REVERSAL OF FORTUNE
by
C. Lakewood
The smartly dressed young woman strode nonchalantly through
the outer office and into Dean Malcolm Heywood's inner sanctum
without a by-your-leave or even a perceptible hesitation. As she
passed, the dean's secretary, looked up, startled, and opened her
mouth to object, then closed it again and shrugged. Dr. Barbara
Lang was slated to take over as dean in a few days, and there was
no point in making waves.
Relishing her impending triumph -- another big step up the
career ladder -- the dean-designate gazed about the spacious,
mahogany-paneled room, so redolent of savoir faire. But she was
not totally happy with what she saw. Drawing herself up to her
full height (5'9" in heels), she addressed the dean in a phoney,
saccharine tone.
"Afternoon, Mal. You haven't even STARTED packing up yet?
It won't take me long to get completely up to speed, but I WOULD
like to settle in ASAP...and, since your official duties don't
amount to much anymore...."
"Mmmm...I understand that, but I have, in fact, managed to
keep fairly busy. Research...." He paused. "I really hadn't
planned on retiring so soon, but perhaps I am too old to function
well in these times. I don't think, for example, that civilized
adults should address their superiors familiarly unless invited
to do so -- or, indeed, barge into private offices unannounced
and without even knocking.... But I am pleased that you did
drop by." He picked up a manila folder from his desk. "I was
looking over your official résumé. Exemplary. National Honor
Society and high school diploma at age 16, Phi Beta Kappa at
18 -- and those degrees: Bryn Mawr B.A. (Magna Cum Laude) at
19, Chicago M.A. at 20, Harvard Ph.D. at 22 -- an assistant
professorship at Stanford, and then leaving there to come here....
Yes, except for that curious final item, it's a résumé of which
its owner can certainly be proud. He slid the folder across to
his visitor. "Of course, YOU aren't the real owner, are you,
'Barbara'?"
Stupefied, she blanched and began stammering.
He held up his hand. "Please don't try to deny it. I have
photographs and fingerprints -- all of which will hold up in
court very nicely. And, we can get DNA evidence if there's still
even a scintilla of doubt (which there won't be). It's obvious
that you're guilty of identity theft...and possibly murder."
"Not MURDER! It was an accident, I swear. On vacation...an
allergic reaction...anaphylactic shock. I didn't kill her...just
switched purses.... It was...."
Heywood made a dismissive gesture. "I'm not concerned with
the details, though I'm sure the police will be."
B-but, I didn't hurt her...just seized my chance. I'd been a
very good student, with pretty good prospects, but she was truly
extraordinary. Her future was bright...and assured...."
He shook his head. "It doesn't matter."
Everything having collapsed, she gathered herself to make
a run for it, but he spoke up, saying, "And don't think about
attempting to flee -- your purse is no longer in your desk,
and your car is no longer in the parking lot."
"Please! I-I...."
He leaned back and steepled his fingers. "But I must also
think of the college's reputation. We might avoid a scandal...IF
you agree to be treated like the arrogant and treacherous tramp
you really are -- instead of the responsible academic you have
been masquerading as. Of course, you'll also have to give up your
stolen identity...AND your 'ill-gotten gains,' as it were."
"But she was buried as me."
"You will, naturally, need yet another identity. That can be
arranged. And I won't inform the police or any of the references
in this supposititious résumé. In return, you will resign at once,
and I'll place you in the custody of...well, let's call her a
'tutor.'"
"Tutor?"
"She's an intelligent, no-nonsense young lady. She will
provide you a place to stay for a while. If you mind your
manners and improve your behavior, it won't be long -- only
until we can tidy up your affairs -- likely not much more
than a month. When business is concluded (and she's satisfied
that you are at least minimally repentant), she'll give you new
ID, some money, and a job referral. Then you'll be free to go
your own way...anywhere but here. So, which path do you prefer?"
His hand moved toward the phone on his desk.
"I-I'll...submit."
He nodded. "Very well. I've taken the liberty of drawing up
your resignation...for unspecified 'personal reasons.' Just sign
there.... Yes. And now this power of attorney, so that your
assets can be liquidated properly...."
"Power of attorney? Oh, I'd have to think about that."
He shrugged and reached for the phone. "Of course. You can
think about it from your jail cell."
"No! Wait! There...I signed it."
He made a brief, cryptic phone call and then drove her across
town to a seedy, deserted playground. After a few minutes, a
yellow van arrived and parked nearby. A dark woman in sweatshirt
and jeans got out; she carried a ratty shopping bag.
"That's your 'tutor,'" Heywood said. Her name's Rosie Toler;
she's part Latina, part black, and part who-knows-what. She's an
experienced fighter with a short fuse. I'd mind her, if I were
you, Barbie. Oh yes, your new name is 'Barbie Goldberg.'
She looked stunned. "A Jewish name?"
"Yes. Now, out." ("What a package," he thought. "Thief,
imposter, bigot...and, I suspect, a coquette, as well.")
The two women approached each other and stopped face to face.
"Barbie" said something, and Rosie immediately slapped her.
Heywood nodded and watched the two head off toward the
restrooms. Rosie was a couple of inches shorter than Barbie --
and apparently much lighter -- but he knew she could handle
herself against far more formidable opponents.
He sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking pleasant thoughts.
At length, Rosie reappeared. Her bag seemed somewhat heavier,
now. A moment later, he saw Barbie -- sheer pink tube top, black
polyester micro-skirt, and cheap flip-flops -- the very picture of
"trailer park trash." It was obvious she was braless, and, from
the way she was walking, probably pantyless, as well.
Satisfied, he started his car and drove off, without a
backward glance.
******************************
Rosie easily impressed upon Barbie (with the aid of a strap)
that she should accept her reversal of fortune. There wasn't any
way to escape -- she no longer possessed money, checkbook, credit
cards, ID, phone, or car. And she had no clothes, other than
those provided for her: everything cheap and trashy, most of it
much more appropriate for someone years younger and several social
strata lower. Not that the appearance of her clothes was of much
immediate concern. Barbie spent virtually all her time naked.
She also spent hours every day working out -- aerobics,
treadmill, stationary bike -- and toiling at a long list of
recurring household chores, all of which she was expected to
do under STRICT supervision.
******************************
So, for a while, she did hard labor. She went to sleep each
night exhausted and woke up...extremely horny, for some reason.
But, being intelligent and adaptable, she quickly learned to
submit without seeming too resentful.
It was, of course, an act. She was seething inside.
("Damn mongrel bitch! I don't deserve this! I was only
trying to better myself. Nothing wrong with that. Prissy Barbara
Lang had always had it too easy, and then she just died. Not my
fault. But it was time that I got a taste. Who could truly blame
me? I'm not really a bad person, just tired of seeing others get
all the breaks. That goddamn bastard Heywood.... What right did
he have to stick his long nose into my business? And this...this
squinty-eyed, slave-driving bitch...probably a goddamn dyke....")
Later on, Barbie was taught how to prance and shimmy and bump
and grind....
After 44 days of this regimen, she was declared "free" and
allowed to dress. She was sent on her way, with a new ID card,
a dollar bill, the address of a strip club said to be expecting
her, and a small canvas bag with some clothes and toiletries.
She didn't look back.
******************************
It was named "The Rat Hole." She felt defiled just by walking
into the place, but she knew she had little choice. She'd been
warned and didn't dare subject her fake ID to much more than casual
scrutiny. She knew a place like "The Rat Hole" wouldn't be nearly
as picky as even the average fast food joint, and, without a résumé
or references, those were her only chances for employment. In
fact, without better ID, she couldn't even get welfare. Besides,
here she had a "referral" (whatever THAT might realistically mean).
So, at length, she found herself standing slightly pigeon-toed in
front of the desk of one Otto Triandos, manager of the club, and
feeling rather like an errant schoolgirl sent to the principal.
The office was suitably grim. Under foot was a threadbare
rug over faded lineoleum. The drab walls were plastered with
old posters, magazine centerfolds, and photos of dancers and
pornstars. The atmosphere reeked of cigar smoke, cheap liquor,
garlic, and B.O.
The big man behind the desk was all jowls and boredom.
He looked a lot like Broderick Crawford.
"Whatcha want?" he growled, barely giving her a glance.
He went back to idly flipping through a dog-eared issue of
"Hustler."
"Mr. Triandos, s-sir...I was told you might h-hire me...."
It took some effort to suppress the quaver in her voice. "My
name's...Barbie G-goldberg."
"So what?"
"So...so I need a job...sir."
He looked at her more closely now. Despite her clothes,
there was a certain...something...about her. (The first
term that had occurred to him was "prude," and that was true,
but it was more than that. She stood too straight, her accent
was too highbrow, her expression was too disapproving.... If
his active vocabulary had been larger, he might have termed
her "prim," "vain," "self-absorbed," and "disdainful." Yet,
he did have her character pegged, even if he didn't have all
the right words to describe it. He also recognized that, over
all, she had an air of desperation. It was an interesting
combination.... And all of it could be of value.)
"Yeah, maybe.... We can allus use new girls.... You're not
bad lookin'...tits okay, legs good.... But you jus' don' seem
like the type, honey."
She felt herself getting red.
"No! I-I COULD be.... I c-could be...um...anything you
wanted me to be. I do really need a job, Mr. Triandos.
Please."
He shrugged and passed her a pen and an application form.
"Maybe. Sit. Fill this out." He returned to his magazine.
Filling out the form was quick enough. Name, sex, age
(31), SSN (from the bogus ID), hair (auburn), eyes (hazel),
vitals (5'6" 138lbs 35C-26-36), marital status (divorced,
à la her cover story), no illnesses, no allergies, no criminal
record, education (out-of-state high school, nothing beyond),
no address, no phone, no job history. Her degrees, honors,
experience, and accomplishments had been buried with Barbara
Lang.
Triandos looked it over and sniffed. "Pretty thin. You
runnin' from the cops? Some kinds of trouble don' matter;
some do."
"N-no, sir, I swear!" She hoped her prepared story would
sound plausible enough. "I've been a h-housewife since high
school, b-but I'm divorced now and broke, with nowhere to turn...."
"Maybe. There's some questions I need to ask that ain't on
the application. Had sex with men, right?"
"Yes."
He squinted at her, and there was an awkward pause that
stretched out longer and longer until it finally dawned on
her what he was waiting for.
"Um...yes, sir."
He nodded. "With women?"
"No, sir."
"Animals?"
"N-no, sir!"
"Oral?"
"Yes, sir.... But not often."
("Twice," she thought. "And that was TOO often. Of course,
both times there was something I wanted out of it...and I got
it. Oh, god! And now I want this job...desperately.")
"Anal?"
"No, sir." ("Asshole!")
He looked thoughtful. "You say you could be ANYTHING we
want you to be, yeah?"
"Yes, sir. I'd work real hard, Mr. Triandos. I...."
"Stand up. Show me whatcha got."
She stood up.
("When that Rosie bitch told me the name of this place, I
was afraid of what might happen, and then, when I first saw it,
I just KNEW it would come to this. From Dean-Designate to strip
club slut.... God! That pig is so loathesome! I ought to spit
in his ugly face...but I'm out of options. I just CAN'T become
a bag lady or a street hooker. The 'Rat Hole' might not be much,
but it's better than that.")
She took off her clothes, mechanically. It didn't take long.
She kicked off her flip-flops, slithered out of the tube top and
dropped her miniskirt -- and was naked.
"Hmmmm. Nice nips. And it's good you're shaved. Lotsa guys
like that."
("Shit! That fucking Rosie Toler MADE me shave. My nipples
are so goddamn stiff! What's the matter with me? I've actually
got to beg this cretin for a chance to-to...strut my stuff for
strangers.")
"Please, sir.... Just give me a chance to show you, Mr.
Triandos."
"O-kay, you got a audition. If the payin' customers like
you, you got a job. You'd be a part-time trainee; 37 hours a
week. We'd pay you less than minimum -- but you'd get to keep
half of what you make doin' lap dances, hustlin' drinks, and
turnin' tricks.... You'd live upstairs."
He pushed himself back from the desk.
"Before you go out there, though, I gotta try you out...test
your 'work ethic,' honey." He chuckled. "So get down here and
suck me off. Do what's called a 'bad girl blow job'...lotsa spit
and enthusism. Slurp it up. Moan. Make me believe you jus' LOVE
doin' it. Make it last for a while. And, when I cum, you swallow
it all, understand?"
She understood.
She knelt in front of him, unzipped his pants, and nervously
extracted his half-hard prick. It smelled awful...musty and
over-ripe...but it didn't taste TOO bad. She followed his
instructions, slurping and moaning in what she hoped was a
good enough imitation of passion. When it was over, when she
had swallowed the last vile gulp of his cum, she sat back on
her heels, feeling completely debased.
"You ain't through yet, babe. You gotta lick it clean, kiss
it like you love it, and put it back. And do it gentle...."
She'd been wrong before. She was just beginning to learn to
depths of debasement.
Triandos pressed a button on his intercom. "Get Miranda in
here."
A moment later, the door opened and "Miranda" entered. She
might have been Rosie Toler's bigger, meaner, and less refined
sister. She looked like the same indeterminate racial mix and
had the same café-au-lait skin...virtually all of which was on
display, since she was naked, except for a red garter around
her right thigh.
She was scowling, but not at Triandos.
"Miranda, this here's...uh...'Barbie Goldberg.' She goes on
next. Get her squared away." He fetched a red garter from his
desk drawer and tossed it to Barbie. "That's your costume."
And so, his "Human Relations" duties having been taken care
of for the moment, he went back to his magazine.
(Naked? I have to dance totally NAKED?)
Miranda was saying something snarly, but Barbie couldn't make
much sense out of it. Her mind was spinning and her body starting
to sweat as Miranda propelled her along the corridor. "Put your
garter on, bitch," the big dancer ordered. (She did understand
THAT.)
"No, yours goes on the LEFT leg."
Just before they reached the curtains stage right, they passed
another nude girl, her hair in pig-tails, heading in the opposite
direction. There was a moment of silence. Then the PA crackled,
"And now, please welcome our newest. Bar-bie Gold-berg!"
Barbie barely had time to recognize the tune that started up
-- "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" -- when she was thrust roughly
out onto the small stage.
There weren't many customers in the place that early in the
day, but what there were, she despised. Swarthy lower class
types, barely above the homeless -- very "ethnic," with cheap,
sweat-stained clothing, facial stubble, bad teeth, and coarse
voices.... The emotional combination -- her loathing of her
audience, her embarrassment at being on stage naked, and her
fear of screwing up and losing even this crappy job -- had her
practically paralyzed.
She took a couple of tentative steps toward the brass pole
up front, then froze. She was supposed to know some moves, ones
Rosie had taught her, but her mind had blanked, and her body was
zombified.
The customers were pleased at first at the sight of fresh meat,
but their patience ran out quickly, and they were becoming restive
(abusive would be next) at Barbie's inaction, when Miranda suddenly
swept onto the stage with a formidable switch in her hand -- and
began using it on Barbie's butt. The audience, usually rather
blasé at this hour, responded with genuine enthusiasm, real
applause -- and, by the end, more than a few dollar bills. Miranda
pranced Barbie around the stage for twenty minutes, winding up
by forcing her to hump the brass pole until she orgasmed...twice.
And a new act was born that day on stage at The Rat Hole -- one
that would be repeated often, by popular demand.
(And they shared the cheers and applause, though Miranda kept
all the money.)
Afterward, even Triandos looked as pleased as he was capable
of. "O-kay. You two done pretty good. Guess you're a team...so
you can be room-mates, too."
(He'd be looking in on them later -- through the CCTV in their
room -- and, knowing Miranda, didn't expect he'd be disappointed.)
"Miranda, you fill her in on her other duties, and make sure
you keep her in line, now. Okay, scat!"
Barbie spent the rest of the day primarily hustling drinks and
performing as an apprentice lap dancer, with occasional turns on
the stage (during which she got her ass and thighs thoroughly
switched again). In addition, she turned two tricks....
In the small hours of the morning, when she was finally allowed
to drag her weary carcass off to bed, she quickly learned that
she'd be sleeping that night (and for the foreseeable future) with
her face between Miranda's thighs. Triandos had asked several
questions earlier regarding her sexual experience. Viewing the
tape, he made a mental that one of her answers was no longer true.
For starters.
******************************
Four months passed. It was mid-autumn, and the year was dying.
Barbie was firmly in the grip of an apathetic inertia. She hated
what she was doing, feared her bosses, and loathed her clientele.
But she couldn't see a way out. So far, she'd managed to hide only
$57 from her greedy co-workers, and she'd need a lot more getaway
money than that. Clothes, transportation, reliable ID, basic
living expenses, a cash reserve -- all that would add up.... But
she was finding it easier anymore to just be a "Rat Hole" girl...to
wake up with the pungent taste of cunt in her mouth and go to bed
with the lingering, musty taste of prick...and, in between, to
prance and coo and hustle drinks and turn tricks.... Oh, god! It
was better than the alternatives, better than prison or the
streets, she told herself. She could still dream, though, and
she dreamed of someday, somehow crashing out. Those dreams,
however, were now beginning to get a bit shop-worn, and sometimes
she had difficulty convincing even herself that she'd ever get
back to anything like the good life she'd once had.
And then, an implausible white knight appeared. He was a
short, plump, middle-aged, Buddha-esque Oriental, inscrutable,
but with a polite, almost deferential manner. He introduced
himself as "Mr. Soong," and seemed content to pay lap dance
prices just for conversation with her.
Barbie was captivated by the man. Finally, someone civilized
in that dump...mannerly and perceptive enough to appreciate her
for her mind. (He also seemed to be quite well-to-do...maybe even
rich. He owned some sort of import-export business.)
She began to perk up, to increasingly resemble her old self --
that is, the woman she'd been as Barbara Lang -- cool, crisp,
confident, articulate....
They talked about everything -- literature, history, current
events, political theory, taste and manners, music, theatre,
architecture -- though, in fact, she did most of the talking
while he listened, spell-bound. (Seemingly, at least. Though
he wasn't married, Mr. Soong had the ability that most husbands
eventually develop of appearing to be absorbed in listening to
a woman babble, while actually thinking of other, more pleasant
and/or more important things.)
She was devastated when, after barely a week, he told her that
his business there was concluding and that he'd be heading home
to the Far East. But then he invited her to come with him. He
scoffed at her lack of a passport. Laying a finger beside his
nose, he reminded her that he was experienced in importing and
exporting -- and in circumventing officialdom. And he promised
to give her a life filled with everything that she truly deserved.
Yet another reversal of fortune! This time, light at the end
of a long, dark tunnel.
She accepted, of course.
******************************
"Well, whadaya think, Mr. Soong?" Otto Triandos asked, already
sure of the answer.
"You have surpassed yourself this time, Otto. The woman is
quite amazing.... So pretentious, so delusional. A self-absorbed,
would-be bluestocking...and so supercilious a snob that I sometimes
fear her eyebrows will disappear into her hairline."
Triandos, sensing that this last was some sort of joke,
chuckled. "Well, she's adaptable."
Mr. Soong inclined his head. "Not TOO adaptable, I hope. She
is perfect as she is. I expect we can curb her adaptability to
a sufficient extent to preserve her marketability." He made a
dismissive gesture. "It should not be an insurmountable problem."
Otto blinked. Mr. Soong was a good guy, but talking with him
for any length of time tended to give you a headache. More out of
courtesy than real curiosity, he asked, "So...where'll you send
her? Manila? Bangkok?"
"Hong Kong first, for 'processing.' From there...." Mr. Soong
shrugged. He handed Triandos a thick envelope. "I have included
a substantial bonus, Otto. Well done."
They shook hands. Mr. Soong then resumed his mask of
inscrutability and left to collect his latest export.
Otto yawned and opened a magazine.