(Read Part 1 here.)

She was a slut.  She was a whore.  Reagan couldn’t believe the things she had done that night at the Grand Lodge of Pan, in front of all those men.  Every time she thought about it, she felt so filled with shame that she could think of nothing else.

She had exposed her breasts.  She had let men feel her pussy and her tits.  She had let her school guidance counsellor, Mr Riggs, push his fingers into her cunt, in front of a whole room full of men.

She wanted to hide.  She wanted to die.

But there were three truths that she couldn’t ignore.

The first was the $300 bonus she had been paid for what she had done.  It had bought her a gorgeous new lavender dress – a dress that made her look beautiful, a dress that made her look *rich*, as if her family were not even now sinking into poverty.  That $300 bonus was occupying a lot of her mind – and she kept thinking about whether she could earn another.

The second was that when she thought about what had happened, yes, she felt humiliated and slutty and stupid… but at the same time, she felt *aroused*.  She found her pussy growing unexpectedly wet at the oddest times, and her mind would turn to calling all the men “sir”, and hearing them discuss the state of her pussy as if she were nothing but an animal or an object.

At first she tried to ignore this arousal, but that was like trying to not picture an elephant – the more she tried, the more impossible it became.  Then she tried to discipline herself.  She would strip off her skirt and panties in her bedroom, or in the privacy of a public toilet stall, and slap her traitorous pussy painfully with her hand.  “Slut!” she would whisper to herself.  “Whore!”  But no matter how hard she slapped herself, or how much it hurt, she just got wetter and wetter, and after the first time she orgasmed from hurting her own cunt, she realised that punishing herself was not going to work.  After that, she just gave in, and masturbated to orgasm whenever her head filled with the memories of her humiliation.

And the third was that she needed money.  She couldn’t afford to quit the job at the Grand Lodge of Pan.

She didn’t have to take any more bonuses, of course, and for a whole fortnight she tried not to.  She worked her regular shift, finishing at 6 pm, and took home her regular pay.  No one commented.  Bunny didn’t ask her if she wanted to take more bonuses, and Reagan didn’t ask what bonuses the club’s members had offered.

The members themselves were likewise nothing but perfect gentlemen with her.  No one commented on the night she had walked around topless, where they had speculated on what kind of a cow she would make and how wet her fuckhole might be.  But they remembered.  She could see it in their eyes every time she served them a drink, and when she did she blushed – and they would smile, because they knew why she was blushing, and it brought them cruel amusement.

She called all the men “sir” now.  She told herself that it was just good service.  But she liked it – liked being deferential to these rich men in their suits, liked the memory it brought back of when she had been less than a waitress, barely more than an object.  And she could see that they liked it too. 


In fact, it was an addictive habit.  When Reagan found herself at college accidentally calling one of her lecturers “sir” – which she had never done in the past – she didn’t correct herself, and did it again the next time.  Later, she did it at a supermarket, to a cashier – a boy who was a full year younger than her – and that was much more humiliating.  When she realised what she’d just said, her face went bright red – but at the same time, her cunt began to throb with such arousal that she said nothing, and hurried to a toilet with her shopping as soon as she had left to masturbate.

After that, she just called every man “sir”, regardless of their seniority or authority, and made it her secret little sexual thrill.  She was ashamed of it – ashamed of herself – but she didn’t stop.  She even thought about introducing herself to strangers by the name she worked under at the club – “Kisses” – and while she wasn’t brave enough yet to do so, the mere thought gave her the most powerful orgasm she had so far experienced.

And finally, it became too much.  She had to take another bonus.  She wanted the money.  But more than that, she wanted that feeling of objectification again.  She needed it.  She had been twitching her ass at customers all week, hoping someone would grab it, but before 6 pm no club member would so much as touch her.  She had been listening for some discussion of her body, and while she knew the men who attended the club were *looking* at her – staring at her, in fact, with naked hunger – she didn’t catch a single person saying her name behind her back.

At 6 pm on a Friday, she shyly approached Bunny as the waitresses were being paid.  The large-titted brunette looked devastatingly gorgeous even after a full day of work, and Reagan nervously adjusted her own clothes, feeling insecure about her somewhat smaller breasts and body.

“Can I help you, Kisses?” asked Bunny, smiling kindly.

“I was wondering… um….” began Reagan, “… are there any bonuses for me?”

Bunny’s smile broadened.  “I was hoping you might come back to try another.  Your performance last fortnight was a huge success.  The box has been filled with requests for you non-stop, but I didn’t want you to feel pressured.”

Reagan blushed.  She knew the requests were requests for her to sexually objectify and humiliate herself – and yet she couldn’t help but take the interest as a compliment. 

“In fact,” said Bunny, “there’s a particular one that’s been coming in every day for the last few days that I was hoping you might take.”

Bunny particularly wanted Reagan to do one?  Reagan was confused.  “Why?” she asked.

Bunny blushed a little herself.  “Because it’s actually a request for both of us.  I can’t do it without you.”  She passed Reagan a slip of paper.

The paper read: “Bunny and Kisses, together, as a decoration on a table in the middle of the club.  No interaction, just on display.  Kisses on top.”  And there was a simple stick figure picture, showing two women.  One was lying on her back.  The other was on all fours over her, toe to tail, so that her head was above the other girl’s groin and her groin above the other girl’s head.  And then the offered price – “$400 each”.

Reagan felt her cunt wettening immediately.  Completely naked.  On display.  And $400?  That was better than last time.  It might even buy *two* dresses.

But she also felt uneasy.  She wasn’t a lesbian, and she didn’t think she was a bisexual.  Sure, she had felt strange sometimes in the presence of pretty women, but that was envy, wasn’t it?  She didn’t want to fuck them, she wanted to *be* them.  And sure, she had had posters of models on the walls in her bedroom – but that had been aspirational.  And yes, in her teen years she had been a bit obsessed with her friend Sarah, and kept suggesting that Sarah make out with her, but that had been to get the attention of boys, hadn’t it? 

Anyway, she didn’t have to have sex with Bunny.  Just be naked with her.

She wanted to say she would do it – but her throat suddenly felt tight and awkward.  Instead, she just nodded enthusiastically.

Bunny was overjoyed.  “That is so excellent,” she enthused.  “All right.  Stay past 6, and we’ll go on at 7, after a couple of new girls do their thing.”

For the next hour, Reagan’s cunt just got wetter and wetter.  She knew she was soaking through her panties and there was nothing she could do about it.  She was far too busy to sneak off to the toilet and masturbate.

Two new girls – what the waitresses called “babies” – were taking bonuses for the first time tonight.  A pretty petite blonde who went by the work name of Giggles was accepting $30 to remove her panties on stage and suck on them – relatively tame, compared to Reagan’s first bonus, but you wouldn’t know it to judge from the mortified, humiliated blush on Giggle’s face as she worked the panties out from under her skirt, stepped out of them daintily, and then put them in her mouth.

It was immediately apparent to everyone in the room from the expression on her face that her pussy had been wet prior to removing the panties – and she was now tasting her own slut nectar.  There was laughter, and Reagan had no doubt that being laughed at while sucking her cunt juices out of her panties was the most degrading thing that had ever happened to Giggles.

She also had no doubt that Giggles would be back tomorrow.

The second girl, a 20-year-old redhead who went by the name of Miss Meow and who had worn a kitten-ear headband every day since she started, was accepting $250 to put on a collar and leash, crawl across the floor to the feet of a particular patron, and remain kneeling there for the night as he stroked her hair.  Miss Meow acted embarrassed as she fixed the collar to her own neck, but Reagan had heard that she’d started working here specifically to have an experience like this, and being a collared and leashed pet at the feet of a man was pretty much her highest goal in life.

And then it was time for Bunny and Kisses. 

They started on the club’s raised stage.

“Hi, I’m Kisses, and this is Bunny,” said Reagan.  “And we want to give you something pretty to look at tonight.”  It was a rule that you never, ever acted like fulfilling a bonus wasn’t your own idea, and you never mentioned being paid.  This was a club, not a brothel.

Reagan looked out across the club floor.  It was a busy night.  Every table had multiple men seated at it – and they were all staring at her.  Even the man who had Mistress Meow kneeling at his feet.

Reagan was wearing a long, elegant black club dress, and now Bunny stepped behind her to unzip it.  Regan blushed as the dress came loose, and then fell down, revealing her tits.  She wasn’t wearing a bra – it wasn’t that kind of dress – and now her perky breasts and erect nipples were on display to an entire room full of men.  The dress fell off her, landing at her feet, and Reagan stepped out of it and kicked it to one side.

Then Bunny knelt, and began drawing Reagan’s panties down her thighs.  Reagan gasped.  She had never had a woman’s hands so close to her pussy – or a woman’s face, for that matter.  She had not realised Bunny intended to help her with this, and now it was too late to stop her.  The panties went down, and her fuckhole was now bare in front of everyone.

She was a slut.  She was a whore.  She wanted to hide.  She wanted to die.  She wanted, more than anything, to masturbate.

Her humiliation got worse as Bunny held up the panties for the whole room to see, spreading them out to make it obvious that the crotch was soaked with Reagan’s arousal.  There was some laughter.  “Suck them clean!” shouted someone from the back, but Reagan ignored them.  If they wanted to see that, they could pay for a bonus.

Then it was Bunny’s turn.  Reagan was still wearing her high heels – which just made her feel even more naked – and she balanced on them as she worked the zip down the full-breasted brunette’s back.  She had to push Bunny’s long, lustrous black hair out of the way, but soon she had the zip started, and moments later the dress was off.

Bunny wasn’t wearing any underwear – not even panties.  Beneath the dress she was completely nude.

Reagan was surprised to realise that Bunny’s tits were the result of plastic surgery.  It was an extremely good job, and it was only seeing her nude like this now that Reagan could tell they had been enhanced.  She found their unnatural roundness both offputting and oddly arousing.  Bunny’s cunt was completely hairless, which was less of a surprise – Bunny had talked about getting laser hair removal there, and recommended a place for Reagan to get similar treatment.

“Look at those fuckballoons,” said someone in a loud conversational tone near the side of the room.  “Which one do you think is better, George?”

“Oh, definitely Bunny,” replied (presumably) George.  “Much bigger, more full.”

“I agree,” said another voice.  “Bunny.  Kisses’ tits aren’t without their charm, but bigger is better.”

Reagan blushed with humiliation.  She wondered, briefly, how much a boob job might cost, and how she might look with bigger, faker tits like Bunny.  Would she be prettier?  Would she give other girls the same funny feeling in their pussy that Bunny’s tits gave to her?  Would she make them feel as insecure as she felt right now?  Then she chastised herself for wanting so badly to be a better sex-doll for these anonymous men.  That was ridiculous – wasn’t it?

Now Bunny descended from the stage.  She moved to a rectangular mahogany table set up in the centre of the club.  Its rich, dark wood suggested wealth and luxury, and as she climbed atop it, the act of mounting the table itself seemed sensuous and sexual.  She paused, kneeling nude atop the tabletop, and then first sat, and then laid down on her back, her large tits pointing upwards, her legs slightly spread.

There were some chuckles from the audience.  ‘Her natural position,” said someone.

It was Reagan’s turn now.  Her face was burning from her non-stop blushing.  As she slowly made her way down from the stage – completely naked, in front of all these men – she found herself closing her eyes to avoid making eye contact with anyone.  If she tried, she could pretend that she was alone, that no-one was looking at her.

Or she could have, had it not been for the voices.  “Have you ever seen nipples so hard?” someone said in a low voice.  “I bet her cunt’s soaking.  Did you see how wet she got last time she did one of these?  She’s practically gagging for cock.”

“She’s close with Bunny,” said someone else.  “They’re always talking with each other at work.  I bet she’s creaming at the chance to see her friend’s fuckhole.”

“Look at the way her mouth is open right now,” came a reply.  “Her lips don’t touch.  She doesn’t just want to see the girl’s twat – she wants to eat it.”

Reagan shivered with shame and humiliation, and closed her mouth immediately – or at least, that’s what she intended to do.  What a nice girl should have done.  But instead, for some reason, she just opened her mouth a little further, so they could see her tongue.

And then she was at the table.  She climbed up onto the wooden surface, awkwardly placing one of her knees on either side of Bunny’s shoulders.  Her hands went to the left and right of Bunny’s hips.  She rocked her body backwards a bit, so that her groin was positioned not directly above her knees, but above her lower legs – with her cunt directly over Bunny’s face.  And, of course, with her own face looking down into Bunny’s shaved pussy.

“I’m a slut,’ she whispered to herself as she stared at the girl’s cunt.  “I’m a whore.”

And as her humiliating ordeal of exposure truly began, she wondered to herself if Bunny wanted to finger her pussy right now as desperately as Reagan wanted to finger her own…

===

Enjoy this story? Then please support its creation with a purchase from the All These Roadworks shop! (Click here to view.)

===

Leave a Reply