The Humiliation of Yra Florence

Kyra knew that the Chanel skirt-suit didn't fit as well as it had when she'd bought it. It was tight around her hips and breasts. Still, she didn't have anything half as good from the last few years. Not since the business had gotten into trouble. As she stood in front of the reception desk in Manhattan, though, she knew that she looked good. She'd spent her last $100 on a hair cut. Her legs were still toned from the last few months of the gym subscription, when she had nothing to do except exercise. This was her first interview of the month and she was desperate to get this job. It was a real comedown, for someone like her, applying to manage a chain of sleazy bars, but the money was great and it would just be a stepping stone.

The receptionist behind the desk looked her up and down dismissively and then said. "Mr Cohen says he'll see you now. Take the elevator up to the fifth floor."

There were already two men in expensive suits in the elevator. The shameless way they, too, looked her up and down confirmed what she already knew. She looked good. As she got out at the fifth floor she wiggled her ass a little in her tight skirt. Just to tease them.

Mr Cohen was sitting behind a desk in an open plan office at the end of the corridor. He was just a little guy. The kind of person she once would have employed to take out her trash. He had short black hair, round spectacles and a nervous manner. As soon as she walked up to him he glanced at her tits and then quickly looked away, like a kid stealing a lick at an ice-cream. "Miss Florence? Thanks for coming in. Shall we go somewhere a little more private."

He put his hand in the small of her back as he led her to another office and gestured to a black leather seat in front of a long sofa. "Now then," he said, sprawling on the sofa, "I must say you have a much more impressive resume than most of the people we've had come in."

"Thank you," she sat down on the chair and crossed her legs, her skirt riding up to her thighs.

"So why do you want to run a chain of titty bars?"

She gulped. She hadn't expected him to be so crude about it. "Well I think my business experience speaks for itself. . ."

"It sure does. How much were you worth?"

"Over a million dollars."

"But you lost everything?"

"Not everything," she uncrossed her legs and crossed them again. "We ran into difficulties. . ."

"My difficulty," he said. "Is that I can see that you've achieved a lot but you ran your last company into the ground. You screwed up big time. We don't like failures here. We can't afford failure. How do I know you won't do the same thing to us?"

Kyra's heart was sinking. It was the same story at every company she'd been to. She'd been so confident but they just wouldn't let her forget what had happened. "It's different. . .I mean I'm different."

"You've changed? How. . ."

"Well, I guess that, erm, I've learned from my mistakes and. . ."

He was looking at her without a trace of emotion as she struggled to get the words out.

At last he seemed to take pity on her. "Look Miss Florence, I think maybe you need to take a long vacation. Bankruptcy on that scale must have hit you pretty hard."

"I don't need a vacation! I need money!" she blurted out.

He raised his eyebrows. "Well, I'm sorry. I really am. But we can't help you."

For a brief moment she thought she was going to cry.

"I mean. . .I guess," he smiled. "But no, that's stupid. . ."

"What?"

"Stand up."

Slowly she did as he said. He looked at her with a whole new confidence as though he'd beaten her in some game she didn't even know they'd been playing.

"Turn around."

She turned around without thinking about it. It was only when she was facing away from the sofa that she realised what he'd asked her to do. He was looking at her ass. He was inspecting her ass.

When she turned back, blushing bright red, he was holding a card out in his hand. "Go and see this guy," he said. "I'm pretty sure he'll give you a job."

Even as Kyra left the office building and walked along the Manhattan street her cheeks were still scarlet, she felt humiliated, but the card was clutched in her hand. She had no idea what this "guy" did but it was obviously some job where the shape of her ass was at least as important as her experience.

Still, the next week she was walking along a street on the other side of town. It wasn't hard to spot the place. It had a purple sign outside of a naked woman in high heels holding on to a pole. Had it really come to this? It was one thing to run a business managing strip clubs but another to manage an actual "titty bar" as the guy had put it. And the way he'd looked at her it was clear that it was the way she looked, just as much as her management skills, that would get her the job. If she got the job. That was why, to her shame, she'd put her shortest skirt on and a top that was tight against her big tits. She went in. It was dark and there was a middle aged Latina woman mopping the floor. A bar ran all the way round the back wall and there were three silver poles in the middle of the room. "Hi," she asked. "I'm looking for Mr Michaels?"

The woman gave her the briefest of looks, before jerking her head towards a door in the corner. Kyra blushed. The woman obviously thought that she was a new stripper. How embarrassing. She walked quickly across the room, her heels clicking on the parquet floor. She was just about to knock when a girl came out. She looked about eighteen years old, big breasted and wearing a skirt that barely covered her ass. It looked like she'd been crying. She almost pushed past Kyra in her rush to get out.

Kyra walked inside, into a dingy hallway, but there was a door open into a small office with half-open Persian blinds throwing a shadow across the room. A black man was in there with his feet up on the desk. He was massive, with a shaven head and a face that looked battered out of shape. "Hi," she called. "I'm Kyra, I'm looking for Mr Michaels?"

His expression didn't change. "That's me."

"Mr Cohen sent me. He said that you might have some work for me."

"Cohen sent you?"

"Yes? Didn't he tell you?" she clicked forward, taking her resume out of her pink shoulder bag and holding it out to him.

He took it and put it down on the desk in front of him, looking at her through heavy-lidded eyes. "Cohen's never sent me no one before."

"Well I applied for a job in central office but he seemed to think. . ." she hesitated, standing awkwardly in front of him, wishing her skirt wasn't so short. "He seemed to think you might have something more suitable for me here. I've got a lot of management experience and. . ."

"Management experience?" he laughed with a low, almost silent rumble. "I don't think we need anybody with 'management experience'. I'm the manager and you ain't taking my job, baby."

"But what. . ." her face turned bright red as she suddenly realised why Cohen had sent her here.

"We do need strippers. We always need a new pair of tits but, honey, you's a little old."

"I'm not a stripper! He must have been having a joke. I mean what a bastard. Sending me here."

"But," he smiled a twisted smile. "If you thought you were coming here to be the boss why you wearing that top that shows your tits off so fine? And that little skirt you got on?"

"I'm not. . .I just thought that in a place like this. . .You can't exactly dress like somebody's mother in a strip club, can you?"

"No you can't," his shoulders shook and she realized he was laughing again. "But why do you wanna be manager anyway? The girls out there make five times as much money as I do. And work half the hours."

"How much. . .I mean just out of interest. . .How much do they get?

"The best girls make $1,000 a night. The worst, maybe $200."

She thought about her debts and the apartment that she was about to lose. He looked at her calmly as though he'd seen girls like her a hundred times before. "You've got a nice body," he said after a while. "Maybe you're not too old. Most of the girls here are, like, nineteen but," he shrugged, "takes all sorts."

"But I couldn't though," she was thinking aloud, playing with the hem of her skirt.

"Take off your clothes."

"No way."

"Strip, bitch." He said it with the same, cool emotionless tone. "You're here. We both know why you're here. Let me see what you got."

Hardly able to believe what she was doing Kyra took her jacket off and hung it over the chair in front of his desk. She glanced at him briefly then looked back at the floor before unbuttoning her top and taking it off. She was wearing a pink bra underneath that cupped her full breasts and scooped them upwards. It was a struggle to get her skirt off. It was tight and she had to wriggle out of it. When she was standing in front of him in just her bra and panties she looked up.

"And the rest."

She unclipped the bra, letting it fall to the floor, showing him her naked breasts.

He nodded thoughtfully.

"So, what do you think?" she laughed nervously, her hands over her chest.

"Get your hands away from your titties bitch and get them panties off."

She blushed bright red, pulled her panties down her thighs, bent over and stepped out of them. She stood there naked in front of him except for her expensive shoes, her hands hanging by her sides.

"Alright," he frowned at her pussy. She looked down. She had a neat blonde strip. "Turn round," he said. She turned round slowly, feeling the heat of his gaze on her naked round ass.

"OK baby," he said after several seconds, "now dance for me."

"What? I can't," she turned back, covering her breasts with one arm and her pussy with the palm of the other hand. "I can't just dance here in front of you at 11 in the morning with no music or anything."

In answer he pressed a button on his computer and a low throb of R&B came out of speakers on either side. "Dance for me bitch."

Slowly she began to move her hips from side to side, rubbing her hands over her naked body, feeling her nipples harden as she touched her breasts. He watched expressionless for several seconds before she noticed his shoulders start to shake again. He was laughing.

"What?" She stopped, trembling in humiliation in front of him.

"Damn, bitch," he said eventually. "You are the whitest white girl I have ever seen. Didn't no one ever teach you to shake your ass?"

She bent down to pick up her panties, holding them in her hand. "So. . .I'm. . .I'm not good enough for this place?"

"No baby, you're not. I could try and teach you but," he shrugged. "I don't think it's worth the effort."

She struggled to pull her panties back on. It was even more embarrassing to put them back on in front of him, as he laughed at her, than it had been to take them off.

"I guess you really need money don't you?"

She remembered just how badly she needed money. "I can't believe. . .I can't even get a job in a strip club."

She bent over to pick up her skirt but he stopped her, holding up a big, black hand. "Maybe you could work here. You'll never make it as a dancer but we have another vacancy. You won't even need to get completely naked."

"What do you mean?"

"We need a girl to serve drinks and food. It's illegal to have nude girls do it but I guess you'd be about right."

"So I'd be. . .fully clothed."

"Not quite," he laughed again. "But you'd get good tips. Not as much as the dancers. Nothing like as much. But better than any other waitressing job."

"Alright, but I need money fast."

He smiled a slow smile. "We can pay by Friday. We'll try you out on the late shift tomorrow. Be here at eleven for your briefing. Here," he leaned across the desk towards her with her file in his hand, "take your resume."

When she left for work the next day Kyra literally just had enough money to get her across town to the club. That was it. She hoped the black guy was right about the money she could make. At least he'd said that she wouldn't need to dance around naked. That was one humiliation she'd been spared. She blushed again to think of the way he'd made her strip and dance for him like a whore, before laughing in her face.

When she arrived at the club it was very different to the last time. The door was open, she could hear R&B music pumping out and there was another big, black guy guarding it. He was just as impassive as Michaels. He just lifted the purple rope and let her inside. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness but she could see the girls dancing in the spotlights straight away. There were three of them, winding their way around the poles, naked except for high heels. One was black, one looked Chinese or Korean and the other was small and blonde with little tits that she was fondling on either side of the pole as she slid up and down it.

Kyra hurried past to the back office. When she got there Michaels was on the phone. He saw her and, without stopping talking, walked over to a locker, opened it and gestured inside, before going back to sit down. She looked inside to see a pile of bikinis in different colours. She looked at him. This was her uniform. A bikini. She looked through them, looking for something in her size but they all seemed to be too small.

At last he got off the phone and stood up. "You need to get your bikini on and get out there girl. No time to hang around."

"This is what I'm wearing?" she held up one of the tiny red bikinis.

"If it fits, yes."

"It doesn't fit, none of them fits."

"Get out of my way," he pushed her firmly to one side and reached in, pulling out a pair of canary yellow panties and then the matching bra top. "Put that on. I want you out there in three minutes. Dressing room's upstairs."

She went upstairs, the bikini dangling from her hand. The dressing room was small but there was a mirror that ran down the whole length of one wall, making it look bigger, there were four sinks and a row of metal lockers. She slowly undressed, folded her clothes up, put them in one of the lockers and tried not to look at her own naked body in the mirror. The bra top wasn't as small as she'd feared but it was soft, filmy material. Her nipples were clearly visible through it and it only covered the lower half of her breasts, thrusting them upwards. The bikini briefs were tight against her pussy and the thin material clearly showed the outline of her lips but they didn't cover her ass properly. She practised walking backwards and forwards down the dressing room and noticed, looking over her shoulder, the way the material of the briefs slid backwards and forwards. She wondered whether this was even more humiliating than being completely naked. She was bending over to put her heels back on when two young girls came in. She straightened up quickly and they looked her up and down as everybody seemed to these days. They were both light-skinned black girls with perfect figures, round pert breasts, almost completely shaved pussies and long, slender legs. Even though they were naked they were so much more confident and assured than her that she felt that it was as though she was the one in the nude.

One of them opened her locker to pull out a white robe while the other carried on looking at Kyra. "You new? Why you wearing that dumb bikini?"

"I'm. . .I'm not a dancer. I'll be serving food."

"You're the new waitress?" They both laughed at her.

She quickly hurried back to Michaels office. He was still on the phone but he glanced at her impassively as she came in. She couldn't tell whether he was pleased or not. She waited in front of him for what seemed like several minutes as he spoke. When he put the phone down he still didn't speak to her, he just scribbled something on a pad by the phone.

"Erm, Mr Michaels," she said at last.

"Go and see Julie in the kitchen," he said, without looking up. "She'll tell you what to do."

Kyra's job was to take plates of fries, burgers and other snacks from the kitchen out to the clients. Her position in the club hierarchy was very clear. She was looked down on by everyone. The only people who seemed to like her were the clients, who obviously got some kind of kick out of staring at the one, almost, clothed woman in the club. They liked the way the bikini didn't cover her ass. They liked the fact that she was there to serve them, like some kind of medieval slave girl. It was true she was making better money than any waitressing job, the tips were as good as she'd been promised, but she wasn't sure how long she could keep this up. Then, barely 20 minutes before the end of her shift, she was carrying a tray of twelve cocktails when she stumbled. The whole tray went flying on to the floor in a spray of frothy liquid and broken glass.

When she told Michaels he just shrugged. "It ain't a problem for us baby."

"Oh," she said, relieved, "thanks."

"I mean it ain't a problem for us because anything you spill you pay for."

She thought for a second and turned pale. "There were twelve drinks there that means. . ."

"Twelve Double Blue Balls. They're 15 dollars each. That's 180 dollars you owe us. We'll deduct it from your pay."

"But that's more than I'm getting paid even with tips!"

He shrugged. "Teach you to be more careful."

For the rest of her shift she desperately tried to make as much money in tips as she could. She bent over in front of bachelor parties, letting her bikini bottoms ride up her ass and, each time, she'd get a few extra dollars. But it was no good. By the time she'd finished, after paying for the spillage, she didn't even have enough for her cab fare home. She was still 15 dollars short.

She knocked on Michaels door. "Come in," he grunted.

"Mr Michaels?" She went in and stood in front of his desk.

"Yes."

"I was wondering if you could advance me some of my pay from tomorrow. You see I need it to get home," she laughed nervously. "I don't have a dime. After I spilled those drinks. . ."

He shook his head. "No can do."

"But you don't understand I've got no other way to get back."

"You ain't sleeping here."

"I don't want to sleep here. I just want a cab."

"I'm sorry," he turned back to his computer screen as though there was nothing else he could do.

"Please."

He turned back to her. "How much do you need?"

"Just 15 dollars! That's all."

"Alright. I can't give you 15 dollars of the club's money, though. Your Mr Cohen would fire me next day if he found out. It'll have to be my money."

"You don't mind?"

"No I don't mind. He wheeled his office chair around the other side of the desk towards her, took out his wallet, put it on the table and opened his legs on either side of hers. "Get that bikini off, get on your knees and suck my dick."

"What?" She blushed bright red.

"If you want to get home tonight it looks like that's what you're gonna have to do."

She stood there for a moment looking at him.

"Here," he reached behind him and grabbed the cushion from his chair, tossing it in front of her. "You can kneel on that."

"Oh my God."

"You got five seconds to start sucking."

Her fingers shaking she undid her bikini top, letting it fall to the floor, showing him her naked breasts for the second time. Then she got on her knees on the cushion, wriggling out of her panties as she did so. She was kneeling in front of him, completely nude except for the same expensive high-heeled shoes she'd worn for her job interview the week before.

He unzipped himself but let her take his big cock out. It was already half-erect. She stroked it, feeling its surprising weight in her hands. Then she kissed it, making it quiver. He leaned back and put his muscular arms behind his head. She kissed it again and it jerked upwards. "Lick it, bitch," he ordered.

She lapped at it, pushing his dark skin up towards the bulge of his cockhead with the tip of her pink tongue, looking up at his half-closed eyes and scarred black face to see if she pleased him. He was soon fully erect and she slowly slid her wet mouth over him, sliding down his crooked length and then back up again. "Good girl," he said, she put her hands on his thighs and began pumping her head up and down on his big cock, feeling its heat between her lips, tasting him. She couldn't believe she was naked on her knees with a black man's cock filling her mouth. A man she didn't even know. She was so ashamed and yet her nipples had hardened and her pussy was wet.