NO

I slid the straps of my black evening dress over my shoulder. Oh God. Why? What was I doing?

I peeled the dress down over my bosom, revealing my naked breasts. I checked around. No-one seemed to be paying me any attention. No-one could know I wasn’t just another whore – this was their changing room after all.

I was just about to dress like a whore too, wasn’t I? I would blend in, look like all the others.

I would appear to be a whore. That was bad.

But I would appear to be a whore. That was also good. At least no-one would notice me. They would just see another whore. Right?

Was I a whore? Why was I doing this? I was going to dress like a whore, make myself up like a whore, dance like a whore. How did that make me ‘not a whore’? Hang on! I was doing this for money! Well – not in the ordinary sense anyway… I was doing it as ‘a favour’, wasn’t I? A favour for who? Not the CEO? Oh Shit! What the fuck was I doing!?

I slid the dress down to my ankles and stepped out of it.

Whore 48 had just shot a glance over at me hadn’t she? No. I was just being paranoid. Anyway, what did it matter what a whore thought?

How many pegs were there? I saw they numbered up to 99. Ninety-five upwards appeared unoccupied. Below ninety-four there was usually some evidence of recent usage: Left paper-bags, shoes, bags, panties hanging up on the peg…

I slid my panties down and reached for the pair hanging up on peg number 94. I ran them through my fingers. They were whore-panties, I was in no doubt.

I stepped into the panties and pulled them up around my hips. They barely covered my mound. They tugged up my bum. Yes. Definitely whore-panties. My transformation was complete. I was dressed appropriately, whorish. My breasts were naked, on display. I was about to show them to the son of the owner of the club.

Was I ready? Ready to dance? Was I really going to go through with this?

I hung my black evening-dress and panties up on peg number 94 and stood there trembling. I was scared, terrified of what I was about to do, of what I was apparently capable of doing. If I were capable of going through with this… then what else was I be capable of? Was I capable of being a whore?

Never. No. Never. I must never be capable of doing that. It’s just a dance, be confident - I told myself - That is the only way.

I retraced the route along which I had followed the club manager, ending up as he had directed me at the curtain. He must have been waiting for me. His eyes poured over my breasts, up and down my legs, inspecting me. I stood before him silently, patiently, while he nodded his head with approval.

“Good girl,” he said. “Give me a turn.”

Obediently I spun around for him, showing him how tightly the whore-knickers pulled themselves up the crack of my bottom, how high they rode up my hips, how the white semi-transparent material framed so delicately my sex.

“Lovely,” he said. “Just one thing though– you can’t go out there without your number.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a felt-tip pen.

“Obviously it’s just something temporary for now,” he explained. “Bend over.”

My jaw dropped in disbelief. He wanted to write my ‘number’ on my bottom! No way!

I mean making money dancing like a slut to pay for med school was one thing buy dancing naked in a club with a whore number on my ass was something different all together...