Chrissa had been desperate and grateful when she had taken the job as a barmaid. Jobs were scarce, and her mounting bills had left her on the edge of eviction from her home, with nowhere to go.
And at first it seemed like a dream job. The bar owner, Clyde, was a nice guy. The bar was busy, the clientele weren’t too rowdy, and the pay was reasonable. The regulars were mostly men, and they seemed to like Chrissa – even if some of what they liked about her was clearly her body. She got used to having patrons staring at her tits through her tight blouses. It was a compliment, of a sort.
But then business got tighter for the bar. They were making less margin on each drink, and there was more competition in the neighbourhood.
It came to a head on the night where the bar received an entire busload of football fans, who’d come straight from the big game at the stadium and were looking to get wasted. It would mean a hugely profitable night for the bar…
… until one of the newly arrived men said, loudly, “What are we doing at this dump? The place down the road has strippers!”
Chrissa saw the colour drain from Clyde’s face. He couldn’t afford to lose this kind of business.
But he had a solution. He looked at Chrissa and said, “Get up on the band platform, and start stripping.”
Chrissa wasn’t a stripper. She wasn’t even promiscuous. She was still a virgin, and no adult man had seen her tits since she’d first started wearing a bra.
But Clyde was dead serious. And Chrissa needed this job. It didn’t occur to her to disobey.
So she ascended the band platform, trying to put a sultry wiggle in her step. When it became clear she intended to put on a stripshow, there were hoots and loud cheers from the audience. Every eye was on Chrissa, leering hungrily at her tits and ass and pussy, waiting for them to become exposed.
She slowly pulled off her blouse, revealing her bra to the crowd, and blushed. Why was she doing this? It wasn’t even a strip club. Clyde hadn’t asked the other barmaids to strip, just her. As soon as he’d thought of the idea, he’d thought of her in the same moment, like she was the natural one to expose her tits to drunken patrons.
She was slowly taking off her bra, and she realised her pussy was getting wet. Why was this making her wet? She was exposing her tits to a crowd of strangers, for their sexual pleasure, when she had never even shown them to a boyfriend or lover.
She thought again of how the patrons always stared at her tits – and of how she had been Clyde’s first choice to bare her body.
Was she just the sort of girl who was born to bare herself in public, like a whore? She hadn’t even argued, she had just started stripping, obediently, submissively, like she knew deep down that it was her destiny.
Her nipples were hard and her face was flushed. Everyone was staring at her boobs – and she was unbuttoning her jeans and beginning to work them down her thighs.
She saw faces she recognised in the crowd – boys her own age, that she had gone to primary school with. They were cheering along with everyone else. Was she making a schoolyard fantasy come true for them? Did they even recognise her – or did they just see her as a big-titted decoration, exposing herself for their pleasure.
The jeans came off and all she had left were her panties. And her panties were *wet* – wet along the crotch, wet with her slutty arousal. Everyone could see that stripping naked in public for strangers was making her drippingly, disgustingly aroused.
How could she go back to being a barmaid after this? Looking patrons in the face, with the shared knowledge that she would strip on command, without even thinking about it, if her employer told her to?
She couldn’t. It would be too humiliating. And yet, she needed this job…
She turned away as she pulled down her panties, bending at the waist, so everyone could see her ass, and her anus. But once the panties were off, she threw them into the crowd, and then turned back towards them, squatting, spreading her legs as wide as they would go to give them a perfect view of her cunt, while she cupped her tits and tried to pretend that the slut-nectar of her arousal wasn’t *literally* dripping from her pussy lips onto the stage floor…
She saw herself reflected in the eyes of the patrons. A fucktoy. An object. A sex-decoration. And with her pussy this throbbingly wet, it was impossible to pretend that this wasn’t the real her.
The bar may not have been a strip club when the evening started – but it was now. And she knew she would do this every night from now on, on her employer’s command, because it was what she had been born to do…
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