"Oh, fuck no! Oh, no-no-no-no..." Lola started to mutter as she rolled out of bed...and onto the floor with a graceless thud. She was so small (she guessed she's shrunk to about 5 ft 4 inches) and so cartoonishly top and bottom heavy (her firm, soccer-ball-sized breasts were counterbalanced by wide hips, plump thighs and a baloonish butt that projected like a soft, rounded shelf) that she couldn't seem to move the way she wanted. She tried to stand again, and this time she did...but only by adapting to what her body wanted to do, and not what he wanted it to do.
And her body...seemed to want to pose. Lola saw herself in a mirror, and winced at the pin-up queen reflected back at her. She walked, and her walk was a sexy, hip-swaying saunter. She wondered what she'd look like running...and decided against trying. Her tits would be in her face half the time.
"Baby, are you okay?" the voice same again. Deep, strong and very male.
"Uh, yeah..." she answered back, with her breathy bimboish voice that she had Sarah to thank for. That bitch! Wishes weren't reversible! She'd never get back to normal again!
"Good, honey. Because you gotta show ta put on, an' I gotta make sure you do it..."
The man who came out of the adjoining room...which she guessed was a bathroom...was big, black and very very well muscled. He was well dressed, and he looked prosperous in a low-class way. His suit was expensive, but it was also bright red with a black silk shirt. His rings and jewelry were real gold, but he wore too many of them, and they were...tacky.
But...and right then this was her first concern...he smiled at her, helped her get dressed (in a pink, butt-flossing thong, pink half-tee with cutoff sleeves and the "Dairy Queen" logo in sparkly print, and strappy white sandals that had 5-inch heels...but which she wore with no problem), helped her apply her make-up (foundation, blush, pink and black shadow and red lipstick) fix her hair (a big, bouncy mane of golden blond curls) and then asked her if she was ready...in a way that implied that he was a friend. He was maybe her pimp or the manager of the strip club that Sarah had stuck her in (a local club, she'd said. Maybe she could contact her folks?), but he also seemed like a nice guy, and though he treated her like a child, he was at least friendly.
"Where we going?" she asked, and it was no wonder that he spoke to her as if she was a kid. She sounded as bright as a 2 watt bulb.
"Goin to th' club, Lola. You dancin' there mos' every night, las' time I check." he smiled at her, as if he'd had to say this often. He turned on the radio, and loud, brassy hip-hop music - heavy in the bass and driving like a freight train into her groin - made her start to unconsciously grind her hips and bounce her tit. She touched her temples, feeling something shifting in her brain.
"You likes that, don' you Lola?"
"Aw, yeah...aw, fuck yeah..." she panted, unable to control herself. The beat of the music put an itch in her butt that she needed to scratch. She needed - no, she WANTED - to dance in front of a packed club, shaking her good for all the men to see. She wanted to wrap her legs around a pole, crawl across a stage, have greasy men shove money into her panties...
"Shit!" she moaned, and the man smiled at her. He thought he'd seen this a million times before, and he never got tired of it. This poor, little white chick was mad for strippin', and the sounds of good, club music made her crazy for the stage. He'd have a hard time controlling her tonight. Strange thing was, after the club took it's cut...she'd send all her money to some girl named Sarah McMillan. That was why she had so little of her own. She was worth a mint, but Sarah took everything, leaving Lola to survive on the scraps thrown to her by her club friends. Lola slept at his place (had for years), ate what her friends and fans bought her (if they gave her money for food, she instantly gave it to Sarah), and wore clothes that she found at the club, or that others provided for her.
The black man was names Deshan "Dice" Jackson. He owned seven strip clubs in the tri-county area. He thought that Lola (no last name ever given, and without any identification at all) had worked for him for the last three years. He thought she was 24 years old. He didn't realize that Lola was once a 17 year old boy, or that she'd only just today been edited into her new life.
He had no idea that the slutty white chick next to him was writhing in mental anguish as her body shifted and flowed to the beat, craving the feeling of tassels on her nipples and dollars in her g-string. Inside, Jon was fading...and fading fast. Soon, she'd be nothing but Lola. Think Lola thoughts and do Lola things.
Deshan didn't know this. He was a pretty nice guy, as strip club owners went, and guessed that Lola's name might just be Lola McMillan. He'd guess that she was sending all he cash to a younger sister who needed the cash to pay for an operation or collage or something like that. He wondered if he should call Lola on that. He was intending on asking this Sarah chick to go easier on Lola, because if he wasn't such a nice guy, Lola would soon be on the streets. She didn't have a thing to show for all her strippin', but her body and a bag full of barrowed or gifted clothes. That just didn't seem fair to the girl, bimbo though she obviously was.
