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— And now, give it up for! — the host’s loud voice boomed, cutting through the hum of music and chatter in the smoke-filled air, drenched with sweat and whiskey. — The star of our club, the incredible, the stunning… Candy!
Goddamn it. Here we go again.
I took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage, feeling the spotlights burn into my skin. In that moment, I wanted to disappear, to vanish, to become something invisible—anything but this body, anything but this fucking woman I had become six months ago.
The music blasted, and I forced myself to move. My hips swayed to the rhythm, my tits subtly bouncing with each step. High heels—ones I had learned to walk in effortlessly by now—clacked against the stage in time with the beat. Everyone was watching me—men gripping their glasses, greasy smirks, hungry stares. Someone shouted something dirty, and my jaw clenched involuntarily. But I knew I had to keep going. Mike was watching.
He was always watching.
I slid along the pole, arching just enough to make my breasts look fuller, my hips wider. It was humiliating. It was fucking awful. But I had no choice. Mike sat in his favorite chair by the stage, wearing that same smile that made my skin crawl. A smile that said, I know what you’re going to do after this dance.
Did I know? Of course I fucking knew. The mere thought of his fingers gripping my hair while my mouth wrapped around his cock made me want to vomit! Jesus, what a goddamn nightmare! Almost every day now, I sucked off the man I hated, the man I once wanted to escape from when I was still myself—when I was a guy named Carl. Mike’s right-hand man. His most loyal, trusted person. The one who handled his money, his guns, his secrets. The one who had seen that insane grin not just in moments of pleasure, but in moments when he decided who wouldn’t be waking up tomorrow.
That was me.
But I was fucking done with it, and I had decided to end this shit once and for all.
Carl died the night I took Jacob’s money and headed to the body dealer. In the pocket of my jacket—still hanging on my then-male frame—were carefully counted stacks of cash. The price of a new life. It didn’t matter who you were, what you were, or what was inside you. The body dealer worked by simple rules: cash upfront, limited choices, no refunds, no way back. Just a pile of cash for a one-way ticket. My only chance to escape. The only way out.
— You’ve got three options, — the old bastard had said back then, licking his dry lips and snapping his fingers.
The options, let me tell you, were fucking garbage. The first—some decrepit old man in his seventies, cloudy eyes, shaking hands. The second—a woman in her forties, stuck in a wheelchair. And the third... the third was her. Candy.
I recognized her immediately. She worked for Mike and owed him a shitload of money, but it looked like she had already been chosen for one of these underground body swaps, and she didn’t have much time left. Everyone on those lists was there for a reason—I knew that for damn sure. Candy, you unlucky bitch… This was a choice with no real choice. The rest of the options were even worse.
— Come on, sweetheart, get over here! — a voice boomed from the crowd.
Instinctively but gracefully, I turned in his direction, feeling my long hair slide over my bare back, sticking to my sweaty skin. Disgusting. But the worst part? I already knew what to do.
A smile—lazy, teasing, the kind that, if someone had asked me to make back in the day, I would’ve punched them in the face. Or just killed them. A slow sway of my hips, a step down from the podium—the music got louder, and the crowd erupted in approval.
I leaned in toward the guy who had called me over. Baggy T-shirt, gold chain, greasy face. I’d seen dozens like him. Their eyes always held the same thing—greed, lust, that smug sense of power. I knew what he wanted. I knew what I had to do.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, I lowered myself in front of him, my hands sliding over his knees, along his thigh—never touching, just teasing. His eyes lit up. Somewhere in the crowd, someone whistled. Someone shouted something.
Cash.
I needed fucking cash.
I needed the fucking money.
Candy… Fuck, now I was the one who owed that bastard Mike—who was watching me right now with that sly squint, a cigar between his teeth—a shitload of cash. And to be specific, seventy-two thousand dollars.
For what? Oh, that list could be carved into my own humiliated ass. Candy owed him for her silicone tits, for the “kindly” provided apartment in his complex, for the drugs she once got at a special friend discount, for the clothes she was supposed to wear to “sell herself better,” and, of course, for his patience. The patience with which he hadn’t yet handed her over to the guys she had pissed off.
Now that debt was mine.
— Baby, you’re on fire, — the greasy prick rasped as I leaned over him. His fingers were already sliding up my thigh, catching on my garter.
I swallowed back the urge to gag.
The music pounded, the lights burned, the crowd watched. My hands glided up his chest—hesitant, like I was just a playful tease, still deciding if I wanted to give in. His fat fingers loosened, and I felt the thin paper slip into my panties.
Money. Yes. Give me that shit, now.
The bills snagged on the lace, smeared against my damp skin. A twenty. Then a fifty. Pennies, a pathetic drop in this fucking debt.
My tits pressed against him, and I could feel them—the very tits I now owed for—squishing between our bodies, soaking in his heat, his stickiness. Fuck, this was some kind of farce.
…
"What a fucking show," Mike thought to himself, lazily adjusting his cock, already stiff under his pants as Candy—his Candy—licked the stage clean with her humiliation. He took a slow drag from his cigar, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke as he squinted at her.
Carl. Former Carl.
He had known from the very beginning.
Of course he had.
He had orchestrated the whole damn thing, knowing full well what Carl would choose when he conveniently fed Candy to his underground associate, the body swapper. He knew there was no other way out. That in Carl’s proud yet desperate mind, he would take this over a decrepit old man or a cripple. The perfect fucking trap.
Mike wasn’t just watching. He was savoring it.
He loved how “Candy” so diligently licked his cock, because in her eyes, he saw something that set her apart from every other girl who passed through his hands. It wasn’t just fear. It wasn’t just submission. No. In that gaze, there was shame. There was hatred. There was the crushing realization of her own downfall. The futility of resistance.
Carl.
Mike knew. He had known from the moment that dumb fuck went to the body dealer. Oh, how he had laughed that night when he found out exactly who his former best friend had chosen! Wasn’t it poetic? Wasn’t it the ultimate fucking satisfaction to watch Carl trap himself in this body?
Now he—she was shaking her ass in front of club regulars, making degrading deals for a handful of bills, flashing sultry smiles at the same pathetic scumbags he used to look down on.
Now he—she was paying back that debt with her body, her tits, her lips.
That’s what happens when you fuck with Mike.