The Maing of Medicimbee

Because I get asked a lot, here it is. The story of how I became a medic and the misbehavior that has resulted since.

"Oh my God," said Jasmine, sticking her head into the VIP section where I was dancing at, Totally, the upscale topless gentleman's club. "It's a raid!"

Like a flash I grabbed my top and the customer who had been enjoying his lapdance was on his feet in a panic.

I was just fitting the cups on my big 34DD tits as the loud raucous noise of the sheriff's officers crashing through the main stage filled my ears and before I had time to reach back and clip it securely, a deputy in riot gear poked her head into the semi-private booth.

"Just stay like that, hon" she said whipping out a zip tie to lasso my already positioned wrists.

Unfortunately for me, I hadn't had time to secure the clasps and the cups of my bra slipped off my breasts and fell to the floor. It was just what the deputy wanted. She gave me a really bitchy grin.

"Oh well," she said cinching down the plastic cuffs.

I wouldn't be the only one in such a fix. She grabbed my arm and ushered me out into the main area of the club where over two dozen Totally topless dancers were just that. As if timed for perfect effect, someone threw on the overhead lights.

Now if you have ever been in a "strip" club you know it is all low lighting or at least pink or blue hued. There is a reason for that. Harsh white light is not kind. It reveals everything, all the flaws, the little things you don't want anyone to see. Frankly, it's the stuff of which legends are killed. As we all looked around at each other, most with heavy augmented boobs hanging and not nearly enough g string below to hide, certain...grooming decisions and other aspects of anatomy a general humiliation settled in. It was just terrible. A lot of illusions were being destroyed. Age -- I myself was almost 30 -- c-section scars, and more, were completely on display. Worse we all had our hands behind our backs, so all those grinning male deputies were getting quite the look. The grins from the female deputies were of a different sort, a kind of "see I told you so" expression at the imperfections that, even more than our near nudity, were humiliating us beyond recovery.

"Okay ladies," said the deputy, a sergeant actually, that had cuffed me. "We are going to take you out to the vans. You will be transported downtown, and you will then be processed. Now listen up. You have the right to remain silent..."

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"Okay, so here's what your facing..." My lawyer opened the file and started to read.

"Uh huh, solicitation of prostitution." He looked up from the folder and smiled.

"What?" I asked.

"Yeah. It's what all the women from the club are being charged with."

I was sitting there in a county orange jumpsuit, the most decent thing I had been allowed to put on since the arrest. Underneath, I had on nothing. The county jail matron had required the g string and had placed it in an envelope with a kind of smug grin before telIing me I could pick it up if I made bail. My nipples and areola, which are always very prominently knobby since my boob job -- I am 34DD on a 5-4 118 frame -- were making an obvious pokey detailed outline on the top of the cotton jumpsuit. My lawyer, who it turned out was representing all of the dancers from the club, could barely keep his eyes off the outrageous pinging that was always there regardless of whether I was turned on, or cold, or not. Being honest, while it had made a huge financial difference to my "dancing," I had a lot of regrets about getting this augmentation. Outside of the club, my disproportionately large tits were a liability. Women took one look and judged me, men took one longgggg look and judged me only to a different purpose. Also, it had made buying any bra and top that could hide their details a challenge.

"I wasn't doing that! I am not a whore," I said emotionally.

"Of course not," he said calmly staring at my chest. "Like I said, it's what they are blanket charging everyone with."

"What?" I was beyond freaked out.

"Yeah, don't worry about it. It's a game they play. They always go for that. We counter with a lesser charge. You plead guilty, or better, no contest. The cops get a big bust, makes the news that they are stopping immorality and crime. You don't do any time, maybe some probation and keeping it to a misdemeanor makes it expungeable later on."

He made it sound so reasonable. The part he left out was that for a period of time I was allowing myself to be labeled as something I was not. I was admitting to something I didn't do, and I would have to do some awful penance of probation.

I just sat there dumbfounded at first. "No. Nope. Not doing that," I said.

He gave me look like it wasn't up to me.

"Listen, they have two cops who will say they were undercover and that you propositioned them. You are a stripper--"

"Dancer," I corrected. For as long as I had been dancing, for all of us that danced topless, in fact, the terminology was important. Stripper had a much lower connotation in our world.

"Whatever," he said. "Look, who do you think a judge or jury will believe?"

I knew he was right and sat there looking frustrated and furious.

"What do I have to do?" I said finally.

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Judge Hannah Humphreys was a graduate of Houston Christian College and had risen to her elected position as a staunch advocate of law enforcement and protector of family values and morals. She was also a cruel bitch and hated "strippers." A few years earlier she had caught her husband frequenting a topless club and ever since she had harbored a hateful vendetta. Beyond that, she was known for being a clever and imaginative in her punishments, and never more than when someone like me was before her bench.

As I stood in court dressed modestly in a plain skirt suit, without a shred of make up and my hair pulled back in a small bun, I could have passed for any normal suburban woman with one major exception, my big tits.

Unfortunately, despite the thicker bra and the material of the skirt suit, the "just there" expression of both bolting nipples still drew attention to the disproportionate swell of my boobs. One look from Judge Humphreys and I knew she was estimating me based on them as well.

"So, I see here that the charge has been reduced to indecent exposure and public lewdness," she said looking over the top of her little reading glasses.

The words dripped with derision and disgust. I felt about an inch tall.

"How do you plead?"

My face burned as I cleared my throat and said, "No contest, your honor."

The way she looked at me made me feel like I had a big scarlet W emblazoned on my chest.

"Okay, well. You do realize that no contest is not the same as not guilty?"

I looked at my lawyer. He looked a little surprised.

"Uhhh, your honor," he started to say.

"I want to hear from the defendant," she said cutting him off.

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

The look she gave me wilted any sense of self-esteem I had left. I felt like a total whore and sensed that anyone listening would think of me the same way.

"Where do you currently work?" she asked.

I felt almost light-headed.

"I am a dancer at Totally," I said, my face burning red with shame.

"You are a stripper?"

I started to react with what all of us did when that term was used, but my lawyer's slight hand signal was enough to tell me that I was flirting with disaster.

"Yes ma'am."

"A stripper?" she said. It was clear the moralistic bitch wanted me to say it too.

"A stripper," I said.

"Uh huh," she scoffed. "Well then, this constitutes moral turpitude and moral turpitude is no less a criminal offense than other form of vice, whether it be prostitution or all the other degrading acts. I take it seriously. The community demands that we all do, and it is my responsibility to assure that you feel that responsibility in the punishment I assign. With that in mind, I am sentencing to no less than one year of probation in a civil capacity."

And with that she banged her gavel.

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"Don't worry. You won't have to be on probation for a full year."

My lawyer handed me a handkerchief which I took and dabbed at my eyes out in the hallway of the courthouse.

"That was so humiliating," I said.

I looked up at my attorney. He was staring at my chest with a gawky lusty fascination. My nipples were standing out like two number one erasures. It only made me feel even more scandalous and objectified. It was a byproduct of having worked in a sexually inclined setting for so long. I was 30, and had been a dancer since I was 19. Sometimes for reasons I couldn't explain or even entertain, sometimes even when I was embarrassed or mildly shocked or even outraged, I would have a bewildering little physical reaction. My brain and sensibility would be saying NO, but my body would be giving telltale signs of response.

Such was the case just then and my lawyer was transfixed. If Judge Humphreys had sentenced me to Cirsei's walk of shame in Game of Thrones, I couldn't feel more utterly exposed, ashamed, and vulnerable.

"Uh, if you just do the probation and get good reviews, meaning you show up on time and do the work, you get the requisite signature, then you'll be done 3-6 months. In the meantime, you can keep dancing and making a living. All in all, I have to say," he said to my chest, "I think it went pretty well."

That was it. I was a probationary sentenced, morally compromised person according to the court system. That night as I got ready to go into the club to work, I found myself feeling very angry but also resigned to my new status. Tossing an array of g strings and tops into my shoulder bag, I slipped on a casual track suit. It's what most of us wore to drive in to the club. There was no point in putting on anything under.

I'd be nearly naked in a half hour anyway. I slipped on a pair of sneakers and a baseball cap with the bill down to hide my face and drove over to Totally.

Now, for some time I had perfected the maximum earning maneuver. I'd cultivated some regular customers, guys that liked me and that I could handle and liked well enough, and who had money. I let them know when I would be working and then when we connected, I'd slip the DJ a tip to manage to keep me off the main stage so I could head back to the VIP section and triple my earnings. It wasn't as sordid as it sounds. I didn't fuck anyone. As the club was topless, in VIP for a regular, I would pull down the g string or bend over and sidecar - that is, pull the thong off to the side and show what no other customers got to see. In some cases, if the guy was funny or cute or really financially motivated, I might also do an extra.

So, before you judge me, let me just say anyone who works at a club and says she never did an extra for a customer is lying. Everyone does. The strip club environment is so competitive and sexually charged that at some point to maintain a relationship with a patron, you have to do something. In my own case, I kept it to oral at the most. That night I had a regular, a nice older widower who liked to tip heavily and was very polite and decent.

"So, I heard you had some drama in here the other night," he said sitting back in the little semi private booth as he watched me sway and dance and teasingly pull at my bottoms.

"Yes," I sighed. My displeasure was evident.

"Hope you have a good lawyer."

"I have an expensive one," he said humorlessly.

The truth was that about half my savings were going to that creep. Unlike most dancers, I didn't have a drug problem and I saved my money, but this was right about the time of the big stock crash and my portfolio had all but disappeared. With the legal bills, I was in a sad state.

"Well, maybe I can help," he offered.

I knew what was coming and felt a little disadvantaged, but I smiled. "Oh?"

He dug down in his pocket and pulled out a wad of twenties.

"Well, there is something I have always wanted."

I braced myself.

"Oh?"

He looked a little sheepish. "Yeah, well...so I would really like a tantric massage from you."

"Oh, uh" I sputtered. I had stopped dancing with my g string about half on.

"Yes," he said sounding embarrassed. "I don't mean here of course, but I mean I was thinking we could do it at my place. Private. I would pay you...in cash here, in advance. Just uh then you could come over."

I thought about the five-thousand-dollar retainer I had shelled out, and the other five due at the end of my case along with the per hour bill that I knew was coming from my attorney.

"I'd pay you whatever you wanted," he said.

I could see the outline and shape of his growing penis starting to form against his slacks.

"I haven't actually done something like that," I said.

"Oh, that's okay. I have a book, a guide. It has pictures. You could just follow that."

He didn't understand that I wasn't referring to tantric which I also hadn't done. I meant sex with a regular. Still, he was a harmless guy. Totally safe. Danger wasn't my worry. Dropping to a new sexual low was. Even so, I looked at the monster wad of money. The guy was rich, and I was in a tough spot.

"How much was your retainer?

"Five thousand," I said only thinking of the first installment. I was just sure he was going to recoil at the number.

"I could do that," he said shocking me.

"Uh, okay." The words just sort of escaped me involuntarily and I realized my areolas had crinkled and my nipples were standing at attention.

"Great," he said counting out the bills. "How about you come over about noon tomorrow?"

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On the drive over I tried not to think about what I was going to do. He's a nice, lonely man, I kept telling myself as I drove. The fact that the gated neighborhood I entered was one of the nicest in Houston, somehow made me feel like what I was headed over to do was a little less unsavory.

I pulled up at his house, then onto the very long drive way and parked. I had on my track suit with only a g string underneath as per his request. My big tits wobbled as I climbed out of my car and walked up to the door. Even as I rang the bell it opened. He must have been waiting just inside. That was evident, as was the fact that all he had on was a robe.

"Hi Kim." He knew my real name. It was a little something dancers did when they wanted to make a customer feel special. It sort of formed a little bond, a secret and it kept the guy from calling you Lexus or Mercedes or Crystal which was the name I used.

"Hi George (I'll call him George in case anyone ever puts two and two together)" I said.

"Come on in, "he said.

I smiled and walked into the palace, which is exactly what it was.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"How about a Mojito?" He held up the one he was drinking as if to encourage me.

"Yes, please. Just make it strong."

I was about to have sex, after a fashion, with a guy old enough to be my Dad, despite the fact that I hadn't really known my Dad, and the alcohol was definitely going to be necessary.

He made me one that could have buzzed a rhino and handed me the chilled glass. I took a couple of big preloading swallows. It was a good idea.

He smiled and took me by the hand.

"I really appreciate you doing this," he said. "I have been so lonely since my wife..." He trailed off.

I downed another big gulp. The drink was almost pure alcohol, and I could feel it already. That and my inherent sympathy made what was happening so much easier.

"Of course," I said.

He smiled again and led me down a long tile hallway to a bedroom, apportioned like a professional spa, had a huge massage table in the center. Along a far wall was a table with several bottles of aromatic oils. I had to admit, everything about the room was very soothing from the aroma of the expensive oils to the muted lighting and gentle music that was playing. As I took it in and the environment and the powerful mojito continued to work, George slipped off his robe. It was an immediate reminder of the hard reason why I was there. Speaking of hard, George who was all of 5-9 and was a hairy little pear shaped one-hundred eighty pounds was sporting a very stiff thick cock that waggled above his hairy balls as he climbed up onto the table.

Once again, I sighed quietly in resignation. On the counter occupied by all the oils was a pictorial guide to tantric method. It was open to a section on lingam and the sacred place. The pictures showed a pair of female hands. One was working a large erect cock. The other was between the man's buns and was clearly fingering deeply up his ass to get at his prostate.

I swallowed hard and my eyes closed momentarily in shame. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your perspective, there was the motivation of a building buzz, the five K he had given me, and most importantly, a strong sense of sympathy for a lonely man I had known for a couple of years already to help me along. I picked up a bottle of French Lavendar oil as he stretched out on his back.

"Oh, you'll definitely want to take off your clothes," he said. "If only to protect them against being stained by the oil."

I nodded and set the bottle down. Then I unzipped my top and slipped it off. As I shared before, I was topless underneath and as my areolas and nipples were suddenly exposed to the air conditioning, they crinkled and pinged respectively.

"Oh my," groaned George.

It suddenly dawned on me that he had only ever seen me in the softened, muting light of the strip club. This reveal was going to be in the raw light of day and every intimate detail of the both of us would be blatantly out there. Hook my thumbs in the waistband of my pants I bent over pulling them down.

"God, I love the way your big tits hang when you do that," said George.

I looked at him and smiled reflexively. It was the exotic dancer go to move when a man commented on your otherwise private anatomy. As if conditioned, I gave my shoulders a little shake as I stepped out of my pants. My heavy boobs shook and bumped against each other.

"Oh yes," he chuckled.

I smiled again and stood up. All I had on was a very small g string. George looked at it. He didn't need to say a word. I knew what he wanted. Reaching down I unhooked the side clips and let it drop.

I had gone full shave a few times before but something about being a grown woman with no pubic hair at all always seemed odd to me, so right then, George was treated to a fully lit view of my very closely trimmed brown landing strip above my very shaved lips.

His eyes went immediately to it and his cock swelled with a slight extra surge of engorgement.

"Ohhhh yes," he groaned. "I love how you groom. Could you.... Turn around for me? Bend over? It's always so hard to see in VIP."

I swallowed hard. Like I shared before, topless dancing had its stigma, but there really was a kind of distinction among dancers, at least in Texas, between keeping a thong on and pulling it off to reveal the most private areas. All-nude was definitely a lower class club and dancer. Letting a guy look at your pussy and butthole was something only a sexual partner, a true intimate partner was supposed to see. Sure, I had sidecarred and showed it in VIP, but as I was acutely aware, in that brightly lit room, the view was going to be way too detailed and memorable.