Career Change: Stripper

Cindy stared at her phone screen, partially obscured by her too-long Barbie-pink acrylics, which almost trembled as she contemplated her options. None of them were good. Not even great. Each one was like a fresh stab of humiliation waiting for her, a way for the app to peel away her self-respect and decency and reduce her into some- some sex-object. The thought alone made her stomach churn, anxiety bubbling in the backdrop - fueled by a horrible, daunting, growing sensation.

The itch.

More specifically, that horrible, warm, yet awful need for approval, whispering to her from the back of her mind. No. She wasn't- she wouldn't.

Microskirt mania would surely have her prance around in a skirt so scandalously short that it would only barely qualify as a clothing. Aura of Misogyny sounded like a nightmare - if her guess was correct, it'd corrupt every man she met into some sneering sleazebag, reducing her to a set of tits and a pretty face. But that last one?

Her heart skipped just by thinking about it.

It was degrading. That wasn't even a question. That was a fact. But-

It was also... attention.

She could almost imagine it already. All eyes on her. Admiring. Desiring. Approving. That itch from the back of her brain _purred _at the thought, regardless of how much she loathed and despised that very fact.

She tried to fight it. She really did. Tried to summon the Cindy from the past, who'd literally liven up to the trope and chained herself to a tree at a climate rally, who'd indeed lectured Chris about plastic waste just last week. And then she pictured herself on a stage, lights making beads of sweat form on her exposed skin, music thrumming, with every move drawing cheers and gasps from an entranced crowd. She'd be the center of attention - not just some nagging nobody or protesting Polly who worked part-time in some cubicle.

Who knows - maybe picking the bad ones would make the app give **** options in the future? Maybe it'd reward her for leaning into it? Let her more easily find a way to break the curse and return to normal?

She looked down. Her gaudy pink nail was on full display, thumb pressed firmly against the screen already, the [Career Change: Stripper] option lit up in green. Pixel-Cindy did a little twirl, blowing a kiss at the real-Cindy, before she started dancing around some pixelated pole, clothing vanishing to leave her only in a barely-there bikini.

Shit.

What'd she done?

Her apartment - or at least, from what she could see - the room she was in, seemed to blur for a moment, as if spinning - and when her vision cleared a moment later, it looked- different.

Notably, there was now a shiny metallic dancing pole in the middle of her living room. A shiny black two-piece bikini laid out on her couch, and a new plaque mounted on the wall above the couch read 'Best Dancer 2024', with her name and photo. She could hardly recognize herself in it. She was stuffed into a barely there glittery bikini-top, with a matching thong, and a set of sky-high acrylic platform heels. Heavy makeup and flanking neon lights completed the image. She looked like an actual stripper. A fantasy. A doll. A slut. The word burned in her mind, but as she looked at it, that familiar whisper from before chimed in again. She looked good. Powerful, in a way. Men would fall over themselves for her. They'd be obsessed about her. Unable to take their eyes off. They'd love her. Approve of her.

Women would envy her. Some would hate her, but- that would be because of the envy, right?

That made sense.

And what was envy if not... a form of approval?

Yeah. Maybe it wasn't a bad idea, after-all.

Then her phone rang.

"Hello?" Cindy replied, tentative - unsure.

"Cindy? Where the hell are you? Your shift started thirty minutes ago. Get your ass down here, we've got some VIPs coming over tonight. You know what that means, right? Cash. Get your ass down here."

She couldn't say no to her boss, could she? Much less, could she... could she pass up a chance to lean into it? Just this once? To feel nice, to feel - wanted, to feel... approved?

"I- Uh..."

She wanted it. She needed it.

"I'll be right there.", she responded, before she'd decided what to say. Turning off the phone, she felt a mixture of horror and... excitement churn around in her stomach, like some fucked-up cocktail. Shit.

She didn't know how she knew it, but she knew it. Where she worked. It was like - like instinct. As if the app had just beamed the information right into her soft little brain. She stood outside of the venue for a few moments, her mind wrangling the reality that was about to be - somehow, that last fucking change had made it so terribly important to her that other people approved of her, and it'd gotten her this far.

She'd never even seen this place before, either. A part of her couldn't help but wonder if it'd only started to exist when she'd chosen her punishment. Her fate.

She slipped into the staff entrance at Cuntz a few moments later, as if in a trance. There were a few other girls there, all dressed in barely-there attire and heels so high they'd make a nun faint on sight. "Hey Cin.", the one at the entrance chirped, in between breaths of her cigarette. "Cinny, where you been? You're late.", a fake redhead dressed in a neon-green string bikini asked her.

"I - uh, had an- emergency, at home.", she replied, gingerly wading through the wardrobe until she arrived at what she instinctively knew was her locker. She even remembered the code - despite the mental shock of reading the name on the outside of it.

Cinnamon.

Like her name had just been - been _stripperfied. _Fuck. Maybe this hadn't been the best of ideas after all. Maybe she should head back, and just-

"Cindy, you're late! Get the fuck into uniform.", her boss berated her. Her boss. Which- of course, she recognized his name. And of course his name was just that.

Mr. Big.

"Yeah, sorry, I-" She needed him to approve "I'll get right to it, just- uhm, just- give me a minute, please?", Cindy offered, alongside an awkward smile - one hand on her phone, the other on the door of the locker.

Mr Big, the 6'2" tower of asian muscle, rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ, don't tell me you're all nervous and shit again? I thought you'd gotten over this. Do you even fucking want this job, Cindy?"

"I- Yes, of course, I just-"

Mr. Big turned around, grabbing a bottle of vodka that stood open on a nearby table, holding it towards her.

"Then open your mouth. I'm done with your bullshit. Be a good girl, open your mouth, and get on that stage, you hear me?", he practically snarled at her.

The whispers from before? The little nagging voice in the back of her mind, pushing her to make choices that'd make her wanted? Approved?

There wasn't a whisper anymore. It was shouting at her. To do her job. To make Mr. Big happy. Even her phone buzzed.

[Challenge! Get Drunk Now. Reward: Never Hungover. Punishment: Alcoholic Cravings]

That- that wasn't even a real choice. They'd both push her in the same direction. That- that wasn't fair. Wasn't the game supposed to go easy on her, now that she'd chosen such an openly degrading fate?

"Cindy!", her manager snapped. "Do you want to keep your job?"