Felicia Day, Glorified Booth Babe - Part 2

She felt like a sexy hooker. Maybe because she looked like one. Strutting into the event in a pair of black high heels, Felicia Day tried to forget about the shiny green cocktail dress **** her body like a corset. Too tight for comfort, but that was exactly what her employer wanted. They wanted her curves on show, a pretty package to ogle as people toured the trade floor. With any luck, her looks might draw a client in for a sales rep to talk to them about...

... What was it again? She honestly didn't remember. Gigs to hawk more reputable wares dried up months ago. In her downward spiral of stardom, she blew right through the Anthems and Dooms of the gaming world and sunk into being a nice piece of ass for some off brand controllers that were made as cheap as she felt.

About the only thing that didn't change in the clusterfuck after the Fallout event was the media. Apparently, watching a former feminist geek icon slip into a life of fail generated lots of clicks with the more sexist parts of gaming culture. Her recent string of employers seemed to be in on it too, judging by what they **** her to wear. And say.

"Thanks for coming to the show!" Felicia giggled. "I hope you have a great time."

She learned quickly how to fake a proud smile. It boosted her bonus if she convinced people she enjoyed the job. And she needed that bonus. All those articles about what a shitty role model she was had cratered her financial prospects. Conventions canceled her panels. Websites stopped booking her for interviews. Her agent dropped her. Trying to sue Jack and losing the case hadn't done much good for her public image, either. Or her bank account. With little spending money to go on, she settled for any work she could get.

Not that work. She wasn't that ****. What she accepted felt like the next worst thing though.

"How does it feel to be a booth babe?" A reporter asked.

"I love it! I don't have to do anything but stand around all day and look pretty."

Amid the flurry of pictures and questions, a man approached Felicia from behind. His hand found places. Smacking her ass, squeezing her boob, twirling her hair. The redhead kept her composure, her perky grin, tried not to turn around and slap him as her instincts screamed for her to do. She couldn't afford another incident.

"Great dress, toots. You fill it nicely... but you would look better without it."

She recognized that voice. Jack, the asshole who got her here, was gloating over his success. Face growing redder, Felicia answered. "Th-thank you, sir. It's an honor to be praised by such a sexy young man. If you wait a moment, I'll get one of the sales reps and he can-"

"No thanks. It's all trash. Nobody that knows their stuff is going to buy any of this, but I guess they aren't paying you for your brains."

After dropping that kind of rep bomb, Jack had the audacity to dig his hand into the side of her dress, pinch a nipple, and walk off! Bad enough that he just called her a bimbo in front of everyone, but now the few potential buyers she did have were moving on too! If she couldn't hook any new ones, she might lose her bonus. Or worse!

"Hey, Felicia!" one of the press yelled at her. "Turn around."

"S-sure, whatever you say." Sheepishly, she showed her back and let the cameras snap away. They got more demanding the lower she sank into the depths of failure. Demanding, and bold.

"Didn't you once say you hated when shows and conventions have, as you called them, 'strippers in booths'? Aren't you being a little hypocritical?"

Awkwardly peering over her shoulder, she thankfully had an answer all planned out for this inevitable question. "I don't see any poles or bikinis around here, do you?"

Even if she looked like she walked in from an escort service, Felicia had some dignity left. Still, she thought: there had to be a better way for her to make a living.