The Real You

"And turn please." Manon used her long, pale, bony finger like a prop, twirling it in an elegant circle to direct Babs into a pirouette. Babs had a finger or two of her own that she wanted to show the bitch, but she bit her tongue and executed a graceless pivot on her ankle to show the older woman her rear. Once she was out of view of Manon's piercing, dark eyes, Babs let herself smile as she imagined the look on the tight-assed old cunt's face when she read 'Kiss My Juicy Ass' on the back of Babs' jacket.

If it bugged Manon, though, she was too tough to complain about it out loud. She simply said, "Mm," in a tone of icy disdain that made her sound like Babs was a snotty Kleenex she was holding between her thumb and forefinger. It was the kind of bullshit that made 'Madame Manon' famous-every week on her makeover show, 'The Real You', they teased the idea that this new contestant was going to be the one who made the Snow Queen of Narnia lose her shit, and every week it ended with some wimpy little bitch sobbing and thanking Manon for making her a better person. Same damn thing, week in and week out, but somehow they'd gotten five fucking seasons out of it.

"And back again, thank you." The French-accented voice was calm, almost disinterested, but when Babs spun back around to face Manon, the fashion designer's piercing eyes gazed down at her like a hawk staring at its prey. Literally down-they always said that celebrities looked shorter in person, but Manon towered over Babs in her trademark black coat and black boots even with the younger woman's hair fully permed and styled. "So tell me about yourself, Barbara," Manon said, in a lilting accent that sounded weird coming out of a real person instead of a television screen. "Why do you-"

"Babs, okay? It's not fucking Barbara, it's Babs. B-A-B-S. As in, 'Bad Ass Bitch, See?'" She knew it was a little risky, showing this much attitude this soon in the audition process, but Babs grew up watching reality television. She knew the producers were looking for drama, even if the interview with Madame Manon was one-on-one. If she didn't give them anything to make her stand out, they'd just write her off as boring and walk her out the side door. Manon wanted someone that she could clash with, so that by the end of the episode it would really mean something when Babs hugged her parents and and cried and told Manon how amazing it felt to be the newer, better her.

And gave her twenty thousand dollars. Eyes on the fucking prize, Babs told herself, giving Manon a scowl that she knew would play perfectly on camera. She could always go back to her old look the week after she got paid.

Manon smiled thinly, her bright red lips carving a path across her marble skin like she'd just been sliced open. "We'll discuss the name later," she said mildly, and Babs knew the bitch was hooked. "So tell me," she went on, returning to her original question as if nothing had happened. "Why do you want to be on 'The Real You'? You certainly don't seem to lack confidence in yourself; if there's someone else you want to be, you're definitely hiding it well. What brings you to see Madame Manon?"

The fucking third person bullshit. Just like on the show. Babs didn't have any trouble rolling her eyes and huffing a sigh of petulant disdain before saying, "My fucking parents, okay? They're all like, 'Oh, you were such a nice girl in school! Oh, you had such a bright future ahead of you! Oh, you should try to make yourself more presentable, get a job with potential, marry that nice young Marvin Zweiback and start pumping out grandkids!'" Babs made a dismissive wanking gesture. "It's all bullshit, but they said they'd kick me out of the house if I didn't straighten up. And I saw your show, and I thought, hey. What do I have to lose?"

It wasn't exactly a lie. Babs' parents weren't really fond of her taste in clothes and hairstyles, and they didn't love her taste in boyfriends for that matter. But they never went as far as threatening to kick her out of the house. It was mostly just polite lectures and dirty looks and that weird sniffing thing Dad did when he thought she'd been over at Lizzie's apartment smoking weed. When your parents were both professional therapists, life was one long non-confrontational argument after another. They wouldn't try anything as interesting as an ultimatum.

But again, that wasn't the kind of shit that sold on the Lifestyles Channel. Manon always wanted someone whose back was up against the wall, who needed her fucking weaksauce life coach routine as bad as they needed twenty thousand bucks and a brand new wardrobe. It was how she got inside their head and twisted them up into bland, boring losers who dressed in nothing but khaki and masturbated over job offers from Microsoft. Babs knew how to play that game if she had to, at least for a month or two until the cameras turned off and Manon went on to her next chump.

Assuming she could get a spot on the show. Manon held her stonefaced pose for what felt like a solid minute, deep brown eyes gazing at Babs like she was dissecting her with her stare. "So," she said at last, gesturing imperiously to Babs to approach. "You think that this... this fluffy-haired refugee from 'Grease' is the real you?" Her hand rose and fell like a symphony conductor, taking Babs in from head to toe. "The tiger print leggings, the leopard print crop top, the colors, leather jacket, it all... well. Come here. Come here."

She reached out and took Babs' wrist in her surprisingly strong fingers and dragged her in front of a floor-length mirror. Babs let out a yelp that was a little less 'angry tough girl gets mad at someone for pushing her around' and a little more 'holy shit, I had no idea that a bony fashion designer who's pushing fifty could yank me around like a puppy on a leash', but she didn't pull away. For one thing, she wasn't sure how far she could push Manon before the crazy old bird lost interest. For another thing... she didn't want to embarrass herself by trying and failing. It was one hell of a grip.

Manon plucked at Babs' jacket with the fingers of her free hand, tugging the thick leather like she was removing invisible lint. "Do you know what I see when I look at you, young woman?" she asked, her accent thickening noticeably as the cutting disdain in her voice sharpened. "I see this, this tough outer hide you wear, and do you know what I think? I think you wear it not to show how strong you are, but to hide how frightened you are. A truly strong girl, she would not cower inside a conformist's idea of rebellion. She would not need a leather jacket or a vulgar slogan."

She smirked, the slash of red becoming a jagged hook at one corner. "A real 'bad ass bitch' doesn't need to announce it."

Babs glared up at her, cheeks burning with silent, impotent anger. She knew what the goddamn bitch was doing; you didn't grow up as the child of two fucking therapists without learning how to spot a little emotional manipulation when you saw it. But knowing you were being played didn't always make it easy to shrug it off, and Babs could feel Manon's taunts getting under her skin.

And worse, if she did keep her cool and shrug off the tight-assed old bitch and her amateur life coach bullshit, Babs risked losing her shot at the twenty grand. She had to walk a tight line between being the kind of salty motherfucker who would make good television when she finally broke down and admitted she loved Big Sister and being an actual troublemaker who would spoil Manon's perfect record of turning cool people into bland nobodies. As much as Babs hated to admit it... she needed to let Manon get to her. Just a little. Just until she had the money. She wriggled her way out of the leather jacket, tossing it defiantly to the floor.

Manon released her death grip long enough to let Babs do it. There were white marks on Babs' wrist where the goddamn bitch had dug her fingers in.

"Ah!" Manon exclaimed in mock surprise, clapping her hands together excitedly as if she was just now noticing the person next to her. "Now we are getting closer to seeing the real you, aren't we? With that false facade of strength and toughness stripped away, what do we find?" Manon gestured again, pointing to the woman in the mirror like a professor at an anatomy lecture. "Tasteless, loud neon colors. Clashing patterns. Everything either tight or revealing or both. An outfit that screams, 'I am a garish nincompoop.'"

Manon took a lock of Babs' hair between her thumb and forefinger and rubbed it back and forth. "And this hair! Dyed, bleached, teased, and curled to within an inch of its life! Do you know what this hair tells me about you, my young lady? Do you know what it says? It tells me you know exactly what you want to see in the mirror when you do this to yourself. You have an ideal, an image in your mind of a trashy, vapid slut with no future and no dreams, a girl who lives in the moment and has no mind beyond it. And you have made it a reality."

Babs opened her mouth to argue, but Manon killed her retort with a question before it could escape her lips. "These parents of yours, the ones who disapprove... they're comfortable, yes? Financially? You've never wanted for money?"

The response felt like it was stuck in Babs' windpipe, choking her rage into numb, helpless frustration. "Y-yes, I... I mean no," she finally stammered out, aware of how confused and uncertain the contradictory questions made her response sound. "But I don't, I mean... I'm not a slut!" Inwardly, Babs cringed at her own words-she didn't sound tough or angry, just whiny. Somehow, the core of strength behind her earlier protestations about her name seemed to have melted away, leaving her mewling and petulant in the face of Manon's icy stare.

"But you want people to see one, it seems," Manon replied ruthlessly, her eyes boring down into Babs until the younger woman was forced to look away. Even that didn't help, though; the second she glanced at her own reflection, Manon began to cut away at Babs again with her razor-sharp words. "The girl in the mirror, look at her! She looks every inch like someone who lives a stultifying life of poverty and ignorance, someone whose head only has enough room inside it for the next drink or the next joint or the next fuck. Is that you? Is that who you really are, or is that the girl you thought would piss your parents off the most when you came into the room?"

Inwardly, Babs seethed. She hated admitting, even in the privacy of her own head, that Manon had the tiniest iota of a sliver of a shred of a point. It felt too much like conceding that at least a little bit of the old bitch's 'fix my life' routine wasn't just a shill for the cameras, and Babs felt a lot more comfortable vamping it up as her badass bitch self if she knew she was scamming a scammer.

But... well... of course Babs knew she was pissing off her parents. Of course she knew she was chipping away at their oh-so-fucking-patient, oh-so-fucking-understanding veneer of perfect calm and professional therapeutic compassion. Of course she liked testing them, just a little bit, just to see how far she could push her look or her attitude or her habits before she got them to crack and admit that they were always treating her like a patient instead of a daughter. Was that such a fucking big deal?

To Manon it was. The older woman stared at Babs' reflection in the mirror, letting the silence stretch out into an eternity of chilly awkwardness, until Babs finally whispered out, "No. It's not who I really am." She stared into her own eyes, unable to meet Manon's gaze. The woman staring back at her from the mirror looked defeated.

Manon nodded, finally satisfied. "Then take it off," she said, her tone triumphant and commanding. "We are here to see the real you today, little girl, not the slutty, preening peacock you've pretended to be. Take off that trashy, garish outfit and let's see who's left underneath it, mm?" She snapped her fingers impatiently, twice in rapid succession, as if she was ordering around a particularly slow servant girl.

Babs froze for a moment. It felt weird, trying to prove that she wasn't a slut by stripping down to her bra and panties in front of a total stranger, but she felt bizarrely powerless to find an excuse to avoid it. She'd already lost the argument, admitted that the clothes were nothing more than the affectation of a rich girl trying to play-act as a trashy biker chick... how could she stand there and continue to wear them in the face of Manon's haughty disdain? All of her plans to snarl and strut seemed laughable now, ineffectual and obvious falsehoods that Manon easily saw through. She couldn't keep them up, not with Manon staring coldly down at her.

The shirt came off easily. The leggings took a moment longer.

If Babs thought Manon would be easier on her after she was stripped down to her underwear, that delusion didn't last long. "And this is what lies beneath the trashy girl we saw before?" she crowed, reaching out to tweak and pinch Babs' breasts through her pink push-up bra. "An even sluttier little girl behind it? Look at this. Just look at it!" Babs reached up ineffectually to try to cover her tits, but Manon batted her hands away almost casually. "This is who you think the real you is, then? Frilly, lacy underthings that beg people to grope and fondle you? Panties that tell anyone who sees them that you're ready to take them off?"

Manon reached down and lightly swatted Babs right between the legs, her open palm connecting with just enough force to make Babs whimper in surprise and alarm. She tried to tell herself that she could use this, that she could blackmail the older woman for more money than she could ever win in prizes, but... but the girl in the mirror didn't look like a skilled manipulator and extortionist. She looked scared, confused, helpless. She was almost completely naked, her body being used like a child's plaything by a tall, powerful woman. The more Babs stared at herself, the harder it became to see anyone even capable of struggling, let alone winning.

"But maybe I am wrong," Manon snarled, her fingers pushing the satin fabric of Babs' frilly pink panties into the entrance to her pussy. "Perhaps this has been the real you all along, hmm? After all, your body does not lie. I can feel how wet you are down here, how much it arouses you to be touched like this. Perhaps the real you has only been waiting for someone strong to tell you what to do, what you want. Who you are." Manon's other hand moved back and forth between Babs' breasts, cupping the warm flesh in her strong hands and cruelly twisting Babs' nipples.

"After all, we already know that you're not strong." Babs' eyelids fluttered for a moment, the involuntary pleasure from Manon's precise, powerful fingers evoking a swirl of dizziness that made her whole head swim for a moment. She opened them again to see Manon directly behind her now, holding her upright by her tits and her cunt and whispering in her ears as she played with Babs' body. "Does that helpless little slut in the mirror look strong to you? She can't even stand up anymore."

Manon's fingers pushed in and out of Babs' pussy, soaking the sheer fabric as she found the younger woman's clit and rubbed it relentlessly. "And we already know you're not smart," Manon said, her voice mocking and disdainful. "Did you really think I couldn't tell the difference between a truly strong, independent woman and a simpering child play-acting at power? Did you think I would let you walk in here, allow you to challenge me on my own ground, and give you money for the privilege? No, I don't think there's much going on inside your head if you fooled yourself into believing that would work."

Manon pulled Bab's panties down in a single smooth gesture of her expressive fingers, letting them dangle around the young girl's ankles for a moment before physically lifting Babs off the ground just long enough to let them fall free. "No, I think I know why we haven't seen the real you yet, little slut. I don't think there's a 'you' to be found." Her other hand yanked hard on the bra, snapping the fastener and throwing it aside to reveal Babs' bare breasts. They were covered with little red pinch marks from Manon's attentions, and the older woman added a few more as Babs watched.

"You see?" Manon said, slowly lowering Babs down to her knees as she ruthlessly stimulated the blonde girl's pussy. "Look at those empty eyes. See how your legs give way. Watch how easy it is for me to take control, to fuck you with my fingers and grope your body and take you over and over again." Babs whimpered, unable to ignore the powerful surges of pleasure that Manon's confident, sure touch induced. "There's not a person inside that body. There's not a real you in there waiting to be discovered under the layers of lies. There's nothing but a mindless, horny animal. I've stripped you down to the core, slut, and all I found was a cunt to fuck."

Babs let out a strangled, helpless whine of arousal and denial. She shook her head, desperate to refuse Manon's words, but her pussy kept betraying her-it clenched over and over around the older woman's fingers, as if it was hungry for Manon's touch. "Oh, you're a bitch, girl, but not the kind you imagined. No, you're a bitch in heat for me. Deep down, that's all you know how to be. All you're capable of. You know it's true-if it was a lie, would it turn you on this much? Would it make you cum when I told you that you were nothing but a mindless slut if you didn't know I was right?"

Babs' whole body shook, her orgasm belying her wordless protestations as she sagged into Manon's arms and came. "That's right, slut," Manon purred, holding her firmly and thrusting her fingers in and out of Babs' cunt faster and faster until they became a blur. "Just give in, just let go. I've found the real you, and it's cumming her brains out on my hand right now. Go ahead and accept it." Babs' legs spasmed and jerked, twitching out her release until her eyes gazed in a blank and unfocused stare at her own vacant, empty face.

Manon kept her there for what felt like hours, coaxing more and more pleasure out of her body and more and more thoughts out of her brain until finally she slumped on the floor like a broken dolly. "That's my good little slut," Manon purred, standing back up and doffing her trademark black coat. She wore absolutely nothing beneath it but the boots. "Of course, I can't have you on my show-what would be the point, when there's so little underneath your facade? But I think I can find just the place for you." She smiled wickedly, the red lipstick making her grin look just a little too hungry. "On your knees."

Manon reached down and twined her fingers in Babs' curly blonde hair. She pulled Babs back up into a kneeling position, guiding Babs to stare vacantly into her dark, piercing eyes for a long moment. Finally, satisfied with what she saw, she pressed the mindless girl's face between her thighs. And blankly, obediently, Babs stretched out her tongue like a good slut and began to lick.

THE END