Cindy does as she's told

Cindy stood there, paralyzed like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. She- She didn't have a choice. She had to. She could choose not to, but - but he wouldn't like that. It was important to make him happy. And she was - no, wasn't - no - she was a stripper. Technically. A terrified one, one whose body didn't seem to enact any of the suggestions brought on by the soft mass of brain matter between Cindy's ears.

And so, she simply nods, opening her slightly-trembling lips, watching Mr. Big grab the bottle of liquor - and bringing it to her lips. "There's a good girl, Cindy. We'll make a proper Lady out of you yet...", he droned on, whilst the burning sensation of **** began to **** her tongue - and throat. Ignoring the wetness in the corners of her eyes, she obediently swallowed, closing her eyes to try to shut out the intense feeling of humiliation that was now burning the aforementioned brain, branding it with a new memory there was no way it could ever forget.

"Mngk-", Cindy protested at some point, opening her eyes. He wasn't just dispensing a sip, either - there was a faint-but-audible glug glug glug coming from the glass bottle, and a burning, almost throbbing sensation within her stomach. God, she felt- she felt dazed, unsteady, even. With a wet plop, the bottle was removed from her lips, causing a cascade of the booze she hadn't yet swallowed to pour down her chin and throat, before saturating the top half of her clothes.

"Mnhgg..", she groaned, a hand reaching up to her forehead for a moment. God, the room was - no, she was spinning, it was fine.

"Get her ready, girls.", she heard her boss say behind her back - for Cindy was indeed busy looking at a massive set of silicone tits encased in a golden metallic bikini - there were many tits surrounding her, as it so happened. Oh, she was sitting now. Hic.

She kind of lost track of what happened next - it was all a bit of a blur, but like - a special kind of blur. Things went a little on autopilot, as if she'd done this countless times before. The other girls, scantily clad in various barely-there neon-bikinis, stripped her down, and got to work on hastily fixing her back up again. Looking down, Cindy let out a slight groan of protest as a leopard-print bikini was guided up her legs, followed swiftly by a set of thigh-high black fishnet stockings, with a wider elastic at the top to keep them in place. "Wuh- That's not-", she protested - but a pinching pair of fingers soon released her from the chore that was speech, closing her mouth and pushing her lips outward, where they were sloppily caked in a thick, sticky layer of hot-rod-red lipgloss, excessive enough to form a droplet that was quickly smeared off.

"Just do as he says. You know better than to stand up to him, don't you, sweetpea?", a husky, womanly voice whispered into one of her ears. Cindy was about to answer, when a corset was hastily wrapped around her midsection, and in a single, near-fluid motion, pulled tight, expelling an impressive amount of air from her now-compressed lungs.

"There there.", one of the female voices whispered. "You'll know what to do once you get up on stage. It's like instinct. You've done this many times. You know the drill.", one explained, her voice almost motherly. A firm grip of delicate fingers pinched her cheeks, forcing her lips out into a pout. Looking up, she could see Brenda - or Bubbles, as she usually went by. Pink hair, with enough glitter on her body to provide modesty, despite the pink PVC miniskirt and matching halter top she wore. She looked bored, almost, or - annoyed, as if she'd done this a million times. _Had she? _Specifically, though, she was making Cindy push out her lips so she could smear them with a thick layer of cherry-red lipgloss, so shiny the surface of her lips could double as erotic mirrors.

This is ok. People will like it better when she's dolled up. People like sexy girls more.

Why was that important? Cindy tried to think about it, dragging her ethanol-dulled mind through a veritable slog of distractions and sensations that were imposed upon her.

Her eyes felt heavy. They'd probably slapped on some eyeshadow at some point. It was all a blur for Cindy - a dream, almost. It felt surreal, all of it, how some things felt familiar, as if she had indeed done this before. Worked here. Been a stripper. What did she use to be before that? She was - angry about something? The more she thought about it, the more diffuse it got, until she was distracted by the cool sensation of hard plastic sliding in under her feet - the archetypical stripper heels, shiny, glossy black, with a solid few inches of platform at least. Cindy got up. Part of her couldn't tell why that was weird. She'd worn them before, hadn't she? She worked as a stripper, so surely she must've. She's - she's gotten confused. Maybe Mr. Big was right. It was important to make Mr. Big happy.

Cindy swayed as she was guided upright, groaning. Something - something didn't fit. This wasn't her, she wasn't some - some slut, she was- no, this wasn't...

"Wait, stop, this isn't- this isn't right...", Cindy mumbled.

A porned-up goth clad in a barely-there metallic micro-mini grabbed her arm. "Yeah yeah yeah. Same fuckin' routine every night...", the husky voice hissed from her right side. Someone else grabbed her other arm, long nails digging in tight enough to elicit a slight yelp - and then, all of a sudden, she was thrust out onto a stage. The locale was - dark. She could only vaguely see silhouettes of men, maybe a few women. Iridescent neon lighting burned various shapes and colors into her retinas, while a thrumming music droned into her ear canals, smothering out whatever thoughts and arguments she'd built up under the dense atmosphere of the club. She couldn't - she couldn't remember what she was doing, or - why she was here. No, she could. She worked here.

Looking in front of her, upon the star-speckled, glossy black stage, a shiny metal pole stood erected from the end of the sage, mounted to both floor and bottom.

She knew what she had to do.

She was too drunk to do much else, but - this came to her naturally. Like muscle memory. She threw on a slight smile, and placed one heel in front of the other, rolling her hips just ever so slightly as her platformed heels clacked against the platform, the sound absolutely drowned out in the muffled catcalls and the background anthem of the club. Grabbing a hold of the pole, with her elongated, acrylic nails glinting in the light, everything gradually shifted into a blur.

She tightened her grip around the cool metal pole, briefly wobbling on her glossy black heels that reflected so much of the flickering, flashing, near-hypnotic lights that beamed upon the slut on stage. Upon Cindy. Or as she was better known - and introduced...

"Ladies and gentlemen, please give a very special welcome to Cinnamon..."

Her hips began to sway instinctively around the pole, with the fishnet stockings rasping against her thighs with every motion. She swung slowly around the pole, with one hand sliding up its slick surface so that she could arch her body in a way that a part of her knew to be foreign, yet another part identified as wholly natural.

She had to make Mr. Big happy, a voice in the back of her head reminded her - slithering through the fog of **** and ****-muted shame. Her smile widened - though a keen observer might indeed notice a slight tremble at its edges, as she hooked a leg around the pole, and slid her body down in a slow, deliberate motion. The same kind of motion that had, in a way, gripped Cindy ever since that accursed app had installed itself. A downward spiral, one that the ethanol in her blood was making sure she didn't pay much mind to.

Over time, the motions became only more and more natural. Her motions got bolder, increasingly fluid, as if she'd done this for years and years. At some point she tossed her hair and thrust her chest outward, the metallic bikini top looking like it glistened in the nightclubby neon lights.

Her leg hooked higher on the pole, and she leaned back, letting her mane of hair cascade downward. The little voice that cried out to tell her that this wasn't her, that she hadn't really done this, got quieter and quieter - incrementally drowned out under the voice of sin that purred into the back of her mind, pouring **** over whatever neurons that tried to ask questions while tugging others with puppet-like strings, keeping her dancing, spinning, faster and faster until the world was reduced to a kaleidoscope of eroticism in tones of neon. Things became more and more of a blur. She remembered finding sticky single-dollar bills tucked inside of her stockings and bra. Condoms that laid on stage, used, catcalls and wolf-like howls of approval.

Somewhere backstage, her phone buzzed, informing her of what she was a good girl who'd never have to deal with hangovers anymore.

She could get wasted every night with no consequence, like a true party slut.

Cindy woke up back at her apartment the next day. A primal part of her brain was expecting the worst - headache, nausea, a general craving for junk food and a sense of lethargy that tickled at all of her muscles.But what she found was....

Nothing. She felt fine. She felt like she'd only just woken up, because - well, that's what she'd done.

Looking down at herself sprawled out in bed, the memories of the day before began to spew into her consciousness. How couldn't they, when she was still in bed - a sticky bed, at that - clad in the bikini getup she'd worn on stage last night?

Oh god. She'd fucking-

She stripped. She'd danced, on stage, like some slut with no sense of self respect. Oh god. The only upside was that an avenue like that would be the last place most of her fellow activists would go, but - oh god. She'd shaken her little unremarkable ass for a crowd and - one guy slapped it! Oh my god.

Humiliation burned bright in Cindy's recovering psyche, who straightened to a sitting position - finding herself reminded of the stickyness of the bed - sweat, probably, she told herself... God. She whimpered softly, plucking a five dollar bill out of her thong. It was fucking - sticky. Ew...

Her phone buzzed at her from somewhere in the bed. What? Oh- shit. She scrammed, jolting to, tossing her covers and pillows left and right until she could find it. Her fingernails clacked against the screen as she finally did, highlighting a notification.

[Play a game in 0:00:32 to avoid 3 automatic punishments!]

WHAT?!

Cindy angrily tapped at the screen (careful to not ruin a nail), hopping into the app where she could see the timer running down in realtime.

10, 9, 8, 7....

There! The game loaded, and Cindy frantically started matching gems. Fuck! Was the game this hard before? She threw her eyes towards a nearby, wrinkled single dollar bill that had probably come off her outfit overnight. God, she couldn't even - she couldn't remember what'd happened. She got drunk, but - the app had let her get off without the consequences...

The game's buzzing noise came back to alarm her - and inform her, oh-so-happily, that she'd lost another game.

"No!", Cindy squeaked, looking horrified at the game. The pixelated avatar on the game screen stuffed some pink 'bimbucks' into her cleavage. Fuck off, Cindy thought...

[Choose A Punishment!]

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Lifestyle Change: Trashy

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