Bombshell #1: My Descent into the Seedy Adult Underworld [FM] [nonfiction]

“I’m going to chew you up, spit you out, and then… the industry is going to swallow you whole,” Daddy spat at me, his cock lodged deeply in my ass, jackhammering away like I was some disembodied hole, making the speech that much stranger. His cock wasn’t impressive, but he made up for it with anger and a diet whose main food group seemed to be Viagra. He knew how to use what he had to make it hurt, at least.

I was 18. Slim and leggy at 5’8”, with just enough curves to catch the eye. And I was pretty. I *am* pretty. But this wasn’t me, and this wasn’t where I planned to be. How the hell did I end up here? And what was he talking about?

We have to step back a little here. Like a lot of 18-year-olds, I was ready to take my first steps into what was going to be my own world. I was sick of the No Man’s Land that fills the time between turning 18 and graduating high school. A part of me sensed that I’d be trapped there forever if I followed my parents’ plans for me. They had a college in mind, and they were ready to pay for it. But, to me, that meant staying in their world, instead of making my own.

Not happening. I’d be moving out into *my* world. I elected to go to school in another state, so they cut me off. My car was about to get repossessed, and there was no way I was going to afford those psychology textbooks. I was out of their world, but I was drowning, and I had to grab onto something. That something? It slipped right under my door.

PAID! CASH! NIGHTLY!

The flier was garishly pink, fluorescent really. It was obviously a strip club, and right then it felt like a sign. (The club was eventually sued for this innovative hiring campaign.) I wasn’t a dancer, or even an athlete, but it felt like just the right time. I might have been pale and introverted, but I knew I was hot.

I came to audition at eight in the morning, on a weekday. The club was empty at that hour, besides the manager and the owner. I’d never been to a strip club, let alone used a pole. But I went on stage as directed and… danced, awkwardly and robotically. I had no idea what I was doing, and close to no idea where I was. This wasn’t my world. And clearly, I was terrible at whatever this was.

Naturally, I was hired on the spot. “You can’t dance,” the manager observed, “But I can make a lot of money off that ass.”

He wasn’t wrong. Disgusting as it is to admit, he was right about a lot of things. And I didn’t even realize until much later.

My first night came soon enough. In a packed club, I strutted onstage to the rhythm of Waka Flocka Flame. The club lights seemed to play off of my tan in a whole new way, and standing there in just a lime green string bikini (I lost the top a little into my set) and clear heels, you couldn’t exactly miss it. I knew I was being watched by everybody in the club, which ramped up my tension and made me feel awkward in every limb. All that only made my dancing worse and more robotic. It was an objectively terrible performance. Maybe this wasn’t going to be my way out of the financial hole.

I walked offstage, my perky butt barely covered by the green bottoms, and I saw the manager. Isn’t that exactly what you’re hoping for after a terrible first day of work?

“I’ll pay for your car,” he said. To say that was a surprise would be an understatement. What the hell was happening? He’d hired me for a job I wasn’t qualified for, and when I proved just how poor a pick I was, he… offered to pay off my car?! But I can’t say it was a lot to process. My car was about to get repossessed, and here someone was offering to fix the problem, all at once?

I auditioned because I didn’t have any options. I’d be an idiot to turn *this* down. That was the hook. He pulled on it right away.

Pretty soon I had my mouth on his cock, as demanded, too awkward a situation for me to really say otherwise. It was disgusting, and smelled awful, but I sucked on it through the tears. “He’s paying off your car,” part of me seemed to say, as if trying to quiet the feeling of wrong that flooded my mind. But I kept on sucking, for a car. And it seemed pretty satisfactory.

I hated it all, the dirty cock, the expectations, the two years of hell. But the most tragic thing is that I allowed it all to happen.

I was his, now. No, I was *Daddy’s*. And I wasn’t going to be me anymore. Within the next few weeks, I’d get sucked all the more into his world. I might have been his punching bag, but that meant the other girls didn’t mess with me. And I had new stuff all the time, from clothes to makeup to tanning and waxing, a pretty big change from facing repo. But that wasn’t the only change.

I was leggy enough to be a canvas for what he wanted. *The Bombshell*, the all-American blonde bimbo. A whole new brand, strong enough for the club to build its whole marketing around. And that’s who I’d be, off the stage as well.

By fall, I was hoping to make things right with my family. I was going to fly up for Thanksgiving, which he signed off on. I planned let them know that I was doing well, that I found my footing, and that I was working hard at school. (I had just dropped out.) But the morning of my flight, “Daddy” arrived, begging me not to go, and offering to pay me to skip the trip and “hang out with him,” so I did.

While my family was sitting down for Thanksgiving dinner, sharing turkey and sides, I was getting slapped around my dorm room by a smelly 45-year-old man. He liked my ass, he’d noticed it from the beginning after all. And I can’t think of that night without remembering his mediocre cock machine-fucking my ass. At one point he smacked me so hard that a fake eyelash flew off and stuck to the wall. I’m sure he liked that, the way he was basically breaking the decorations he had me adorned in, the way “the ass” he made so much money off of was so roughly and roundly claimed by his cock. (At times, he would try to cover up the smell of it with peppermint. You can imagine what that was like.)

“I’m going to chew you up, spit you out, and then… the industry is going to swallow you whole,” he said, while fucking away. And he was almost right. This was just a few months into my move, into my life as a stripper. But I let this happen for two years, until I hit the point where I was not going to be swallowed. But we’ll leave that story for another installment of *Bombshell*.

—

I’ve been putting together my experiences as a memoir, co-written with a friend of mine.

I’d love to hear what you think, what you’re eager to know more about, and how this story made you feel. There are many more to come.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/n2c0ce/bombshell_1_my_descent_into_the_seedy_adult