Reagan had grown up as a rich girl. Gorgeous, curvy, and spoiled, she’d had everything she’d wanted, and when the time came for college, her parents had bought her admittance to the most prestigious one in the state, where she’d quickly fallen in with a coterie of similarly pretty, wealthy, spoiled young women. They were the queens of the school – admired, desired, and respected. And all she had to do to maintain her position was buy all the latest fashions and attend all the most exclusive parties.

But shortly after Reagan started college, her father fell on hard times. His business went bankrupt, and soon they were moving out of their mansion into cramped apartment accommodation. Reagan’s father had to tell her that her line of credit was cut off – there would be no new clothes, no new shoes, no fancy cars. She had to live modestly.

To Reagan, it felt like the world ending. Being poor was horrible enough. But having to admit to her *friends* that she was poor? They would mock her mercilessly. The whole *school* would mock her. She knew people thought she was a spoiled brat, but as a *rich* spoiled brat she could rise above their disdain. The idea of people discovering that she was now poor – the boys whose advances she’d rejected, the ugly girls she’d made fun of, the teachers who daddy had paid to give her top marks (even though Reagan had been bright enough to pass on her own merits) – was unthinkable. The shame would be unbearable.

So Reagan tried to pretend. She sold old dresses, and used the proceeds to buy new ones. She bought new dresses to wear once, and then returned them to the store the next day, claiming some defect. She played at being rich, and at first no one suspected the truth.

But her resources began to run dry quickly. Stores were getting wise to her tricks. The stock of dresses she could sell to make new purchases was running out. Soon the truth would be apparent to anyone.

Desperate, she went to the college’s student guidance counsellor, a Mr Trevor Riggs. She had intended to ask about the possibility of student loans, but once she started speaking, she lost control, and soon she was bawling miserably, tears running down her face, her full breasts heaving with every sob as she explained her whole sordid mess.  

“There, there,” said Mr Riggs, dabbing at her face with a tissue. “You’re too pretty a girl to be crying like this. I’m sure there’s something we can do. Have you thought about getting a part-time job?”

“I can’t!” cried Reagan. “If I become a waitress or something, eventually someone will *see* me working, and they’ll know I’m not rich anymore, and I’ll be a laughing stock!”

Mr Riggs sighed, and thought. “Well,” he said, “I wouldn’t normally offer this to a student, but it’s not like other girls haven’t done something similar from time to time. There is a certain exclusive club that I’m a member of, and it employs waitresses. And its exclusivity means that it’s very unlikely your friends will ever see you there.”

Reagan frowned. “What kind of a club?” she asked.

“It’s a gentleman’s club,” said Riggs, “but in the traditional sense. Men sit around, discuss business, drink fine alcohol, smoke cigars. I’m not suggesting you do anything sordid. You’d be required to dress attractively, and serve drinks and aperitifs. You could even work under a false name, for extra anonymity.”

Reagan bit her lip – a nervous habit, but one that Riggs thought was deeply erotic – and then said, “If you’re sure no one will see me there… okay. Please.”

===

The club was called the Grand Lodge of Pan, and it was hidden away downtown in an ageing three-storey brick building tucked between towering skyscrapers of office space. Entrance was, blessedly, via a discreet alleyway in back, and the only indication of the club’s identity was a weathered wooden shield painted in faded colours. The painting on the shield showed a capering goat-hoofed satyr, being worshipped by three nude full-breasted nymphs – and was one actually sucking the satyr’s swollen penis? – but the gothic style of the art, and its washed-out colours, made it look more historical than pornographic.

Inside, the club was a study in wealth, and the nervous Reagan wondered how a school guidance counsellor could ever afford to be a member. The floors were polished hardwood, laid with expensive rugs. The walls were covered in lustrous mahogany bookshelves stacked neatly with leather-bound tomes. Leather armchairs sat here and there, sometimes by themselves, sometimes arranged around intricately-carved wooden tables. An open fire burned in a stone fireplace. A long, polished wooden bar served drinks. A raised stage stood empty at the far end of the club. Everything spoke of money and privilege.

Maybe a dozen men, all in expensive suits, sat here and there. Some were talking. Some were checking phones or using laptops. Some were quietly reading or just enjoying a glass of dark, rich alcohol.  

A beautiful full-breasted black-haired woman in a long evening dress came to meet Reagan. “I’m Bunny,” she said. “You must be the new girl.”

Reagan blushed. She had dressed attractively, as Riggs had suggested – but she had worn a tight black skirt and a black halter-top that exposed her midriff. It was clubwear – sexy and glamorous for a nightclub, but in this quiet, tasteful room it made her feel cheap and trashy. Next to Bunny, she felt like trailer trash.

“I’m Reagan,” she said. “I’m sorry, I should have worn something else. I didn’t know what to expect.”

Bunny looked at her. “I think we might have something more appropriate for you,” she said. “Now, do you want to use your real name?”

“No,” said Reagan. “I don’t want people to know I’m working here.”

“That’s fine,” said Bunny, smiling. “Okay, you can be Kisses.”

“Kisses?” asked Reagan, unhappily.

“This is a place where men come to feel powerful,” said Bunny. “They’ll call you Kisses, if you say that’s your name, but if you say it’s something like Reagan they’ll just call you things like ‘honey’ and ‘kitten’ anyway. It’s better to choose your own than let them choose for you.”

Reagan didn’t feel like she had chosen the name “Kisses” – Bunny had just chosen it for her – but she needed the job, and didn’t feel she should complain further.

Bunny led her to the employee locker room, and here Reagan had another moment of dissatisfaction. Bunny did indeed have a change of clothes for her – but it was a Playboy bunny suit. Black shoulderless leotard/corset that stopped at the nipples, cupping and lifting her breasts. Fishnet stockings. Very high heels. Cute little bunny-tail stuck to her ass. And a bunny-ear headband.

“I wore this when I started,” said Bunny. “It’s how I got my name. It’ll do for tonight. Wear something of your own tomorrow.”

“What should I wear?” asked Reagan.

“You’re eye-candy for the members,” said Bunny. “So look sexy. But also look expensive. You’re a trophy, but one only rich men can afford. If you can’t dress like a million dollars, then dress in something that it’s obvious you’d never otherwise wear – like the bunny suit – so they know you’re only wearing it because you need their money.”

“Okay,” said Reagan uncertainly.

But it turned out to be not so bad. Wearing the bunny costume was embarrassing, and saying, “Hi, I’m Kisses,” made her blush every time, but it was otherwise just a normal waitressing job. She took orders from the men, brought them their drinks and cigars or whatever else they wanted, and acted like doing so made her exceptionally happy. The men were even quite polite – better than the average crowd at a cafe – and spoke to her slowly, calmly, and without raising their voices. 

Bunny was right, though – she was eye candy. She felt their eyes roving over her tits and her ass. A couple even made comments. “It’s nice to see a cow with such fine udders joining our little family,” said one man. “I expect a fine-looking girl like you gets her legs spread by interested men fairly often,” said another. “It must be nice to get to dress like the real you,” said another. “Girls like you must get so tired in today’s world pretending to be intelligent and empowered.”

Every time, she blushed, and mumbled a vague agreement, as Bunny had warned her to do – the members were *not* to be disagreed with, under any circumstances – but it wasn’t so bad. Even the older man who groped her ass as she served him whiskey wasn’t so bad – a slow, languorous, deliberate caress, two fingers working confidently between her legs to press against her pussy. It was the grope of a man who had complete certainty that her body was his property, not the daring, crude squeeze of a teenager. It actually made her a little bit wet.

It was good enough that she came back the next day – and the one after that. Her shifts were always afternoon, in blocks of three to six hours between noon and 6 pm, depending on her class schedule.

She got the hang of how to dress – expensive eveningwear, such as might be appropriate for a dinner party, or else something appropriate for a kinky date, all lingerie and corsets and stockings and heels. And always, always, with easy access to her groin, whether it be short skirts or slitted dresses, because if the customers couldn’t grope her easily, they wouldn’t refrain – they would very deliberately lift her dress until her ass was exposed, and *then* grope her, and that was twice as embarrassing.

From time to time, she would see Mr Riggs there, and that was *very* embarrassing. He stared at her like any other man – enjoying the curve of her ass, the swell of her tits – but he never commented or groped her, just smiled.

The outfits made her blush – but they also felt good. She *felt* expensive, and with her financial situation being what it was, she had been feeling cheap more often than she liked. She kind of liked the men’s gaze upon her. She felt like she herself was a valuable commodity, something that could be bought – but only for a premium price. And she liked it.

The pay wasn’t quite premium, though. It was a lot better than minimum wage, but still not remotely enough to support the lifestyle she wanted – and she was buying more clothes, too, to have something to wear to work.

One Thursday, some three weeks after she had started at the club, she was collecting her pay when she saw another girl – a buxom redhead who worked under the name Lollipop – walking away with a fistful of cash five times the size of Reagan’s.

Reagan grabbed Bunny urgently, and pointed. “Hey,” she said, “how come she’s making so much money?”

Bunny looked at Reagan, sizing her up. “Lollipop works past 6 pm, Reagan. And she takes the bonuses.”

“The bonuses?” asked Reagan.

Bunny bit her lip, and then said, “I hadn’t mentioned it, because you seemed so nervous. They’re completely optional.”

“What are they?” asked Reagan again.

Bunny pointed to a carved wooden box on the bar. “From time to time, members feel like they’d like to see a little more of one of the girls,” she said. “They drop a note into the box with a suggestion, and what they’d pay to see it. The girls can look through the offers, and take up any one they like, for the money. A member’s word is his bond – they always pay up, or else they get barred from the club. Bonuses always happen on the stage, and always after 6 pm, when the babies have gone home.”

Reagan blushed. “‘Babies’ like me?”

“I’m sorry,” said Bunny. “It’s what we call the girls who don’t do the bonuses. I know, it’s a cruel way to put it. The girls who do the bonuses feel proud of it, though. It takes bravery.”

“Were there any offers for me?” asked Reagan.

“Actually, quite a few,” said Bunny. She went to the bar, fished around behind it, and came back with a handful of carefully folded pieces of notepaper. “Remember, you don’t have to take any of them, or even acknowledge the offer was made.”

Reagan unfolded the first piece of paper. In a neat, masculine hand, it read, “Kisses: Masturbate to orgasm, nude, with a wine bottle. $1,000.”

Reagan gasped, and almost dropped the whole bundle of notes. “Do girls actually DO this?” she asked.

Bunny looked at the note Reagan had read. “For a thousand dollars?” she said. “Absolutely! I would! They’re not all so explicit, though. The members try to pitch things the girls will actually do, not scare them off. Try another one.”

The next one read, “Kisses should tell us about her most embarrassing sexual experience, $300.”

The one after that read, “I want Kisses to eat a banana, slowly. $50.”

Then, “Kisses: show us her tits. Leave them exposed while she works for half an hour. $300.”

Then, “Kisses and Lollipop kiss each other, topless, for ten minutes. $400 each.”

Reagan stared at the paper. $50 was more than she made in a day. $300 was more than she had made in a week. And it would be on top of her normal pay.

$300 could buy her a dress, all by itself.

“Can I do these?” she asked.  

“If you want to,” said Bunny.

“And I definitely get paid?” asked Reagan.

“The club will guarantee you the money,” said Bunny. “You get paid even if the member welshes – which never happens.”

“Then I’d like to do this one,” said Reagan, and passed Bunny the note that started “show us her tits”.

===

Reagan had never stayed past 6 pm before, and the change in atmosphere as the last of the “babies” left was electric. It wasn’t as if the lighting changed, or the clientele shifted, but there was suddenly a chemistry in the air – expectation, and interest, and a sense of predatory dominance emanating from the suited men in their seats. She noted that, subtly, almost every man present had adjusted their chair to be able to see the stage.

“Are you ready?” asked Bunny.

“Is anyone else doing a bonus?” asked Reagan.

“Yes,” said Bunny. “Much later in the evening. But babies go first on their first night. You’re up.”

Reagan had never blushed harder than she did as she walked up onto the stage. A subtle spotlight had come on, bathing her in hot light. She was wearing a red evening dress, without a bra, and she felt like everyone must be able to see her erect nipples poking through the fabric.  

Well, they’d be able to see them soon, anyway.

There was a microphone in the centre of the stage.

“Hello, everyone,” said Reagan, and her voice echoed loudly from hidden speakers. “My name’s Kisses, and I’ve been working here three weeks.”

Reagan half-expected to hear cheers and catcalls, but there was only a spattering of polite applause – and laser-like attention from around half the men in the room, as they stared at her avidly.

“One of you wonderful gentleman has generously asked me to show my breasts, and leave them on display for half an hour while I work,” said Reagan. Bunny had warned her not to mention the price tag – never mention the price tag. She had to maintain the illusion that someone had expressed a friendly interest, which Reagan was fulfilling out of the goodness of her heart. After all, the club wasn’t licensed as a brothel.

“I love it when men stare at my breasts,” she continued – and it was true, she *had* come to love it. She noticed that her tits got more attention at the club than almost any other girl – only Lollipop and a plastic-titted blonde called Melons got more interest – and she felt perversely proud of it. Proud – and aroused. She tried not to think about it, tried not to admit it, but the feel of men staring at her like she was a piece of sexy property got her wet every time, and since she had started working here she had not once gone home wearing a dry pair of panties.

A firm, deep voice from somewhere in the back of the room called out, “We adore your fuckballoons too, Kisses.” And there were some chuckles, and some applause. Reagan felt herself flush, and gasp sharply, and her cunt throb with desire – the combination of the older male voice (so like her father), the almost paternal sense of affectionate approval, and the sexual crudity of the comment, made it sink right past her brain and into her pussy, making her feel humiliated and grateful and needy all at the same time.

“Um…” she said, thrown off balance – then remembered what she was doing. “So, anyway…” she said, and paused again. She didn’t know what to say next – so, blushing, she simply pulled the straps of her dress off her shoulders, and let it fall to her waist.

She’d let boyfriends see her tits before, of course. But no man significantly older than her had seen her breasts since her father had last cast eyes on them (in early puberty?), and she was fairly sure that she’d never exposed them to more than one man at a time before, let alone maybe 18 suited, wealthy, older men while on stage.

There was some approving murmuring among the men, and then some discussion.

“They’re bigger than I thought they would be,” said one man, to another at the same table. “I mean, they looked big, but I assumed she was padding them or lifting them up.”

“Oh no, young sluts like this, the melons are always ripe,” said his companion. “The body responds to their sex drive and makes the udders swell. A girl with full tits like this, you know her reproductive system is practically drooling to be impregnated.”

Reagan’s mouth was hanging open. She had expected some commentary – some calls from the crowd like the man who said he adored her fuckballoons – but the men weren’t talking *to* her, they were talking *about* her, as if she was a statue or a decoration.

“Do you think she’s given a titjob before?” asked a man at another table, in a quiet, conversational voice.

“No, no,” said one of his friends. “That’s virgin titflesh, unfertilised by semen. She’s let a boy have a grope, maybe, but she’s yet to learn how to use them properly as cumrags.”

Reagan couldn’t think straight. Being talked about like this was so *demeaning*. She wanted to cover her tits with her hands, but Bunny had warned her to never, never renege on a bonus once she started it. Her brain felt on fire. She felt like she was nothing but a pair of boobs for these men to idly ogle. For all the attention they were paying to her existence as a person, she may as well have been nothing but a life support system for her udders.

And it was driving her crazy. Her legs were pressed tightly together, because her cunt was drooling madly, throbbing with lust, and all she could do was press her thighs together and tell herself that the idea of masturbating, right here on stage, was ridiculous, and not something she could do no matter how much she wanted to.

“Hey, tits!” called out a voice from the back of the room. “A round of vodka and tonic for our table!”

Reagan started moving before she had even thought. Doing something normal, like serving drinks, was a welcome relief, even if her breasts were still bare. The feel of her boobs jiggling freely as she moved was embarrassing and distracting, but still she made it to the bar, and began preparing the drinks.

“You’re doing well,” said Bunny encouragingly as Reagan poured.

“Thanks,” said Reagan, and then headed out to bring the men their drinks.

“She’s aroused,” said one of the men as Reagan approached. “Erect nipples, redness in the throat. You owe me fifty dollars.”

“No, she’s just embarrassed,” said another man. 

“Let’s ask her,” said the first man. “Kisses, is your cunt wet right now? Be honest – I’ve got money riding on this.”

Kisses went even brighter red, and concentrated on placing the drinks on the table. Her tits hung down as she bent over, and she was acutely aware of most of the room still staring at her.

“No, look, it’s just shame,” said the second man. “She’s embarrassed to have her tits bare like a slut.”

“No, she’s wet, I swear!” said the first man. “Can’t you smell her?” He turned back to her. “Come on, Kisses, is your fuckhole wet, or not?”

She mumbled something indistinct.

“That was a no,” said the second man.

“It wasn’t!” protested the first. “Speak up, Kisses. What did you say?”

She knew better than to *lie* to the members. She’d be fired in an instant. 

“Yes, sir,” she said. “My pussy is wet right now.”

The first man slapped his hand on the table, making the drinks bounce. “I knew it! She’s a born whore! Pay up!”

The second man wrinkled his face in disgust. “No way,” he said – and then, before Reagan could stop him, he wrapped his hand around her ass, under her skirt, and pushed two fingers hard against the crotch of her panties. She gasped as his force pushed the crotch of her panties up between her labia, and then up inside her fucktunnel. She very nearly orgasmed from the penetration. Her eyes crossed. She wanted nothing more than for him to spear his fingers into her cunt again…

… but he didn’t. He had felt the wet squelch. He withdrew his hand, dripping with her cunt slime, and then very deliberately wiped it clean on her face.

“Damn, you’re right,” he said. “More honey than a teddybear’s picnic. The money’s yours.” He pulled out a fifty, and placed it in front of his friend – and then a second fifty, and tucked it into the waistband of Reagan’s skirt. “Sorry for having to check,” he said. “But you know how it is.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “It’s my pleasure.” And she staggered away, wondering if she could run to the toilets to masturbate, knowing that she couldn’t, berating herself for being a slut, and grateful only that no one she knew would ever see her here.

She heard more snatches of conversation.

“I wonder how much milk you could get out of udders like those?”

“None right now, she’s never been milked. But I own a share in a dairy farm upstate; put her on those milking machines and she’ll start producing fast enough.”

“Wouldn’t it hurt?”

“It’s supposed to, but did you see how wet Thomson’s fingers were when he checked her snatch just then? She’s a born breeder. I’d be surprised if a little abuse to those fuckbags did anything other than make her orgasm.”

And elsewhere:

“I heard she’s a college girl.”

“Not unusual. College girls are all just strippers who haven’t learned what they’re for yet.”

“I wonder what she thinks she’s studying for, with tits like that. Can you imagine taking her seriously as an accountant or something? It’d be like finding a porn star pretending to be a lawyer.”

“Or a cow pretending to be a human.”

There was laughter. Reagan’s ears burned.

As the ordeal went on, it seemed like Reagan’s vision narrowed into a tunnel. She was barely aware of her surroundings as a space. All she could think about was her throbbing, drooling cunt; her tits, which somehow felt more obscenely swollen and oversized with every passing moment; and the low babble of degrading discussion of her breasts from every direction.

Two more men groped her ass, one pressing his fingers into her cunt as the earlier man had done. Two reached out and squeezed her tits. The second of these used a milking motion, grabbing the base of her tit and pulling downwards, and Reagan had been listening to so much discussion of “cows” and “milking” – trying to ignore it, to tune it out, but still with every word echoing all the way down to her pussy – that when she felt the painful downward tug on her udder, entirely without consciously thinking about it, she said, “Moooo.”

Her eyes went wide. Her face was scarlet. Why had she done that?

The men all around her were laughing. The one who had grabbed her tit was still holding it firmly, not letting her pull away. Another reached out to stroke her hair.

“There there, Moo-Cow Daisy,” he said. “You don’t need to be embarrassed about knowing your place in life.” He was chuckling as he said it.

“Thank you, sir,” she said automatically, and waited until her breast was released before staggering away. What was happening to her?

Eventually, Bunny whispered in her ear that her half hour was almost up, and the drink she was pouring now would be her last. Afterwards she could pull up her dress and go home, $300 richer.

Grateful to see the light at the end of the tunnel, but still having trouble thinking past the pulsing need between her legs, she walked the drink over to an isolated table in a corner, and said, “Here you are, sir. A rum and Coke.” Then she realised who she was serving – it was Mr Riggs.

“You look very pretty tonight, Reagan,” he said – and hearing her name, her *real* name, suddenly made Reagan feel more vulnerable and humiliated than anything so far.

“Thank you, sir,” she said nervously.

“You know I didn’t mean for you to get involved in this side of the club,” he said. “You wanted a discreet job, and I only meant to offer you the afternoon shifts.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said – and then bit her lip, before continuing. “But the afternoon shifts are for babies.”

“Is it true what that man said earlier?” asked Riggs. “Is this making you wet?”

She blushed. Admitting it to a man she knew was harder than to a stranger. But – “Yes, sir, my pussy is very wet.”

“Did you cum when any of the men touched you, Reagan?” he asked.

“No, sir,” she said, truthfully. Calling him “sir” was different to saying it to the other men, because he was a teacher. She wasn’t an employee speaking to a customer, she was a child speaking to an authority figure.

“Did you want to?” he asked.

She made a distressed, incoherent noise. Then, “Yes, sir.”

“Would you like me to feel your pussy, Reagan?” he asked softly.

“Yes, sir,” she breathed. “Please.”

She felt him run his hand up her inner thigh, until it rested against the cloth of her panties, pressing into lower cuntflesh. He could feel her throbbing heat. He pushed up, and she moaned, pressing herself into his pressure.

Then quickly, skilfully, one finger hooked the crotch of her panties aside, and before she could react, two fingers were plunging up into her fucktunnel, while his thumb ran up the slippery valley of her pussy to rub over her clit with a delicious, ecstasy-inducing flick.

One thrust – one flick – two – three….

… and she was cumming, bucking, spasming, trying to stand up, bent at the waist, shaking the table, slopping rum over the lip of the glass she had just served him. Her tits dragged back and forth in the sticky alcoholic pool, and she was mewling, moaning, drooling. Her knees were weak and she felt she might fall.

Around her there were voices.

“…. cumming like a whore … “

“… ultimately all women think with their cunts …”

“… paying her to work here? She’d probably pay *us* for the chance to slut around …”

“… wonder how much it would cost to get her to repeat tonight’s show with her fuckhole exposed …”

But all she could see was Mr Riggs. He was smiling, a kind, affectionate smile, as he took his fingers out of her cunt, and then wiped them clean across her cheek.

“You’re a good girl, Reagan,” he said. “Or should I say Kisses? A very sexy girl. And I think you have a very promising career ahead of you as a slut, here at the Great Lodge of Pan.”

“Yes, sir,” she gasped. “Thank you, sir.”  

She had never been more humiliated, more degraded, more objectified in her entire life.

She had never cum harder than she had just then, and from only two fingers and a thumb.

And $300 would buy her a pretty dress.

Her knees buckled then, and she collapsed.  

But she already knew she would be back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after.

She couldn’t wait to see what bonuses were waiting.

===

If you enjoyed this story, why not buy an e-book or membership from the shop? (Click here to check it out.)

===

3 thoughts on “Story: The Bonuses, Part 1

Leave a Reply