Becoming Skye

This is my first story submitted here and one of my first erotic stories, so I welcome any and all feedback. It covers the journey of Ana, a college student in need of money, who reluctantly turns to sex work, but comes to love it. I'm not sure which category this story fits into most clearly. Exhibitionism/voyeurism seems like the best, but it also has group sex and some light humiliation.

*****

I couldn't be sure how many of them fucked me. Afterwards, I could barely walk. My hair was soaked from the champagne they poured over my head. Cum glazed my face, chest, and back. I came so hard I nearly passed out. I earned just over $8,000 that night, but I didn't do it for the money.

There were things I said I would never do, lines I wouldn't cross. I crossed them all. I told myself I had good reasons, to pay for my education, to help my family. But then I kept doing them. Doing the thing mattered more than the why. I became someone I no longer recognized, someone I never thought I was capable of being.

***

I had just left my introduction to sociology course when I noticed two missed calls from my mom. She normally texted, so I called back immediately.

"Hello Ana. How are classes?"

"Not bad... I have some papers and midterms in a couple weeks. Right now it's pretty slow." I gave a smile and a nod as I passed some friends across the quad. "So, what's up?"

"Is this an okay time to talk?"

Her question made my stomach tighten. "Just walking home. What is going on?"

"There isn't an easy way to say this. Your father has melanoma. He has cancer."

All I heard was cancer. My arm started involuntarily shaking. Adrenaline shot through me like electrical current. My maternal grandfather had died from colon cancer; my paternal grandmother, breast cancer; my uncle, prostate cancer. The mother of my childhood friend Danielle passed away within a month of being diagnosed. Cancer meant only one thing: death.

"C-, C-, C-ancer," I stuttered.

"We just found out last week. He didn't want to tell you because you're so busy, but I thought you should know. We're going to start treatment next week."

I would've been angry at him for wanting to keep this from me, but I was too stunned. "How serious? What's going to happen?"

"It's stage 3 skin cancer. The doctors say it's treatable, but they aren't making any promises. I don't trust them if you ask me, but your father is stubborn and doesn't want a second opinion."

"Do I need to come home? To be with you and...?"

She cut me off before I could finish. "Absolutely not. Focus on your studies. Your father doesn't even want you to know, but you can call him and tell him I told you." I would call him. No one else in my family attended college and my dad made it his personal mission in life to make sure that me, his only child, would not only get a college degree but go to a top school. My success meant everything to him, I knew that, but I also felt betrayed that he let that get in the way of him telling me about his illness.

When the conversation ended, I rambled aimlessly back to my dorm, crashed into my bed, and stared at the white-plastered ceiling. I wanted to cry but couldn't. This room more closely resembled a prison cell than bedroom: a single bed and a small desk, with just enough space to stand, if not walk, between them. I chose to live in a single for my sophomore year, but now the peeling drywall seemed to be closing in with suffocating silence. I had never been more alone.

Over the next couple of months, I rebounded, thanks to the seeming success of my dad's radiation and chemotherapy. When I came home for winter break, I felt reassured by his appearance. I hugged him harder than I ever had. He joked that I might crush him if I squeezed any tighter. "I'm just happy to see you!" I assured him. Despite the chemo, he was no balder than before the treatment.

The trip home for break eventually turned sour. Before I returned to school, my parents sat me down. My mother led the conversation.

"Your father is doing well, but the insurance won't cover all the treatment. We've taken out loans and a second mortgage to help pay for it, but we're running out of money."

I gulped and felt a sick feeling at the pit of my stomach. "What does that mean?" I asked.

Dad grew pale, coughed, and spoke calmly: "We want you to stay in school. Your education means everything. But after this year I'm not sure if we can afford it, at least not where you are now."

"Maybe you could get a scholarship or a job to make-up some of the difference," mom said, "maybe, but I don't... I'm so sorry sweetie. I know how much you like it there."

I sighed. "It's ok mom. I get it. Dad's health is more important. I will talk to the school and see if I can apply for anything. I can also move back home and go somewhere closer or cheaper. It'll be ok."

I said the right words, but felt guilty. I didn't want to move back home. When I boarded the plane back to school, I was excited to go back to my friends, classes, professors, and independence. I wanted to become psychologist. I needed good grades from a good school to get into a top Ph.D. program. I also knew the possibility of a scholarship was unlikely. I already had one and had taken out loans to help cover the exorbitant costs of my education. What now? I thought. My mind wandered with different schemes: I could get a night job bartending. A friend told me that it paid well. I could take out more student loans. I could sell my old car, which I rarely used anyway. As I calculated the numbers, however, I came to a stark realization: even together, it wouldn't be enough.

***

As a freshman, I got assigned a random roommate, a girl named Jane. We hardly got along. Jane came and went at all hours of the night, while I tended to tuck in early. She constantly "sexiled" me, bringing boys over and locking me out of the room. Jane also annoyed me with how she spent money: new clothes every week, jewelry, the latest gadgets, and vacations to exotic locales. A lot of fairly privileged students go to my university. One could find not only BMWs and Mercedes in the school lots, but Maseratis too. Jane fit the "rich kid" mold, but I came from a relatively middling family. Later in the year, to my surprise, Jane revealed that she did too. She got her money from her job. It also explained her late nights. "Working?" I asked.

"I'm a stripper. But keep that between us," Jane said. Curious, I asked how much she made. "In a good week, usually $4,000. I once made $8,000 in a busy week. In a bad one, though, it might just be $1,500. It depends how many nights I work and how lucky I get with tips."

That seemed like a lot more than I would've expected, but I shouldn't have had any expectation really.

"You could do it too you know. You have the body, from what I've seen at least. I know you're shy but just throwin' it out there."

I blushed. "Um, I'll think about it!"

I never did. At least not until almost a year later when I found out my family could no longer afford my schooling. But taking my clothes off for a bunch of strangers? I had one boyfriend before college and had two short relationships since. Only three people had ever seen me fully naked. Yet $4k a week equals $16k a month. That's $192,000 per year. That would cover not only my undergraduate education, but my dad's treatment and even graduate school.

I debated whether to reach out to Jane and felt almost queasy working up the courage. When I finally texted her, she responded that she had dropped out of school and moved back to her hometown of Chicago. Go figure. But Jane gave me the name of a club, "The Mad Hatter," which she said catered to richer clientele. "That's the best and safest club in the area. Ask for Joey D. He's the manager. I would say you could use my name, but we didn't leave on the best of terms." She ended her text with laughing emoji.

The next day, I battled my nerves again, this time to call the club and ask for Joey D. He said their roster was full, but if I came by later that day, he would meet me. I wasn't sure how to dress for the meeting. I didn't own any "sexy" clothes, at least nothing that screamed "stripper," so I went with what I had: acid wash jeans and purple tank top.

When I got to the club, I thought Jane might've played a joke on me. The Mad Hatter didn't look like a high-end establishment, but then I had never been to a strip club before. The neon sign atop the blacked-out building had a burnt-out "d" and "t" so it read as "The Ma Hater." I told the bouncer I had meeting with Joey and he let me in. Inside, the place looked a little more upscale. Red felt lined the floor and walls. A pristine glass bar stood in the back, a DJ booth to the side, and two stages. There were dancers, completely naked, but only about six patrons. It was, however, 2pm on Wednesday. I had no idea where to go and had to talk to the bartender. "I'm here for Joey."

The woman nodded, "Through the curtains behind the DJ. Second door on the left. Knock on the door before you go in darlin'."

I felt light-headed as I walked behind the curtain and into a musty dark corridor. Just as I began to knock the door opened. A burly middle-aged man with a thick beard and Judas Priest t-shirt stood in the doorway.

"Who are you?" he said in an almost accusatory tone.

"Um. Ana," I stammered, "we spoke on the phone, you said I should come in."

"Oh right right. Ok come in then." I walked into the office and glanced over the walls plastered with pictures of women in different stages of undress, some of them autographed. The room smelled like a falafel truck I sometimes go to for lunch. I gulped audibly. "Have a seat," he said, pointing to the sofa across from his desk. "What brings you here?"

I struggled to make eye-contact, but managed to tell him I needed a job.

"Dancing? Bartending? Waitressing? Janitorial services?" I felt an overwhelming rush of panic and before answering Joey interjected with a laugh. "I'm joking hon. I know you said you wanted to dance. Have you danced before?"

"Um, not exotic dancing. I did gymnastics for twelve years. Some ballet."

"Better than nothing. Am I right?"

I couldn't tell if he meant for me to answer.

"Well as I told you our roster is pretty full," he continued before pausing to look me over. "You seem nervous. Are you sure this is something you want to do?"

"Uh. Um. I need the money. Thought it was worth a try?" I shot him an awkward smirk.

He smiled back, "Look, you have a lovely figure and a coed look that some customers love. You also have a certain exoticness. Maybe that's not politically correct thing to say. Are you Latin?"

I figured he meant Latina or Hispanic. "My dad is from Honduras. My mom is mostly Irish."

"Well that won't do. Let's say you're Puerto Rican. Don't want customers having to google Honduras during the show. Am I right?"

I just nodded and a cold silence fell over the room. My mind started racing. I assumed I might need to take my clothes off for Joey as part of my 'audition'. Is that what was happening now? I deeply regretted the words that came out next, "Do I need to, um, strip for you?"

Joey responded with a guttural laugh. "No honey. I mean you can if you want, but I'd prefer to see you on the stage and what you can do up there. Have you ever pole danced?"

I shook my head.

"You can take classes pretty cheap. It's something even housewives do for stronger thighs or some shit," he chuckled yet again. "Go talk to Sally across the hall. She handles the schedule and can give you the ground rules. I'll give you two lunch slots to start. If you do well with those, you can get some nights. Weekends get distributed based on seniority and popularity. So that's a ways off. We also get feature dancers over the weekends sometimes, so slots are sparse."

I stood up and gave him a forced smile. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Your first test is not getting scared off by Sally. Ok off with you." He motioned me out of the room.

Sally reminded me of a diner waitress from my hometown. If you wanted to customize your order, she would glare at you and tell you no substitutions. If you wanted more coffee, she would take your cup and "forget" to bring it back. If you asked about what was good, she would tell "nothing." One got the sense she experienced enough bullshit for three lifetimes and decided that she no longer cared for the pretense of pleasantries. "Who are you?" Sally asked without looking away from her computer screen.

"Hi. I'm Ana. Joey said I need to talk to you about getting on the schedule."

"Oh. Did he tell you we're full?"

"He said I could do a couple lunch shifts."

Sally didn't respond for several minutes. I couldn't tell whether she was looking at the schedule or something entirely different on her computer. She finally said, "Thursday 12-1:30 and Monday 12-1:30. Ok?"

I nodded but she wouldn't look me. "Ok?" she asked again in a more agitated tone.

"Yes. That's ok."

"Are you just new to our club or new to dancing?"

"New to everything ma'am." I'm not sure why I called her ma'am. I don't think I ever called anyone that.

"Ok well I need to go over some stuff then. First, get here at least 30 mins before your shift. We have a guy Gabrielle who will do your hair and makeup. You can do it yourself if you want but it'll piss him off. Don't piss off Gabrielle."

"Ok. Got it."

"Shave your legs, your armpits, and at the very least trim your bush. Au naturale is back in vogue these days but our patrons don't want to see that."

I nodded. I don't think she noticed.

"Most of what you make is on tips. To get tips, you need to be affable. Some fat piece of shit might say he likes your tits. The natural instinct is to kick him in the balls. But instead you smile, thank him, and he gives you a $20."

I sighed nervously.

"We've got strict rules here too. No drugs in the club. If you want to get high, don't do it here. Don't do it in the parking lot."

"I don't do um drugs."

"Um drugs? I don't know you or what you may or may not do. Just listen. No touching. This is a state law. While you dance, don't let anybody touch you. In lap dances, don't. Let's say a handsome guy or a big tipper wants to touch your tits. Don't let him. Finally, and this one should be obvious from the last, no tricking in the club. No tricking in the parking lot. No making dates while you're on the clock here."

I wasn't entirely sure what she meant. "Tricking?"

"Escorting, hooking, prostituting yourself."

My face grew red with a combination of embarrassment and anger. "I would never."

She cut me off, "I've heard it all before honey. I hope not. Tomorrow is Thursday. Be here at 11:30. If you miss your first shift, you won't get another."

***

I barely slept that night and had no appetite the next morning. I got to the club a full hour before my shift would start. Could I do this? I don't think I can do this. Gabrielle was about as cliché as a makeup artist and hairstylist could be. When I first met him, he gasped, "Oh my good god girl. What have you done to your hair? What kind of conditioner do you use?" He worked on me for half an hour. When he finished, I had more product in my hair and more make-up than at any point since I had "glamour shots" taken as a child. When I looked into the mirror, I saw a stranger looking back at me. Shy and nerdy no more, I looked like a confident sexy young woman.

I also felt more comfortable once I met some of the other girls. I especially liked Jasmine who grew up not far from my hometown, despite both of us now living on the other side of country. While I came out east for school, she was on the run from an abusive boyfriend, a Vietnamese gangster she fell in love with before the relationship turned sideways.

When it came time to get into costume, Jasmine and the other girl, Ivy, had brought their own outfits. I hadn't, but Gabrielle told me they had plenty. He asked for my dress and shoe size. I told him, "dress is a 2 and shoes a 6." He handed me atrociously pink minidress, thong underwear, and platform heels. "Are these clean? And um this dress is a 1, I'm a 2."

"Always wear a dress size too small, sluts it up," Gabrielle said. I shuddered.

"Let's go to the locker room," Jasmine said, "follow us."

Jasmine and Ivy began changing in front of me. I looked over their toned bodies. Jasmine had her nipples pierced and a tattoo of thorny vine on her side. She caught me staring and smiled. My eyes quickly darted away. I began to undress too. If I can't do it here, I won't be able to out there.

"Timid thing," Ivy said, sensing my unease.

"Hush. She's going to be fine," Jasmine reassured.

I stripped coyly and put my street clothes into my locker. I instinctually tried to cover myself with my arms. "You have a beautiful body babe," Jasmine said glancing me over, "they gonna love you."

I smiled, but didn't quite believe it. The minidress, heels, and thong felt incredibly uncomfortable. The strapless dress risked falling down at any moment, the thong rode up my ass, and the heels made me feel like I would topple over. I told myself to play the confident sexy girl I saw in the mirror just minutes earlier, but I felt so out of place, so awkward.

A young man wearing a beanie cap came into the locker room. "Hey!"

"Hey LC," Dani said.

"New girl looking good," he said to me. "I'm the DJ...I need your stage name."

"Um. I was thinking Candy."

"No, no no!" Jasmine said emphatically. "That's not a good name for you. This is Skye"

Skye. I didn't mind it. "Why Skye?"

"You have wonderfully unexpected blue eyes."

"Skye then."

LC announced me as Skye, "the Puerto Rican coed," and Van Halen's "Panama" started blaring. I felt like doe in headlights when I stepped out onto the stage. Although the middle of the afternoon, the club remained perpetually night and all I could see at first was the blinding stage lights shooting out from the darkened crowd. There were also strobes flashing purples and blues across the lavender walls. The faces of the crowd began to come into view. Businessmen mostly, I figured, who looked bored. I danced, but I wouldn't even really call it dancing. To avoid tripping and falling in my heels, I did little more than walk around. Joey D. stood in the back. He motioned at me, but it took me a few minutes to realize he wanted me to strip.

I peeled down the top of my dress and let my tits bounce out. Some of the crowd cheered and I got my first tips, some wadded up dollar bills thrown onto the stage. Pulling the dress off entirely proved more of a challenge and when I stepped out of it, I nearly faceplanted. Between adrenaline and nerves, I hardly even noticed I was topless. When I slid off my thong, I did it without thinking, kicking it into the crowd, and running my back up against the pole. I felt possessed. I dropped to my knees and crawled across the stage with my ass sticking up in the air. I twirled around and spread my legs. More bills flew onto the stage. Joey smiled from the back.

In my first two weeks at the club, I made $400 and planned to quit, but Joey assured me that I would make a lot more once he put me on nights. Over the next few months, I grew in confidence, refined my moves, and got put on the weekend schedule. I began making the kind of money that Jane had promised. I had some regulars who always wanted lap dances and tipped generously. I also started working the party scene: bachelor parties and birthdays. Parties paid better but the men could also get grabbier. Even with a bouncer escort, it was difficult to tell them no. The club became my main social life. I dated a patron, at least for a little while. Jasmine chided me for it. "You need to make him pay for that pussy," she would tell me. I would never do that, I thought.