Cara was a rich brat, and very full of herself. But her poorer friends told her she only got respect because of the expensive clothes she wore.
She objected. She insisted that people respected her because she was smart, capable and charismatic. Her friends disagreed, and offered her a bet – that if *they* were responsible for picking her clothes, that by the end of a week nobody at all would respect her.
Like the arrogant bitch she was, Cara accepted.
When she saw the clothes her friends had picked for her, she was tempted to back out – but she was too stubborn and proud to concede defeat, and so she put on the see-through pink string outfit they had selected, and went to work in it. It covered very little – it was worse than a micro-bikini – and it drew more attention to her barely-concealed tits than if she had been entirely naked.
She tried to play it cool, and let her confidence and intelligence command the room. But the only thing commanding the room was her whorishly decorated cleavage, and she soon became aware that her co-workers were no longer listening to the words she was saying. They were just staring at her tits, and wondering what it would feel like to rape her.
The next day wasn’t better. It featured crotchless panties and a skirt that was little more than a belt. The day after that, her white shirt was entirely see-through, and there was no bra, and the dark circles of her areolae were as obvious as the hard nubs of her nipples poking against the thin material.
With each passing day, Cara saw any respect that her co-workers had once held for her draining away. They no longer asked for her opinion. Often they talked over her when she spoke. They openly stared at her tits, and her ass, and instead of asking for her input on key projects, they instead asked her to make them coffee, and when she returned, fuming, with their drinks, she would sometimes find them openly discussing her in sexual terms behind their backs, commenting on her “hot new wardrobe”, her “first-class fuckbags” and her “cute little ass”.
It became clear to her that if her co-workers were asked to describe her in only a single word, the first thing that would come to their minds would be “slut”.
At the end of the week, she was forced to concede to her friends that they had won the bet. It was humiliating for her, and they all laughed at her and told her she was a spoiled brat who deserved to be taken down a peg.
But at least now she could go back to dressing in her usual way, and things would go back to normal.
But they didn’t. The memory of her whorish clothing was surprisingly persistent. No matter how she dressed now, people who had seen her in the slutwear tended to stare at her tits. She was given tasks that were trivial and patronising, instead of being brought in on significant projects. People called her “sweetie” and “honey” and “toots” She discovered that there were photos of her with her tits on display hanging in the men’s bathrooms, and heard that her coworkers used them as masturbatory material.
When she didn’t even get an interview the next time a promotion came around, she knew that she couldn’t keep pretending that everything was going to go back to normal. She had come to understand that being “smart, capable and charismatic” wasn’t enough for a big-titted brat like herself.
The next day she attended work, blushing, in pink see-through fucktoy costume – and just like that she was back on the interview list.
When her boss saw her that day, he said, softly, “Good girl,” and she blushed brighter than she ever had before, partly from the patronising tone, and partly from how much the approval made her ridiculously happy deep inside. It was, honestly, a more genuine statement of satisfaction than her boss had ever given her back before the bet.
She spent the whole day thinking about that approval – and trying to pretend that her cunt wasn’t getting wetter and wetter the more she thought about it. She thought about her male co-workers masturbating to photos of her tits, and she realised that that was a kind of approval as well. They may think about her as a slut and a whore – but still, they thought about her more than they ever had before.
And if she was really honest with herself, hadn’t the week where she had dressed as a slut been the most exciting week of her adult life? And even if it had been humiliating – hadn’t she spent every night when she got home masturbating to the memory of that humiliation?
The approval felt good. She wanted more.
She wondered how she should dress tomorrow in order to earn it…
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