Natalya Dupri’s Seductive Step Into Room Nine

Not every door backstage is meant to be opened — but Natalya Dupri never waits for permission.

The locker room buzzed after the show, but Natalya Dupri wasn’t lingering like the others.

She had received the note two hours before her match — a soft slip of black cardstock tucked beneath her entrance gear.

Room Nine. 11:30 PM. Come alone.

She didn't ask questions. She didn’t need to.

Some temptations whisper louder than warnings.

Natalya walked past the catering crates, past the lighting rig, her heels barely making a sound over the echoing concrete of the backstage corridor. Her gear still clung to her — a red velvet crop top and matching shorts that shimmered with every turn. She hadn’t changed. Maybe she didn’t want to.

Room Nine was tucked behind the unused media area, lit only by a flickering EXIT sign nearby. The hallway narrowed, the walls dimmer. She paused once at the door, hand hovering over the handle, then pushed.

Inside was silence.

And velvet.

The walls were draped in thick red fabric, and a soft amber glow came from a single lamp in the corner. In the middle of the room stood a vintage lounge chair — deep green and elegant, as if misplaced from a movie set.

And next to it — a man in a black shirt, sleeves rolled, eyes watching her every step.

“Natalya,” he said, like a statement rather than a greeting.

“You said to come alone,” she replied, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe.

“I knew you would.”

She walked further in, deliberately slow, the sway of her hips less a performance, more a warning. “This room,” she murmured, “doesn’t exist on the map.”

He smirked. “Neither does what happens inside it.”

She circled him once, keeping distance. The air was thick — not with smoke or perfume, but with something unspoken.

“Why me?” she asked.

“Because you don’t play safe. You play smart.”

He sat, watching her like a hunter who already knew his prey had teeth. “There’s a reason this room exists. Not everyone can be trusted with it.”

Natalya turned toward the velvet-covered wall. Her fingers brushed the fabric. Behind it, she felt the faint outline of something — a second door. Locked.

She looked back over her shoulder.

“What's behind it?”

He stood.

“What you decide happens next.”

They were close now. Too close. Close enough for her breath to dance across his collar. His hand lifted but didn’t touch — hovering just at her waist.

She smiled, soft and knowing.

“You called the right woman,” she said, eyes sharp with fire.

Then, without another word, she stepped backward into the shadows beside the second door — leaving her scent, her silence, and her control behind.