The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

College Undercover

Part 11

Not for those under 18 (or whatever the legal age for this sort of stuff is in your area). If you’re not that old, Boo! Go away now. If you are offended by graphic descriptions of sexual activities, especially non-consensual ones, then don’t read this. All characters and situations are fictional.

Copyright © 2018

Archived on the Erotic Mind Control web site by permission of the author. This story may be downloaded for personal archiving as long as this notice is retained.

As she worked her way through the crowd the next night Carol wished that she could wake up and find it was just a bad dream. But it wasn’t. She was back at Angel’s. Then she wished that she had more to distract her but like the night before the crowd wasn’t that large and she was used to the work now. Knew how to avoid most of the roving hands as she moved between the tables. Knew how to quickly call the orders to Ted.

“Two Buds, one Schlitz, one screw.” Ted got the spirit first before starting to pull the three beers.

“You’re still watching ’em,” the barman observed, attention fixed on the tap.

Carol knew he meant the strippers, not the drinks. “Yeah, so?” she shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

“Oh, nothing,” Ted replied. “But most girls, they start to get over it by the second night. Shock’s gone, starts to get familiar. But for some, not so much.”

“Hmm?” Carol was trying not to listen to what he was saying, instead watching his hands on the tap. Watching the beer as it flowed into the glass was safe, the golden liquid no threat to her. But out of the corner of her eye she could see one of the girls, long blonde hair flowing over her shoulders, a short pleated skirt hugging her hips, bright red and white stripes alternating on the pleats, tight white top with red markings, the pom-poms in her hands matching as well. The girl gave a couple of high kicks and Carol couldn’t help but notice the red thong that she wore.

“Yeah, some girls really get into it. The crowd can tell which girls are putting in that extra effort.” Up on stage the pretend cheerleader gave a little shimmy as she shrugged out of her top. The pom-poms had been discarded, the girl needed her hands to do what she had to do. Carol could see real moves buried in the girl’s routine, the brunette remembering them from high school. Carol wondered if the girl had come to the city hoping to make it as a cheerleader. But that business was as cutthroat as any other and if you didn’t make it with one of the professional teams then maybe somewhere like Angel’s would look like the only option left when you ran out of money. Most girls would take the disappointment and head home, but some would sink to this rather than own up to their failure. The longer Carol watched the girl the more certain she became, star jumps and other routines she remembered mixed in with seductive moves as the blonde slipped out of her clothes. Whatever path had led the girl here, she’d been a real cheerleader at some point.

“It’s pretty easy you know. All you need is a bit of a sense of rhythm, know what a man wants. Bet you know that hey, Steph?”

Carol cringed as she lifted the full drinks tray off the bar, relief surging through her as she headed into the crowd and away from the bartender. She didn’t know if Ted knew that she was a whore or not. Maybe he tried this on all the waitresses, for his own twisted fun or Edgar wanting him to see if they’d join the dancers. Either way the barman was getting to Carol, her grip on the tray unnecessarily tight as she tried to stop shivering. Up on the stage the blonde’s skirt fell to the ground as she launched into a last star jump, her thong and the tassels on each nipple all that was protecting what was left of her modesty. The girl picked up the money that had been thrown as she left the stage, obviously not one of the girls that went all the way, or at least not this early in the night. Most of the girls at least kept their panties or thongs on, any further risking tipping over the grey line between legal and illegal that the club walked. Of course, some of the girls did lose everything, but those were “accidents” and usually happened later in the night.

A new girl, a brunette like herself, was up on the stage by the time Carol was back at the bar with another order. Her theme was a sexy secretary, or maybe a librarian, Carol wasn’t sure, the short skirt and tight blouse suiting either, hair tied back in a tight pony tail and the fake classes favouring the librarian image. The stockings, garters and high heels didn’t, but they were common to many of the outfits Carol had seen that night and the night before.

“It’s not like most girls are even really naked up there,” Ted picking up his monologue as if she’d never been away. “Hell, they don’t show much more then you’d see on the beach.” Carol didn’t agree with that, even the skimpiest bikini she’d seen on the city’s beaches covering a lot more than the tassels and thongs even the most restrained strippers ended up with. But Ted was making it seem almost reasonable.

“I suppose it almost is like the beach,” he observed, pulling more beers. “Lots of girls go to the beach then strip out of jeans and a tee-shirt, swimsuit underneath. You ever done something like that Steph? Linger a bit over a button? Give all the guys around a bit of a tease? Shake your hips as you get out of those jeans? Bet you have.”

Carol swallowed. It was true, she had. A couple of times, on the beach. She could have gone into one of the changing rooms, but the ocean was just there and her bikini was under her clothes. So she’d just taken them off out there. She didn’t think she’d teased anyone though, hadn’t done it for an audience. Lots of girls did, and that didn’t make them strippers. Some men did too, showing off their muscles, whether they had them or not. If Carol ever did it again she didn’t think she’d be able to be as casual about it as she’d been.

“Taking your clothes off is easy, you do it every day. Never know who’s watching. And I bet you have given a guy a thrill, stripping ’em off.”

Of course she did, every day. More maybe then Ted knew. Depended on what the john wanted, but if it seemed like he wanted a show Carol had no hesitation in providing it. Not that, she realised now, she’d been the best at it. Watching the girls Carol could see that she had a lot to learn if she wanted to know how to best use a strip-tease to get a man worked up. But she could watch and learn and practice it back at the brothel. Didn’t mean she had to do it on stage in front of a crowd.

“I reckon you’d be pretty good at it Steph, you think about it.” And the problem was that she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Ted kept up his observations all night, commenting on the theme of each stripper’s routine, pointing out when the girl on stage was particularly good, how Carol had the body for it, how it’d be so easy.

“You got the moves Steph, I’ve seen you going through the crowd. You’re a natural.”

Carol wondered why she didn’t just tell Ted to shut up. Then told herself that if she made a scene it would probably get back to Mrs Bowen and that was the last thing she wanted. She knew that the madam was right. If she could pick up some of the skills the girls had it would make her a better whore. And she wanted to be a better whore.

I want to be a prostitute.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

I want to be paid for sex.

The words echoes through her head, followed by the knowledge that she’d be a better prostitute if she learnt from the girls up on the stages, if she could do what they do. Carol shivered, feeling the lure of that thought. She wanted to be as good as she could, the need to whore herself twisting with the drive to succeed that had always been part of her. But while she could watch and learn that didn’t mean she’d go out on that stage, no matter what Ted said or Mrs Bowen wanted. It was safe to watch, she told herself, watch and learn and do nothing more than that.

Carol felt better heading home that night than she had the night before. She’d made it through two nights, even learnt a few things, watching the strippers, only had one night to go. She was almost smiling as she walked along her street. One more night and she could get back to whoring. That was what she wanted, not stripping off in public. She admitted to herself how twisted that was, worrying about men looking at her body when she was happy to let them use it, penetrate it, wanted them to do it. But that was how it was. The thought of stripping in public had her guts in knots, left her quivering in fear and revulsion. Despite everything she’d done it was a step she wasn’t willing to take.

One more night and she’d be through with Angel’s, another week and she was at Conti’s and the girls would be rescued. Then it would all be over. Carol was sure that she was strong enough to walk away from this once the girls were safe. She had to be, had to trust her own strength. If she didn’t then she be stuck as a whore forever, and much as she enjoyed being fucked for money she didn’t want that.

Her smile faded as she mulled over the thought. Did she really want to give it up? She loved it, loved the feel of a stranger’s cock sliding into her pussy, loved the feel of a man’s hands on body, mauling her breasts, after he’d paid her. She wrapped her arms around herself as she walked, imagining it was some stranger, groping her before a good fuck. Maybe she was kidding herself that she could walk away, maybe it wasn’t even true that she wanted to. She was trying to believe two ideas at once, ones that contradicted each other. That she loved whoring, wanted nothing more in the world, and that she could just walk away, would walk away, in just over a week when Wainwright’s raid freed the last of the girls Copeland had kidnapped and sold. The two parts of her, the whore and the policewoman, each with their own ideas of what she should do. The only way Carole could live with herself was if she told herself that she could give it up. The alternative was too much, despite how much she craved whoring, the pull of it dark and intoxicating and the biggest rush she’d ever known. But it was no life, Carol knew that, no future. She was 25, she was young and pretty. She looked younger than her age. Prostituting herself made her feel happier than she’d ever thought possible. Give it ten, fifteen, twenty years, and Carol doubted that it would feel the same. Fun as it was she had no desire to be a broken-down whore. She was sure that she could give it up. But in the meantime she’d wring every last bit of ecstasy out of it that she could.

Janice was still up when Carol got home, rubbing one of her temples as she stared at the piles of books and papers covering their kitchen table. She smiled at Carol as the brunette came through the door. In jeans and a loose top, no make-up, red-hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, Janice was still fresh-faced, looking nothing more than a pretty college girl. Carol was sure the johns must love that look, though she knew that Janice would never be quite so casual at the brothel. At least Janice was keeping up her college work.

“Still at it?’ Carol asked as she dropped her bag on the kitchen bench.

“Yeah, just about had enough, this assignment is killing me.” The redhead pushed her chair back from the table.

“What is it?” Carol peered over her friend’s shoulder, trying to make some sense of the piles on the table. It reminded her of Wainwright’s office. Hopefully Janice was as good at locating things in the mess as her erstwhile boss.

“Sociology. Too many damn theories.”

Carol shrugged. “I did a bit of that if you need someone to bounce ideas off. Although what I know is mainly criminology.”

“Thanks,” Janice sighed, “I might just take you up on that. Just got to get through this semester with it. Maybe I’ll take something a bit more practical next time. Accounting?”

Carol rolled her eyes, “God, that’s boring. What do want to do that for?”

Janice frowned at her. “More jobs, for one. Not like I’m ever going to qualify as a psychologist. Don’t think I’d want to, not with.” Then she fell silent. Carol knew what her friend was thinking. Copeland had been a psychologist. Janice was still studying the subject, much to everyone’s surprise, but it was mainly to spite their kidnapper. Her dream of being a psychologist had died in the cell he’d held her in. Even if she carried on with her studies getting a practicing certificate involved too many questions. If anyone found out about Janice’s other life, her time as a whore, it would all go out the window. No surprise then that she was looking at other career options.

“Anyway,” the redhead said, the emphasis forced, “how’d you go at that place tonight?”

Carol could see the concern in her friend’s eyes. Janice knew why Mrs Bowen had sent the brunette to Angel’s.

“No problem, serving drinks is easy and don’t worry I kept my clothes on,” Carol smiled, reassuringly, as she headed to their refrigerator. “I am a bit hungry though, they don’t really give you breaks.” The cool air flowed over her as she opened the door, relaxing after the heat outside. Peering in after she opened the door Carol saw that there wasn’t much inside. But there was some chicken, left over from last night’s dinner and Carol knew there was bread in the cupboard, enough for a late night sandwich.

“So, learn anything?” Janice asked, arching an eyebrow. Carol wasn’t surprised. She knew that the redhead was driven by the same twisted desires that she was. Something that made you a better whore was something to be prized. And Janice’s stated aim was to keep at the whoring until she finished college, far longer than Carol’s deadline of next week. Though whether either of them would be able to give up when they claimed they would was something they didn’t talk about.

“Sure, I’ll show you some time,” Carol replied as she put her sandwich together.

“Why not now? I’ve had enough of this stuff.” Janice frowned as she waved her hand at the piles in front of her.

“Well,” Carol smiled, “a lot of it’s rhythm and timing, and I’d probably need some music at first to get it right. Bit late for that now, don’t want the neighbours complaining.”

“Oh, come on,” Janice pleaded.

“Nope,” Carol teased. “Essay first, fun tomorrow. But I’ll tell you one thing,” she paused then started heading over towards her friend, hips swaying exaggeratedly in time with her words. “It, really, is, all, about, the, timing.” She was standing next to Janice as she ended, her hip stuck provocatively towards her friend, slapping her own arse. “And the tease.” Slowly she pulled her top up until the underside of her bra was visible, her hips seductively swaying, then she lowered the garment back down.

Both girls erupted into giggles as Carol plonked herself down into one of the other chairs.

“Now where are you stuck on this essay?” she asked her red-haired friend.

* * *

Back at Angel’s the next night Carol wished she still felt the levity she’d shared with Janice. It was easy enough being brave at home with her friend. There it was safe, the jokes and laughter pushing the threat away, making her feel in control. Here was different. Here she was alone in a crowd of men. Men, she knew, that would just love to see what was under her skimpy waitress’ uniform. Who wanted her to take it off for them. Just like the women up on the stages.

Even when Carol wasn’t looking at the strippers she could sense their presence, knew what they were doing. Not that it mattered whether she remembered or not, the men were happy enough to remind her, as she fetched and carried their drinks, catcalls and suggestions plaguing her.

“Thanks babe.” the man, about ten years older than her, dark hair already thinning, smiled as he took the drinks from her. “When we gonna see those legs up on stage?”

Carol just smiled back. She’d quickly learnt that saying anything only encouraged them more. Although some, like the man’s blonde friend, didn’t need any encouragement.

“Why wait? Flash us your tits and this is yours,” blondie called out, waving a five dollar note in Carol’s direction, President Lincoln’s face flashing at her. The man grinned at his friends, revelling in their laughter.

Carol just turned and walked away, the hoots and whistles of the group fading into the noise of the crowd. There wasn’t anything else she could do. Much as she might have wanted to complain she knew no-one would listen. Management might not want the waitresses distracting the men from the dancers, but they weren’t about to protect the girls serving the drinks either, not unless it got really out of hand.

It didn’t help that the regulars knew that some of the girls were both strippers and waitresses. Like Tracey. Her companion from two nights ago was up on the main stage now, the woman’s body twisting and sliding in time with the music, her sinuous movements more than making up for her lack of curves. She’d started in a show-girl’s outfit, all tight top that was little more than a corset and short flouncy skirt, the outfit completed by knee high boots. The top had been the first to go and Tracey now danced in just bra and skirt. Her tits were larger than Carol had expected, looking ready at any moment to burst from the lacy bra, but maybe that was just the effect of Tracey’s thin frame. Still, it was clear the men appreciated her act, the cries of “C’mon, let’s see those jugs,” and “Yeah, shake those tits,” clear above the noise of the crowd. Tracey sauntered across the stage before bending over and cupping her tits, pushing them in the direction of the last man who had called out. He stuffed a note down her cleavage, Carol couldn’t see the denomination. Tracey twirled away before reaching down between her melons and pulling the note free. She ran it between her teeth, to the hoots of the crowd. Then she spun again, her hands falling to the tops of her dancer’s legs, slowly sliding up, taking the hem of her skirt with them as she lifted her chin and arched her back.

Carol looked away, she didn’t want to see any more. She could tell by the cries from the crowd when Tracey lost another garment. After a while the noise subsided and Carol guessed that the performance was over. She risked a glance in the direction of the stage. Tracey wore nothing but her boots and a g-string as she hurried off the stage. But her back was to Carol, who could count every rib in the thin girl’s frame. Tracey’s arms swung free, nothing covering her tits, but from where she stood Carol couldn’t tell if the girl’s breasts were naked or if tassels covered her nipples in some pretence of decency. She could see bills pushed into the waist band of Tracey’s g-string and the girl seemed to be carrying even more.

If a man pays me he can do anything he wants.

Angry with herself Carol shook her head. That was about prostitution, not stripping. She forced her concentration back to taking drink orders.

Try as she might though Carol couldn’t get the images out of her head. How could she be expected to? All around her women were stripping, men were calling out and she was in the middle of it, leers shooting her way whenever there was a gap in the entertainment. She knew what they wanted her to do, what she could do. As much as she hated the idea there was a deliciousness to it, dark and sweet, the idea of having all those men look at her appalling, terrifying, and something else as well, though it horrified her she could feel the edges of arousal, deep and low, tingling. Inwardly she cringed at her body’s betrayal. She wouldn’t give in, it was too much. Steeling herself she hurried to the bar with her latest order.

Ted just nodded as she read out the order. She handed over the money, crisp bills, fresh and new. As the bartender placed the drinks on the tray she ticked them off, one by one, checked that the change was correct. The men had given her far more than the drinks cost, maybe they’d tip her. Sometimes they did, even when she ignored their requests for an impromptu show, the skimpy outfit enough to have them handing over the money. It was routine now. But then Ted broke the pattern.

“When you’re finished with these head out back, someone wants to see you.”

Carol tightened, nerves straining. Whoever it was wanting to see her she doubted that it was good news. Maybe it was Tracey, but Carol couldn’t think why the girl would want to see her. And anyway the raven-haired girl could just throw on some clothes and find Carol herself. More likely it was Edgar, the manager. Carol couldn’t see how that would be good. At best he’d probably tell her to be more ‘accommodating’ to the customers’ requests. He’d muttered something about that last night as she was leaving. At worst, he’d want her up on stage. Fear swept through her at the thought, all the eyes in the crowd boring in on her, seeing her. Every inch of her body exposed. She felt a heat rush through her, tried to tell herself it was embarrassment. Fear and shame were clear in her mind and Carol was too afraid to admit there could be anything else mixed in with that.

“Who? Where?” she forced out, aware that she’d been standing there, numb.

“Your change room out the back,” Ted replied. “And get a move on, the customers want their drinks.”

Carol slipped into the crowd, aware that Ted had only answered one of her questions, and the least important one at that. But she’d seen the impatient look on his face and knew that she’d gotten all from him that he was willing to say.

Taking a deep breath Carol summoned her courage before she opened the door to the change room. When she saw who waited for her she wanted to slam the door and run. It wasn’t Tracey or even Edgar. She could have handled either of them. Even Wainwright wouldn’t have been as bad. All she was doing here was waitressing. No worse than so many things she’d done undercover. But it wasn’t the police captain either.

“Hello Stephanie,” Mrs Bowen greeted her brightly. “How’s my best girl?”

“I, umm, fine,” Carol stammered as she crept inside and closed the door. The madam wasn’t here for a social call, Carol knew that. There would one only one reason why Mrs Bowen was here and Carol could hardly stop herself shaking from fear. She didn’t want to be up on stage, taking off her clothes, not in front of the crowd, but she couldn’t think of any other reason behind the madam’s presence. Carol didn’t know how she was going to get through this. She fiddled with the collar of her top, a nervous gesture, anything to take her mind off what she knew was coming. She didn’t want to strip, but she had to avoid offending the madam. She needed to keep that meeting with Conti.

“Learnt anything?” the madam asked, looking around, her face a mask of disapproval at the room’s condition.

“Sure,” Carol answered, trying to hide the emotions roiling within her. If she could persuade Mrs Bowen that she’d learnt enough without actually stripping then maybe that would be enough. Carol stumbled, her balance suddenly gone. She felt like she was on a tight rope. Fall one way, and she’d lose the confidence of the madam, lose her chance to get inside Conti’s brothel, find the girls. Fall the other, and she’d be up on the stage, losing more than her clothes. Either way she was damned.

“Hmm,” the madam replied, doubtfully, her nose scrunching up in disdain as she looked at the cracked mirror.

“I can show you if you like,” Carol said, the words rushing out of her mouth. A hand drifted to the button of her blouse, the offer obvious. She didn’t mind stripping in front of the madam. She’d already done that, when she was convincing Mrs Bowen to take her on. One or two people, that was okay, it was crowds that scared her. And Carol realised that was she afraid, she could feel herself shaking at the thought, fear rippling through her gut as she imagined hundreds of eyes on her naked form. But the arousal was still there too, and she couldn’t understand why that would be so if she was so afraid.

Mrs Bowen smiled “What a good idea dearie. If I’m going to make up the money you miss out on this week, I’d like to know I’m getting some value for it.”

Carol nodded, her hands rising to her hair, fluffing it out. She’d expected this, had known Mrs Bowen would want to see what she’d learnt. Carol knew how to dance, how to use her body to get men’s attention. She’d known that even before she’d become a whore. How to tempt, how to demand attention, how to put a man at ease and get him to talk about things, willing to share with a girl he’d only just met things he’d never tell another man. Just another skill she’d learnt as an undercover policewoman. One, she thought ruefully to herself, that had been excellent preparation for her life as a whore. But before she’d always kept her clothes on. Now she’d strip for her madam, anything to avoid doing it in public. Her hands slid down her sides as her body started to move to an imaginary beat.

Mrs Bowen gave her a half-smile, sly and predatory, “Oh no, Stephanie, not in here.” She pointed at the door. “Out there.”

Carol froze, horrified, the fear tearing through her mind. She could feel herself trembling, revulsion running through her. She couldn’t do it, wouldn’t, even the words Copeland had planted in her mind couldn’t make her do this. Carol shook her head, tried to speak and failed, words not coming.

She’s the madam. She says what goes. The words echoed in Carol’s head, but even they weren’t enough to make her move.

“You want to say something to me Stephanie?” The madam’s tone was light, a hint of concern, as she strolled across the room, narrowing the distance between them. Nothing showed in her features but Carol could see an intense light in her eyes, the older woman’s attention boring in on her.

“No, please, I can’t,” Carol pleaded as she backed up against the door, trying to get away. This was a part of her that Copeland hadn’t touched, no-one had, not her johns, not the madam. She didn’t want to lose that part of herself.

“What was that Stephanie?” the madam asked in mock confusion, taking another step towards Carol. “Did I get that right? You don’t want to go out there and strip for me?”

Carol stood there, silent, trapped between the madam and the door. She could feel her hands shaking, she couldn’t suppress the fear. She knew that no answer was right.

“Answer me,” the madam snapped, her face now inches from Carol’s. “Are you going to do what I tell you?”

“N-no, I can’t.” The words came out in a strangled whisper, Carol feebly shaking her head.

Pain sprang from Carol’s cheek, awareness of the sound of the slap penetrating her mind a moment later. One hand flew to her face as she huddled away from the madam, her mouth an ‘o’ of surprise. Part of her wanted to fight back. That’s what her instincts told her to do. But other thoughts overwhelmed the urge. Stephanie wouldn’t fight back. Carol’s undercover training told her to stick to her role. She could sense the anger poring off the madam.

“You’ll do what I tell you girl, you hear me?” The madam’s shout pierced Carol’s head, anger and threats lacing the words.

She’s the madam. She says what goes.

Carol’s thoughts were sluggish, drifting like blocks of ice in a winter’s river. She didn’t want to strip. But she could tell how far she’d pushed Mrs. Bowen. Any further and she could be risking everything. She couldn’t afford that, not when they were so close to rescuing the last of the girls. She wasn’t sure she could do what the madam wanted, even for them.

Her body was shaking, she was sobbing. Maybe it was from the shock of the slap, but Carol knew that was only partly true. The rest was from the images in her head, the idea of stripping in public. Already she could feel the eyes on her, the shame running through her, the humiliation as she shed her clothes, nothing more than an object for the men to gaze upon. The idea mortified her, horrified her, she didn’t think she could do it, even if it was the only way to save the last two girls.

An image flashed through her mind, a memory. She was standing in Wainwright’s office, the day she’d become a whore. Telling the police captain that she had to do everything she could to find Karen and Laura, the last two of Copeland’s victims who were still missing. She’d only said that to persuade Wainwright that she was willing to do something as repugnant as whoring herself to see them free. Or at least, help persuade Wainwright that she found it as repugnant as he thought she should. That she was running to it as eagerly as a child to ice cream was something she never wanted him to know. But she’d said it, and thought that she meant it. Now she had to decide if she really did.

Mrs Bowen was glaring at her, waiting for an answer. Carol knew that she didn’t have long. She had to make a decision. Just her, she couldn’t blame Copeland, the words, the desires he’d put in her head. Strip, with all the humiliation and anguish that wold bring, or lose their chance to rescue the girls. She could walk away, let Wainwright make the raid. But she knew that he didn’t have enough information, that there was a real chance he’d fail. She was the missing girls’ only hope, and the only way she could help them was get out there and strip in front of the crowd. Otherwise she’d lose Mrs Bowen’s trust, and that would ruin everything.

Carol couldn’t help shaking, fear and shame flooding her. She marvelled that she had any shame left, after all these months as a whore. After all the men she’d let use her body, pawing and groping and fucking her. All the bliss that had given her should have burnt to ashes any shame she might have had. But it hadn’t, the idea of stripping in front of the crowd making her sick to her stomach.

Pain was still radiating from her cheek, heat spilling out across her face. Carol felt her lip tremble as she made herself stand up straight. She knew what she had to do. She’d thrown away any claim to self-respect, to dignity, to control of her own body, when she’d given in to the desires Copeland had forced up on her. If she was going to get any of that back, be able to look at herself in the mirror, it would only be by rescuing the girls. It was all she had. And if stripping was what it took, then she’d do it, no matter what it cost her.

Carol swallowed, nervously. She made herself look Mrs Bowen in the eyes, then nodded, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

The madam smiled, warm and rich and almost genuine, “That’s my girl,” she cooed. Now that she had her way, the madam was all smiles and solicitation. She even apologised for slapping Carol, arm around her shoulder, consoling, “It was for your own good though, you needed to get your head in the right place.”

Carol didn’t think her head could be any further from the right place. She felt like she was in a dream, her acquiescence to the madam’s demand didn’t seem real, she’d wake up soon, back at home. She’d never strip in public, that was impossible.

Carol let the madam lead her by the hand, the younger woman stumbling along in her trail. Soon she found herself in another dressing room, larger, freshly painted, warm and well lit. A comfortable chair in front of a large mirror, makeup on the table. This mirror wasn’t broken. Tracey was waiting for them, her comfortable clothes thrown back on after her performance. It’s nicer in here, Carol thought.

“Hmm,” Mrs Bowen pondered, a finger tapping a cheek, “we need an outfit for you.” Carol didn’t care. Let the madam make the decisions. Carol had made the one decision that mattered, agreeing to what Mrs Bowen wanted. No I haven’t, I haven’t agreed to anything. Have I? Maybe letting the madam decide everything else would absolve some of the guilt Carol already felt. She wasn’t sure what she should feel guilty about, but she knew there was something. Not about the missing girls, she was certain she had no cause for remorse there. But something else, something she’d agreed to or hadn’t agreed to or…

“I know just the thing,” the madam smiled. “Get out of that silly uniform and we’ll get you in it.”

Carol didn’t move. She wanted to, she knew that if she didn’t do what the madam asked that she’d be in trouble. It should be easy, she knew how to take off her clothes. She did it all the time, when she changed in the morning, when she went to bed at night, every time one of her johns fucked her. But she couldn’t do it. Thoughts ran through her head, telling her arms to move, telling her hands what to do. But nothing happened, she was as still as a statue. Any moment Carol expected Mrs Bowen to explode, unleashing her temper on her.

Instead the madam simply looked at her, the corners of her mouth lifting in a slight smile. She turned to the other woman, “Tracey, give her a hand.”

With the raven-haired woman’s help Carol started disrobing. Tracey placed Carol’s hand on a button and she could undo it. Told her to shrug out of her top and off it came, the garment slipping to the ground. A word and Carol stepped out of her skirt as it pooled around her feet, the shiny blue material reflecting the light and catching her eyes. Soon her underwear joined the pile. She was like a puppet in a dream, everything at one remove, her fingers clumsy and numb.

Carol barely realised her state when she stood naked before the two women. Her arms hung limply by her sides as she stared across the room. Shock. I’m in shock, the thoughts flowing through her mind like molasses. That’s okay, maybe it’ll make it easier.

“Put this on.” Carol felt something soft and light in her hand. She looked down. A pool of white in her hand, a pair of panties, silk and lacy and frilly. So small they were hardly there at all. With Tracey’s help she lifted one leg, then the other, to slip them on, the fabric soft against her skin, the feel of the material a caress as it ran up her thigh. The other woman pulled them up, hard, until they were tight against Carol’s nether lips, she could feel how high-cut they were, how little they covered. It felt good to have something on, tight and snug, cupping her pussy. Tracey handed her some tassels, red and white, which Carol plastered over her nipples. The sensation strange, the pressure slight but enough to send tingles running through her, the pleasure making her smile. Next was a bra that matched the panties, Carol raising her arms at Tracey’s command to put it on. Tracey gestured and Carol fastened it herself. It was all lace and frills as well, the tightness of the cups enough to push the tassels into the flesh of her breasts. Then a garter belt, a match to her other lingerie, straps dangling down her thighs, trailing like a lover’s fingers. Tracey unrolled the stockings up Carol’s legs, helped her fit them to the straps dangling down from the belt.

Idly Carol wondered where the outfit had come from. Perhaps they had these things lying around, but it seemed to fit her too well for that. She wondered if she was supposed to go out there like this. That didn’t seem likely, the girls she’d seen had all worn more than she did now. More clothes would be nice, she thought, not wanting to think about what came after.

Her wish came true as Tracey helped her into actual clothes. A light blue pleated skirt which came almost to her knees, a simple blouse, plain white, but tight, her breasts clearly outlined. And finally a sweater, emblazoned across its front the name of the college she had attended when she’d been looking for the missing girls. Like the blouse the sweater was slightly too small, the lettering stretched out across the line of her tits.

Carol didn’t need to look in the mirror to know what she looked like. A college girl, the classic girl next door look. She wasn’t surprised when Tracey pulled her hair back into a simple pony tail. Such a common fantasy, the almost innocent, every day look, just hinting at more by the way the clothes hugged her figure. But even then the girl might be unaware, a final growth spurt doing things to her clothes that she didn’t realise.

Underneath told a different story. The lingerie something from a wet dream, innocence turning to temptress. The clothes were too perfect, the fit, the name on the sweater. Mrs Bowen hadn’t found them lying around. She’d chosen them, brought them, had intended this all along. Carol knew that she shouldn’t be surprised. She struggled to assert herself. She knew that she didn’t want to do this, that she shouldn’t be acting like some doll, dressed up, wound up and sent out to strip. But she couldn’t hang on to the reasons. She knew this had to happen, that it was the only way to keep the madam happy, the only way to get to Conti’s and make sure the girls were rescued. So maybe the best thing to do was just let it happen, slip into the role and try not to worry. That’s what she did, undercover, sink into the role, do what it took. She was good at it, it’s what she did best.

Her mind was running away, distancing itself from the reality she didn’t want to confront. Looking in the mirror she could imagine she was heading back to college. She couldn’t see the lingerie, could ignore its existence. She put up no resistance as Tracey led her to a chair in front of a mirror, began to do her makeup. Even then it wasn’t too bad, heavier than she’d choose to go to class but no more than some girls she’d seen. Maybe they were getting her ready to go to college, and anything else was just a bad dream.

“Hmm,” she heard Mrs Bowen musing behind her, “shoes. I really can’t decide. What do you think?” Carol wasn’t sure whether the madam was asking her or Tracey. She risked a glance in at the older woman’s reflection in the mirror. Mrs Bowen was holding up two shoes, one in each hand, considering one then the other. The first was a simple running shoe, fresh and clean, a good match for her clothes. The second was an open-toed, high-heeled, white sandal. Carol knew what it would show off her legs to perfection but she didn’t want to think about that.

“That one,” Tracey said, pointing to the sandal, “I’m mean, yeah, the other would match her clothes, but it would look a bit odd once they’re gone.”

“True, true,” Mrs Bowen mused. “Now get these on her,” she added, handing the pair of sandals to Tracey.

Carol was aware of Tracey kneeling beside her, could feel the sandals being slipped onto her feet. The shoes were a good fit, of course Mrs Bowen knew her shoe size. The brunette could feel the way the heels angled her feet, could feel her calves stretching, shivers running up her legs.

“Now Stephanie dear,” the madam’s breath tingling her ear as the older woman whispered to Carol. “You’re going to give them a good show aren’t you? I know you haven’t had a chance to practice, but I’m sure you can do it. You know what men like, you’ve watched the other girls. Show just a little, then hide it away, then some more, a little at a time. Make them look at you. You want them to look at you. Having all those men, looking only at you, wanting only you. Just think about that. When they go home, to their wives and girlfriends, when they fuck them, it will be you they think about, you they want. Take your time, a promise here, a glimpse there, but you have to follow through. In the end you’ll give them what they want, you’ll give them everything they want.”

The madam’s words slipped into Carol’s mind, dark and oily, covering everything else. Only the thought that she had to do this for the missing girls remained, a faint light in a sea of black, and that just made it easier to except what Mrs Bowen was saying. Some part of her still wanted to say no and Carol knew she was damned either way. She could refuse and have to live with the thought that if Wainwright’s raid went wrong it would be her fault for not doing everything she could. Or let it happen, do what the madam wanted, the thing that made her quake in fear. Strip in front of all those men, until there was nothing left for her to hide behind. Carol knew there was only one choice. She nodded in agreement with the madam’s words.

Volition returned to her limbs. If she had to this then the best thing was get it over with. Carol headed out of the door, Tracey directing her down the hall that led directly to the stage. Already she could hear the beat of the music, the bass thrumming through her.

“And for, for the first time at Angel’s, give a big welcome to Jewel.” Edgar’s oily voice crackled over the PA system, the leer on his face clear in his words.

Carol froze for a moment as the curtains closed behind her, aware of the circle of light that picked her out. She blinked, her vision struggling against the glare she was unable to make out the men beyond dark shapes in the shadows. But she knew that they were there, dozens and dozens, maybe hundreds. More than she could count, more than she could know. Panic rose in her throat, tightening it so that she could hardly breathe. She knew that every eye in the house was focussing on her. Waiting for her to start, to do something. Tingles ran up her legs, down her arms, fear and something else she didn’t want to admit.

For a moment Carol considered escape, turning and fleeing the stage, running down the hall, out the back door and into the night. She’d be safe then. But she knew it wouldn’t last, that if she didn’t go through with this she’d ruin everything. Mrs Bowen would never forgive her. She’d be thrown out of the brothel, never get to Conti’s. She’d never whore again, never rescue the missing girls. The thoughts tore her apart. One tear, lost in the bright lights, drifted down her cheek.

She took one step forward, then another, twirled, the hem of her skirt rising around her, hands above her head, remembering what she’d seen other girls do. She tried to block out the crowd, imagine there was just one man in front of her. Her john, and she needed to make him want her. She stopped and a hand drifted to the hem of her skirt, slowly lifting it, her finger tracing higher until she could feel the top of her stocking, knew that it was in view, could hear the whistles, tried to tell herself it was only one sound.

The beat of the music drove into her as she danced. She welcomed it, the thudding bass blotting out all thoughts but how she had to make herself desirable, wanted. She pulled her sweater up, off, flung it away, used the length of the stage, one long leg in front of the other. Cupped her breasts through her top, promising, teasing, drawing the crowd’s, no, the man’s, the one faceless man she pictured in her imagination, drawing his attention to what lay underneath, what he’d soon see. Then she slowly slid her hair out of the ponytail, shook it free, letting her long hair fall across her shoulders. Again she lifted the hem of her skirt, first one side, then dropping it and lifting the other, exposing the smooth expanse of her thighs, higher, beyond the tops of her stockings, almost showing… Then letting the skirt fall back as she spun across the stage before sashaying to the pole, hips swaying from side to side.

Carol ran her hands up the pole, leant into it, one cheek pushed against the cold metal. She wrapped her legs around it, thrusting her body to it as she would a lover, letting the crowd see a young woman, dressed in something from their boyhood fantasies, rubbing herself along the cold gleaming metal, eyelids fluttering as she imagined what her john would do to her, sparks of arousal beginning to smoulder deep within.. Then she flung herself away, before the pressure of the hard metal on her pussy and clit drove her over the edge.

Her hands rose to the top button on her blouse, slowly undoing it, a shy smile on her face as she half-hid behind her dark hair. She spun around the pole, one hand gripping it as she cocked one leg, ankle running up opposite shin, past knee onto thigh.

One button on her blouse was followed by another. She edged the shoulder off, just enough to show her bra strap before pulling the blouse up again, the crowd shouting louder and louder as Carol tried to ignore their existence. The image of the man in her imagination wavered, desperately she held on to it, told herself that he was her john, that he’d fuck her soon. She could feel the heat rising in her, the arousal at the thought of selling herself, a stranger burying his cock in her pussy, as the heat made its way to her cheeks.

Another button and the sides of the blouse parted enough that her lacy bra came into view. Another and another and she was having to hold the edges of the blouse together. Slowly she let her hands drop, felt the garment pull away, then she pulled it free of her skirt and as she danced across the stage she knew that it was flapping wildly, her lace covered tits exposed to her audience.

A hand fell to the zipper of her skirt, quicker now, the crowd urging her on, her denial of their existence slipping away. Her breath was coming faster as well, and not just from the exertion of her movements. Slowly she eased the skirt down her legs, one hand holding on to it, the other running through hair as she tossed her head, a moan coming unbidden to her lips. The skirt inched down her legs, the top of her stockings coming into view. Carol knew that the men no, no, just one man could see her panties now. She shivered as she felt the air on her legs, as it breathed across the skin between the tops of her legs and the edge of the lacy high-cut underwear.

One arm was wrapped behind her neck as she shook her head from side to side, a finger of the other hand running along the edge of her panties. She could hear the shouts of the crowd, the pretence of it only being one man dripping away.

The blouse was next, her hands running over the simple white garment, finding her breasts, caressing them, kneading them, offering them. Gripping the edges of the blouse she teased the audience with glimpses of her bra encased tits, slowly edging the garment to the sides before pulling it back together or quickly flashing it open before wrapping it around herself.

Carol’s breath was coming in great gasps, she could feel a slight sheen of sweat on her skin, exertion, the heat of the lights and something more warming her body. Flushes of heat, slowly growing stronger, pulsed through her, lines connecting her pussy and her tits, running up her spine, melting her brain. She couldn’t resist any longer, the blouse thrown away in a flourish.

She danced before the men, hanging from the pole by one hand, hair falling free, the lacy lingerie, the stockings and heels all she wore. Carol knew it wasn’t enough, that the men wanted more, that Mrs Bowen wanted more. She guessed that the madam was in the crowd, somewhere, watching her, judging her. She pulled one strap of the bra down her shoulder grinning at the crowd, knowing what they wanted. To groans of disappointment she pulled it up again before spinning across the stage.

Slowly, hesitantly, Carol reached for the clasp of her bra. She tried to tell herself it was all right, the tassels were still in place under the bra, that she wouldn’t be naked, not in front of a crowd. But she knew how little of her body would be covered.

Clasp undone she held the cups tightly, could feel her fingers pushing into her tits. Slowly she lowered one hand, the cup falling away with it, more and more of her flesh exposed. The edge of a tassel came into view, to the oohs of the crowd, before she pushed the bra back up. Then she did the same with the other breast, then both at once, before letting the bra fall away, the cups hanging beside her, dangling from the straps still on her shoulders.

Carol spun around the pole, one arm extended to hold on as she leant as far over as she could. Circuit completed she danced away from the pole then let the bra fall to the floor. She knew that she was more exposed in public than she’d ever been, a knot in her stomach, fear tickling the back of her throat. But she couldn’t stop, the eyes of the crowd driving her, she knew they wanted more. Heat warred with humiliation. She was an object, just something to gaze upon, lust after, pride was gone, shame overwhelming her, but still she couldn’t stop.

Lips quivering, not knowing if it was from fear or arousal, Carol strode back to the pole, hips swaying, one high-heeled foot in front of the other. Fingers splayed she placed her hands on the pole high above her head before wrapping her legs around it, feeling its length along her whole body, the metal between her tits, cold against her flesh, her pussy grinding into the shaft. She bent her knees, slowly lowering herself, then rose, then down again, over and over. She could feel the heat, the moisture, in her pussy, the pressure of the pole matched by a pressure rising within her. She was so wet she was sure it must be showing.

Carol twirled away from the pole then came to a stop. She lowered her hands then ran them up the outside of her thighs. With shaking fingers she undid one, then another, of the garters that held up her stockings. She could stop now, she’d given the crowd a show, gone as far as many of the girls she’d watched. It would be easy to turn on the ball of a high-heeled foot and stride off the stage, job done. It would probably be enough to satisfy the madam. Carol knew that she could plead that this was all that she thought she had to do. She could stop, but she didn’t. Something dark and self-destructive urged her on, the music pounding, matching the beat of blood in her head and the heat rising low and deep within her. Arousal was crashing through her, she’d been so close, had almost cum rubbing up against the pole. In public, nearly naked, in front of all these men.

Carol was drowning in the darkness in her mind, slipping further and further, something pulling her down. Her hands rose to her tits, rough and urgent, her head thrown back and she heard her own moans over the roars of the crowd. When her hands dropped away she could feel something in them. She looked down and tears came to her eyes as she realised she’d pulled the tassels from her nipples. Horrified, she danced across the stage, not knowing what else to do, painfully aware of the pull and tug of her tits as she moved, conscious of every eye on her naked flesh. She hated what was happening to her, didn’t want to be there, didn’t want all those men looking at her. Fear of Mrs Bowen rode over everything else. She could remember the madam’s words. In the end you’ll give them what they want, you’ll give them everything they want. If she did that maybe Mrs Bowen would be happy, Stephanie would have shown she could do everything the madam wanted.

She didn’t want the madam making her do this again, saying that she hadn’t done enough. Or maybe she was just making excuses, a dark streak of exhibitionism she didn’t want to acknowledge making itself known. The tears threatened to fall from her eyes as Carol admitted she hardly knew what she was doing or why.

Her body was pressed against the pole again, tits rubbing against it, pussy grinding against its cold length, only the thin flimsy silk of her panties between her and the metal. She groaned in frustration. It wasn’t enough. She wanted to cum, to feel the pleasure roll through her and make her forget what she was doing, even for a moment. Carol knew there’d be tears and regrets and she may never be able to forgive herself but all she felt right then was the need. The need to cum, to feel something good, to be done.

Carol pushed herself harder into the pole, willing her orgasm on. Closer, closer, as she rubbed her body up and down against the pole, shouts of the crowd dimly heard. Still it wouldn’t come. It wasn’t enough. It didn’t matter what she was, what she had been, what she might be, policewoman, whore, stripper. She’d had authority, responsibility, dignity. Now she was just an object. She was trapped in the moment, trapped in her own twisted needs.

She backed away from the pole. Hesitantly Carol ran a hand down her side, until her fingers touched the waistband of her panties, pushed it down just an inch while the other hand cupped a tit. The crowd was roaring, she couldn’t deny their existence now. Carol wanted to run, she wanted to cum, she wanted to finish this. She drew her hand away from the panties. The crowd was still shouting. They knew what they were going to get. If she wasn’t going to give them any more she’d have left the stage. That one little gesture, tugging the elastic down, had promised them. They’d see it all, see everything she had, everything she was.

Both thumbs were in the waistband now, lowering it, slowly, Carol could feel it sliding down her skin, lower, lower, almost to the top of her slit, then slowly she pulled it up again, teasing. Slowly she spun around, hands running through her hair, giving the crowd one last look. Then her hands fell to the panties again and she was pulling them down and they were over her thighs, over the stockings. She was stepping out of them, first one foot, than the other, careful not to catch them in the high heels. Then she was naked, naked in front of all these men, they could see everything. The screams were deafening and she was breathing hard. One hand found its way to a nipple, began to pull and twist, the other drifted to her pussy, a finger tracing the length of her opening, reached her clit and with just the slightest push she was coming, hot waves crashing through her, jolting up her spine. She could feel her hips bucking, again and again. Wanting something inside her, wanting a man to fuck her, to pay for her body, imagining a man ramming his cock into her pussy, the sensations driving out everything else.

Then it faded and stopped, shame and humiliation replacing the raging waves of pleasure. And Carol realised where she was, and what she’d done. A hand rose to her mouth, not the traitorous hand that had brought her to climax, but the other one, trying to stifle her cries. Not bothering with her clothes, not bothering with the money she now realised had showered the stage, she ran, as fast as her heels would let her, back down the stage and through the curtains.

(To be continued)