my living room, dining room and bedroom, all rolled into one. Two single futons were laid out on the floor side by side, but so cramped for space that they overlapped in the middle and their edges curled up against all four walls.

But what was really getting my attention was the unfamiliar suitcase right in the middle with its contents spilling across the entire room. Clothes, makeup and shoes were heaped from one pile to another, end to end.

Um… what…?

So, unfortunately the other girl has already been here for a bit, so you have to take the side she didn’t want, said Jack, leaving my own suitcases in the middle of the kitchen, since there was clearly nowhere else to put them. I wondered if I could use one as a kitchen table if I laid it flat on the floor.

"What other girl?" I said, spinning around, still trying to come to terms with the fact that I was standing in the bedroom and Jack was standing in the kitchen, yet we were still somehow only half a metre away from each other.

Your roommate. She’s probably taken the window side, so at least you won’t have to climb over if you need to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.