No Alternatives

Elizabeth went up to the doors of Sugar's, the local strip club, and back to her home half a dozen times before she finally built the courage up. Then she opened the doors, smelling the overpowering perfume, the cigarette smoke, the liquor, the crap food masquerading as good food, and the sex. It was overwhelming at first.

It was amateur's night, and there were already a few girls there, money stuffed into their thongs, tits flashing. It was a heavily black clientele, and most of the strippers were black too. Elizabeth found the manager, a tall, lean black man with a lecherous grin.

"I'd like to try to win the prize," Elizabeth said loudly, as the rap music played in the background.

"What's your name baby?" Elizabeth swallowed. She couldn't use her formal name.

"Betsy," she said. The manager escorted her to the back, where she picked out a matching thong and top, in the style of the American flag. And then it was her time to shine.

She wasn't a skilled pole dancer. But she knew how to shake her wares, and how to seduce men. Her round white ass, heavy breasts, and silky white skin made her an instant hit with the men, and by the time the prize was announced, she had the 500 prize, plus a matching amount of ones and fives stuffed into every inch of real estate that her thong provided.

Afterwards, the manager approached her. She could feel his breath, hot and intoxicated, making her flesh goosebump.

"You could do mighty well dancing here on the regular," he slurred. She bit her lip. The moment of truth.

"I could use some extra cash," Elizabeth admitted.

"That's a girl, Betsy," he said, placing his hand far too casually on her waist, and steering her to the back. "Come by tomorrow afternoon. This is Shanequa. She'll train you right."