Stay a dancer

You shake your head. You love the dancing, the thrill of being admired by the leering perverts in the audience and being paid for JUST being watched and admired and worshipped. Or at best to rub your crotch against theirs and make this pathetic things jizz in their pants without ever touching you and pay you a fortune for the privilege. You didn't take this job to become...

“I didn’t do this job to become a whore.”

“Escort”, your boss interjects.

You scoff

“Potato, potatoe. And I don’t have anything against professionals, I have the greatest respect for sex workers.”

Not even lying. Being a woman has boosted your respect for your fellow women immeasurable. Working as a stripper has given you a huge respect for all your sisters you make a living by talking pathetic men's money to quench their dirty, base urges. You women are so much better than those weaklings. You only feel a millisecond of shame as the thought that you used to be one of them steals into your mind...

“But I enjoy dancing, I really do. Love it. Wouldn't want to give that up for having to bear that sweaty wannabe keeper of morals lying on me!”

Your boss smiles and the other girls snicker.

“Alright. I’m sure we’ll find another girl to satisfy Mr Family Value's needs over there…”

Two of your fellow dancers stand up – and look at each other competitively.

“Good, good, I'm sure having a choice will console him over losing his first pick. Now that you focus on dancing - which you do quite well, I can give you the 8 pm shift. That'll pay a lot better, just to make up for losing a very well paying escort gig.”

You smile and nod happily.

“Thanks boss. And thanks for understanding.”

“No hard feelings, I wouldn't **** you girls into anything.”

He pats your ass as he leaves the changing room and you hug Candy before getting dressed in your everyday clothes and go back home.