mora

So, that was it. You were Payback's very own whorish, leotard suited girl, and there wasn't much to the image... not until Soldier Boy became the new thing, and all of a sudden, it wasn't patriotic to be a slut anymore. The right kind of woman pandered to her husband's needs, and yet the image you had to peddle was still one that was so overdone. So, then, a Playboy-mag housewife, was what they wanted you to be. They shot you up with a variant of V. They knew what it did this time - helpful, mind you. Regenerative abilities. Regenerative abilities and nothing else. No super-strength, no super-speed.

You never had much of a choice in the matter. Your business contract never touched your hands, in fact, passing from a Vought exec's palm to your daddy's, then to Ben's, then back again, until a thin, inked up piece of paper which suspended your body and free will into a contract. It was your fresh, drugged up body going to the highest bidder.

Vought, the high-paying brothel.

When you first met Ben, he was arrogant. Gave an all-time, State famous sleazy grin, clicking his tongue and nodding in this odd, enthused manner. He was, admittedly, loving of his own country, patriotic without a fault - at least they got that bit right. The gentlemanly part? Not so much. At least, though, he had the decency not to eye you up like some filthy freak and grope your ass up while you made him a stiff drink... but hey, that was just him, right? Just being appreciative, appraising the stock, right?

The whole bad-girl-gone-good notion amused him greatly; the very notion of you was an impartial one. This was a convenience at least, a creature comfort at most, for you to be no different to the fifteen female bodies, pertly busted and tight, hair done, the epitome of artificial femininity.

It started with the very first press event. A couples coming out, if you will, where amongst the mulch of filthy, common humans, sub-level supes and washed-up starlets, were the miners - journalists, they otherwise were, but miners; hacking away at your frivolous image and his sharper one until they struck gold.

If they wanted gold, though, they could have as much as they want. The lights were coruscant, abrasive to the naked, untrained eye, and there was so much to hear from all of them:

Over here, over here! Give us a smile!

Ben smiled at the cameras. Smiled his same, sleazy grin. Wrapped his arm around your waist, pawed at your hip, groped at your ass, and leaned down to press his lips to your ear.

"What, honey, y'don't wanna give them a spin?" he asked, his voice vague.

"Ben," a correction. "They've seen enough, c'mon, can we go in?"

A laugh, as if you've said something amusing, and he looks to all of the journalists, pimps and whores. "Then what the hell are y'getting paid for, girl?" he comments, shoving you away from him, grinning as if to say what a shy girl and turning you. "Yeahh, look at that! Don't they love it?"

Eventually, it was over. You got inside the building half by being kindly poked and prodded in your lower back, jabbing until you walked along, practically tripping over your feet. The inside crowd was considerably full-bodied, but less prying. No-one cared, not really. They didn't care

No-one cared when Ben cornered you on the stairs, right hand holding your face painfully tight, a glass of whiskey in his left, a louche expression plastered on his face.

"Y'know," he said, shaking his head like he really had something to think about, shaking your head too, emphasising. "I'm not sure why they got a dumb bitch like you in. What're you good for? What can you do?"

Nothing, you think. Jackshit... though, it was never about what you could do. It was about the image - that's all it was ever about, to Vought: a reasonably attractive woman who was willing enough to have her body used and sold, whether it was really her will or not. Shame, really, because it was tough to find someone like you with all of this new female liberation, and whatnot.

"I'm not-" you frown, cheeks still squished in his palm. You realise, in this moment, that he might kill you. Maybe he'll take you out back and knock your head clean off. Maybe he'll break your neck right here, and he could have as much fun as he want... your body would still be warm, right? And if you heal, it's not really that filthy, right? "I don't know."

"'Course y'don't. How could you?" He murmurs, chuckling lightly. His breath reeks of alcohol and the collar of his suit stinks of weed. "They don't pay you to be smart. If they were, they wouldn't be paying you much, would they?"

You shake your head of your own volition, now. His offensive grip makes you a little slackjawed, and the gum you'd been chewing earlier has slid to the back of your tongue. This whole thing, though expected, is so fucking infuriating that there's a little stubborn part of your head that wants to scream at him, and cry, and whine, and bitch.

Then, as if he can read your mind. "Don't go runnin' that whore mouth, hm? We're all friends here."

Ben lets your face go with a tight, slightly threatening smile still plastered on his, and takes a sip of his drink, before shooing you off with his hand. "Go have fun. Play, or whatever the fuck you do."

You do go have fun. Playing, by his offensive description, as if what you did was any less than what he did... which was quite true, really, the only difference being that he mattered. There was one of him, and four hundred of you, the other four hundred and ninety nine on a beach boardwalk, or L.A, or still in college, young and arguably more attractive. Fresher, dumber, more innocent. Real innocence, is what that exec had said they were looking for.

Daddy had looked at you, nodded. "She's real innocent." So, you went and played. Ordered one of those pink, fruit flavoured drinks from the bar, the one with gin and a cherry with a coquettish French name, and leaned against the wall in the corner of the room, looking out of the window, the maraschino cherrystem between your teeth.

The so called innocence that they had you selling off the stick was bullshit.

"Welcome to the cathouse," the exec had said on your first day in. He'd said it again, considerably more excited after your contract with Ben had been signed.

You knew it was over the day you were eased into the brand-new, barely used boardroom by a brunette woman in a pencil skirt. Tek Night sat there. Waited. Gave you one of those soothing smiles. He had wagged his finger at you. "You're very nervous for someone with one of the best jobs in the world."

One of the best jobs in the world, then, was being a whore: gagging on Tek Nights cock after he tutted at you, sat you down, and began to explain your contract to you in a tone - the kind you use for kids who don't understand things. He had dragged you off him by your hair - the ends. You'd left the room with tears in your eyes and a bootprint on your face.

There is something very humiliating about this job. What wouldn't be? The media fame, you now think, looking out of the window onto the rest of the city - small, dumb, Payback worshipping city - sipping your disgusting, strawberry flavoured drink.

When you got back to the compound, it was silent. There was less of a fuss made over you, Ben, and the others, unlike the way it had been before, and you felt that at least now, you didn't have to perform for them, too.

You made yourself another drink. It was strong, and sure, they say don't mix your spirits, but you were exhausted, hardly sloshed, with a jaw-ache and an ego you felt you had to nurse, because like it or not, you'd been fucking humiliated. Paraded around in a stupid pink exiguous outfit, your tits spilling out, Ben twirling you around in some offensive manner, laughing. You'd been humiliated when, in front of half of the worth-something supes, he'd grabbed at your face and nodded your head for you, shook it.

"Feelin' generous?" Ben asks, sauntering into the kitchen, leaning against the island with his hip. He reeks, now, even more of marijuana, and it makes you wrinkle your nose delicately.

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head for yourself, this time. "Am I ever?"

Ben tuts. "From what I've heard, yeah, sweetheart. You're pretty fuckin' generous."

Your face burns with shame. Shame, and something else, because it's him saying it, and he matters... for what are you if not the fame-hungry whore you were signed over to be?

"Yeah." you mumble, sliding over another glass filled with dark liquor.

"How so? I mean, all the others say you're just a doll, but I'm not so sure." he clicks his tongue, frowning at you in that small, condescending way. "Y'don't seem to like me much."

You bite back a curse, swirling your drink. It smells rich, clogging up your senses - you weren't even a drinker before all of this, but now you feel it's the only way you can really get away from this. That contract reminded you vaguely of when an intruder sticks his flag on native land, land that isn't his, and the natives are chased out violently.

"You're not particularly nice."

Ben can see all of your discomfort. It grates on his nerves, but he seemingly remains sanguine, sipping the drink you'd slid over to him. "Not nice? Honey, I've been nothin' but nice." He answers, his body slightly stiff.

He's gone from falsely friendly to not friendly at all, and you're wondering if you should have even spoken to him; maybe it'd have been better if you'd have just passed over the glass of liquor and left the kitchen. Maybe smiled at him.

You're far too comfortable with underperformance, clearly, dumb thing.

"You're right, sorry. Very welcoming." You mutter, ducking your head vaguely.

Ben laughs, the sound slightly coarse, his manner uncomfortably unctuous, and he leans back against the island, putting his drink down on the counter. "Sweetheart, welcoming doesn't even cover it," he says, smiling wanly. "What, y'ain't grateful to me? Think you're some big shot here, is that it?"

"No!" you protest.

He clicks his tongue at your hasty response, nodding, considering your words. Ben cocks his head to the side like an eager, curious German Shephard. "How grateful are you, then?"

"Grateful enough."

"Must be real fuckin' glad to do this job, then, doin' your duty to this country and all." Ben says, smiling, sickening smarm plastered all over his face. He's closer to you than you thought he was, and you look down at the floor.

"Yeah." You agree, nodding vaguely.

"Not doin' a great job of showing it." he comments. "C'mon, sweetheart, can't you be a little patriotic for once?"