The police station buzzed around me; the practiced fingers of desk cops pounding away at keyboards, the arrguments of disagreeing factions, and the lame excuses of the soon-to-be-jailed. It was a Friday night, and it looked like the authorities had been busy arresting perps since daybreak.

Nearby, a pair of muscular frat boys sat handcuffed to different chairs. I couldn't tell if they were fastened there to keep them from falling over in their alcoholice stupor, or if the shackles were there to keep them from tearing each other apart. One of them had dried blood caking his upper lip, while the other's face was discolored from various bruises. Several times, whatever they were going on about got so heated that they lunged at each other, but the best they could do was bash their heads together a couple of times before the police separate them. Mindless brutes.

Another pair of adolescent males sat across from me, looking like they'd just been put through the rinse cycle. What was it with men and crime? A quick look around at the people being processed came up all male. As far as I could see, I was the only woman there and I wasn't under arrest.

The two scared teen boys had been brought in on drug charges and were waiting for their parents to pick them up. I'd overheard as much when the duty officer had sat them down across from me five minutes ago. She then gave me a patronizing, "The detectives will be with you shortly." Bitch. If they were going to be with me "shortly" they'd have already called me in and not wasted more of my precious time.

I sat in the entrance to the police station, glaring at the two cohorts. They hid from me behind their dirty long hair and studied the scuffed floor between us, as if it would tell them what excuse they should give their parents for getting busted for possession. Maybe this would scare them straight, but from the looks of their sloppy dress and brain-cell deficient aura, they were already human flotsam, lost garbage in society's ocean with no chance to make a positive impact on anyone.

Was I the only one not being arrested? Oh the irony. For the first time in five years that I go home at what most people would consider a normal time, to get a little needed me-time, and I witness some scumbag guy breaking into my neighbor's house. Would that actually qualify as irony or would it just be happenstance? Whichever it was, I wasn't happy about it. Because it landed me here, sitting around waiting to ID the loser, yet another male.

Why did the police need me to come identify the man I'd caught breaking into my neighbor's place tonight? Couldn't it have waited till daytime? Scratch that. Daytime would mean I'd miss even more valuable work time, so night was definitely better. Better still, couldn't they have just brought some mug shots to my office? That would have at least spared me the grief of being in such proximity to the town's riffraff.

I was sure my surroundings couldn't get any worse when a police officer in a bad brown suit brought the whore in. She strode in like she'd done nothing wrong, even thought her attire should have been excuse enough. The officer dropped her off at the desk clerk's station and headed back to the chief's office. She stood there smacking gum and twisting a tendril of her platinum hair with a red fingernail. Despite the lack of support from her loose fitting halter top, her artificially large breasts floated in front of her like they'd never learned the concept of gravity. I doubted the girl herself had either.

Her heels provided neither form nor function. They were too cheap to have any sort of style and were too comically high to be of any use, other than highlighting her legs. The skirt she wore was just as bad, if not worse. It looked like she'd crudely chopped up a decent denim skirt to show off the beginnings of the curve of her posterior. How could she have the nerve to wear something like that in public?

She leaned forward against the counter and part of her left nipple slipped out of her shirt. There were children here! Sure, they were delinquents, but they still didn't need to look at something like her.

The whore―there was no doubt in my mind that she was one―turned and looked at me. Either she had heterochromia or one of her blue contacts had fallen out and she hadn't bothered to take the other one out. Her one brown eye and one bright blue eye disturbed me.

And why the fuck was that stuck-up bitch looking at me like that for? Fucking cow.

I smacked my gum around some more and looked down. One of my nips was completely out. "Oops," I giggled and pulled my top back over it. God damn pigs. I wasn't even doing tricks yet and they brung me in. Just cause I got a little carried away on stage didn't mean they fucking had to go and haul me in.

I glanced around at the other poor sobs that the bacon had taken in. Two hot and fuckable frat boys were going at it in the back. My pussy moistened. What I wouldn't do to get my little cunt around one of their shafts. There was nothing like being fucked by a guy who'd just been in a fight. He'd be so full of adrenaline and junk. So rough. So hot.

In the entrance, aside from the bitch looking at me as if she couldn't make up her mind whether or not she wanted to lick my vag or run away, two puppy dog hippie boys sat staring at the floor. I could smell the pot coming off them when I'd passed them. Poor babies. I'm not normally into hippies, but I'd give them a pity fuck. From the looks of them, they could be virgins. My damn cunny got wetter. I loved cherry popping.

That was one of my favorite tricks to pull. I loved it when guys set me up with their newbie friends. Those guys didn't have dumb-ass ideas of "lovemaking". I got to teach them how to fuck women like the whores we are.

God, I needed to get out of there. I was so fucking horny I thought I was going to burst. If I could leave soon, I could still have time to get a lay in before I had to get back on stage. I slammed my hand on the counter. "You assholes gonna let me go or what? I'm supposed to be back on stage in half an hour."

Glancing around, my gaze settled back on the fucking prude who'd been lusting over my nip-slip. She sat so prim and proper in her knee length denim skirt and white blouse. Her legs were crossed at her ankles and the top foot waved her Gucci pump back and forth like she couldn't wait to get out of here. If she was going to buy expensive shit like that, she should at least get a pair with a fucking heel on it. Bitch might as well have been wearing sneakers.

She had her arms folded under her tiny tits. Such a shame. As loaded as she looked, she could have afforded some huge jugs to be shoved in there. Her gaze shifted up to me and once again, her one blue eye and one brown eye creeped me the fuck out.

My heart raced. What had just happened? I'd been her. I'd been the whore. I couldn't remember being me when I was her, but I remembered them both vividly now. Everything that I'd worked so hard for my entire life-my education, my career, my morality-all of it had been replaced by the desire and need for sex. Good and evil had been warped into fuckable and non-fuckable. The experience left me in a cold sweat. My skin tingled, not just from the terror of being her, but from the excitement as well.

The best things in life are things you work for, or so I had always believed. My life was filled with pleasure. The pleasure of knowing I was a good person. The pleasure of seeing my university diploma on the wall. The pleasure of a glass of wine with some friends. I was content with my life.

What a crock of shit. The best thing in life is being easy. That's what I'd believed in. No, that's what [i]she[/i] believed in. That life had been filled with intense bursts of pleasure. Supernovas of wanton sex and rampant drug use. All the pleasure derived from ignoring society's rules and embracing its ills. If I wasn't happy, it sure did feel good. Fuck! Life was great.

No! She was infecting my mind. The whore was doing something to me. I had to leave. I had to get out of there. But I couldn't; they'd brought me in on charges of prostitution ... no they'd brought her in on charges of prostitution. I was here on my own free will. Wasn't I? I couldn't remember why I was there. I no longer cared.

I stood up and burst out of the precinct's doors. My feet carried me as I fled from my nightmare: the whore with the witch eyes.

I should have run back to my apartment. I should have run to a friend's house. I should have run somewhere with a place in mind, instead of just running. Running. I ran from her. I ran from everything she represented. I just ran and listened to the plodding of my shoes hitting the pavement.

Then I thought of her witch eyes.

My heels clacked to a slow as I came up to the strip joint. My ankles hurt from running in such high heels all the way from home. Sweat pasted my halter to my fake tits and my hair was fucked. Why the hell did I run to work when I should have taken a god damn cab? My dancing was really going to suck.

I checked the clock on my cell, 9:58. Only two minutes. Shit, I'd never be on time, not with all the make up and hair repair I had to do. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. That fuck-fest I'd had last night had gone on way too late. But fuck all if I could have stopped it. Hell, I thought those guys could have gone longer, fucking shame they couldn't.

I yawned. Fuck if I could remember when I had gone to sleep, but I'd only woken up an hour ago, then like a 'tard, I fucking ran to work; one of the other bitches could cover my first dance. I needed to get myself fixed up. More than that, I needed a cock in me somewhere. I really wish those guys had fucking gone longer.

The enterance to the club opened up into a small room. Directly in front of the main door was another door that led into the club. To the right was yet another door that had been chopped in half, making a window for the bouncer to check ids and whatnot.

Gregg was manning the door. Even though I loved his massive, muscular build, there's one muscle I care most about, and his ... well it ain't so massive. Cock was cock though and I owed him for some coke that he'd given me awhile back.

"Nice to see you early for a change," he drawled at me.

"Fuck you, Gregg. Well, I was going to fuck you 'til you said that. Now I'll only blow you."

"Bitch, as late as you are, I was going to make you blow me anyway."

I hated the asshole, but as horny as I was, beggars can suck cock and all that shit. He opened his door for me and I strolled back into the bouncer's room, squatted, and pulled his pants down. Taking his small dick, I easily slid it down my throat and wanted to gag, but my body kept going uninterupted.

It had happened again! I'd become her. No, I was still her. Or was I? I could feel the weight of her breasts on my chest. Her large earrings jingled as I bobbed my surgically enhanced mouth up and down ... Gregg? Gregg's large penis. The whore's long fingernails were attached to my hands. But I wasn't her, I was me.

My mind was trapped in her body. What the hell was I doing? Adrenaline coursed through me. I tried to get a grasp on the situation. I tried to dislodge his member from my throat.

Before I could get it halfway out, he grabbed the back of my head and shoved my face back down on him. "The fuck's the problem? Suck, bitch!"

He didn't notice a difference. To him, I was the whore. Only my mind was itself again. I lost control over my body. Her body. I couldn't stop. The whore's instincts took over and all I could do was helplessly watch as she gave him one of the best blow-jobs he'd probably ever had.

I was the whore. Her reactions were becoming my reactions. She enjoyed the salty taste of his cock, so I, too, enjoyed it. I could feel the heat building up between our legs. She wanted the man to roughly pull her up, rip her top off and show the world her massive fake tits then smash them into the desk as he fucked her from behind. I wanted him to forcefully stand me up, expose my silicon filled breasts, and squish them into the table as he fucked me from behind.

We almost got our wish. The man pushed me down on all fours and positioned himself behind me. The only time the whore wore panties was to take them off on stage. That meant the only time I wore panties was to take them off on stage, and since I wasn't, there was no resistance for him to slide his meat into my glistening slit.

I'd never felt such a sensation before. I was being fucked like a bitch for all the world to see. Anyone who came into the club couldn't help but see us rut. I'd never felt this way in my life. The feable concepts I'd had of love and passion were crushed out of me with every thrust, replaced by a more basic and animalistic instinct: lust.

I screamed out as I orgasmed. The bustling police station quieted around me. I wiped my brow as I felt my embarrasment flush my checks. Had that all really been just a dream? It must have been just a dream. I heaved a sigh of relief, but wow! It had all felt so real...

As I rubbed my sweaty palms down the length of my denim skirt, my eyes darted around the station, trying to determine if anyone had noticed. The two potheads across from me were giving me a knowing look and I quickly adverted my eyes. The brawling frat boys were gone; so was the whore.

My heart still raced. To calm myself, more to ground myself in reality and out of dreamland, I reminded myself who I really was. I wasn't the whore. I was a waitress who'd been picked up on her day off for buying weed from the kids across from me.

The bathroom was within sight, but I'd been told to sit and wait. The cops were pretty busy. After they'd gone through the guys I'd bought from, it was like the forgot about me. What irony. I was too embarrased to say anything. How do you tell a cop that you'd like him to hurry up and book you for buying pot? I caught the attention of the duty officer and motioned towards the bathroom. She acknowledged my request with a nod and motioned that it was okay for me to go.

Standing up, I walked past my fellow detainees. It sucked to feel like you'd been put on hold even though you were there in person, but I'd been making the best of my situation. I'd been coyly making eyes with the guys and I was hoping that get me a discount down the road.

I went into the ladies' room. I didn't really need to use the bathroom, I just needed to be alone to get my head on straight. Daydreaming about being the whore had given me the best orgasm I'd had in my entire life. Between the ones I'd had with boyfriends and the ones I gave myself regularly, I had a decent sample size to compare it to. Were her orgasms always so intense? Maybe if I made myself a little bit like the whore, not too much, just a little bit, maybe I could enjoy similar ones.

I didn't want to be her. It wasn't that my career as a waitress had made me that much more better off. Fair or not, women like her disgusted me. I hated their lifestyle, their attitude and their looseness. They gave all women a bad name. But there were things she had right. Maybe. Like those blue contacts.

Holding my hair up in a bunch behind my head, I looked at my reflection in the mirror, tilting my head from left to right. Yeah, blue eyes would strengthen my somewhat soft features. I wouldn't give myself a cheap bleach job like the whore, but I didn't need it. My natural light brown would go well with blue eyes.

My biggest problem was my skirt was too long. I remembered the alluring long legs of the whore and felt worthless. No, worthless wasn't the right word, because my legs could rival hers, if not surpass them. The issue was that I didn't show them. The hours I spent walking around waiting tables, combined with my aerobics routine had perfectly sculpted my legs. However, hidden under this long skirt, I might as well have given up, gone out and bought five cats and a tub of Rocky Road.

But this was my best skirt. I'd saved several months worth of tips at the restaurant just to get it, though now I wondered why. I had to do something about it. It had to be shortened or hemmed ... or cut! I rummaged through my bag and pulled out my Swiss Army Knife. I knew there was no way in hell that I could cut my skirt in any halfway decent matter with it, but I was beyond caring.

I slipped out of the offending skirt and stood in the middle of the police station bathroom in my blouse, panties and one inch pumps. I probably should have gone into a stall, but I was obsessed and didn't care if anyone saw. I jabbed my pocket knife into my formerly nice skirt. Setting my sights on just below the back pockets, I did my best to cut it evenly all the way around.

When finished, I held up my work to inspect it. The back was perfect. It would show the beginning of the curve of my ass and I hoped it would highlight its shape. The front, on the other hand, hadn't gone so well. I made a mental note that if I wasn't careful in how I sat, anyone who looked would have a perfectly clear view of my panties.

One of the toilets flushed and a stall door opened and closed. Police shoes don't make clicking sounds like the ones I heard. The stilettos tapped their way up behind me and stopped. Standing in my panties, still holding my freshly chopped up skirt, I turned around to look at my nightmare.

Her one blue eye pierced into me while the brown one roamed my body. It occurred to me, if I'd been just a bit more shallow, I might have wound up like her. Well, shallower and more promiscuous.

She looked familiar. I had a feeling I'd seen her outside of the precinct before, although I couldn't place where. Maybe I'd waited on her at the restaurant before. Wherever I'd seen her, I couldn't take the intensity of her bi-colored stare. I shifted my focus lower down her body and stopped on the giant plastic orbs that jutted off her chest. From my daydream of being her, I knew that she proudly referred to as her "tits". What was it like to have massive mounds like that?

Absorbed in thought and staring at the clevage the whore's halter top provided me, the shaking of her breasts was all the warning I had as she lashed out and smacked me to the ground. I collapsed like a rag doll. I looked up at the asshole that hit me.

"Fucking hell, Gregg? The fuck was that for?" The words came out of my mouth for me. I didn't even know where I was, let alone who decked me.

"You fucking passed out, bitch. Get yer shit and go fucking clean up. You're on stage."

I was her again. I was the whore and I'd picked up where I'd left off, post-climax with the doorman's cum running out of my cunt. Only there was a problem. I'd never gone back to being [i]me[/i]. I wasn't supposed to be a fledgling waitress. I was a successful businesswoman.

In the reality I was supposed to go back to, I'd finished my four-year degree in three. In the reality I had gone back to, I'd failed out of college in three. The me I knew I was in my core, she'd quickly moved up the ranks to be the one giving out the orders. The me that was waiting for my return had quickly moved from table to table taking orders.

The outrage that I wanted to feel was drowned out by the raging hormones of the whore's body. Trying to get angry over it was like trying to get angry over missing a rerun of a favorite show. The disappointment was there, but I'd seen it before and knew I wasn't missing anything. I wasn't the businesswoman anymore, I was a waitress.

Getting up off the floor, I could feel the weight of the stripper's silicon implants pulling my center of gravity forward. I felt like a car whose hood ornament was larger than the rest of it. My curiosity had been cured. I couldn't wait to be back in my body and its natural B cups.

With the outlandish size of my ... her tits and comical height of the heels I was wearing, thrown in with the orgasm-induced unsteadiness in my legs, I was difficult for me to move. The beefy bouncer raised the back of his hand to me.

"Didn't you fucking hear what I said?"

I don't know why, but an incedent at the restaurant I waited at flashed into my mind. Months ago, I'd messed up an order and the customer demanded to see the manager. He said he wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than my dismissal. I begged and pleaded for him to forget about it. He relented when I agreed to pay for his meal.

I wasn't physically afraid of him, like I was with the beast rearing down on me, but it was the power of intimidation he had over me. Just the threat of seeing the manager and I was paying for his lunch. Sure, my manager probably would have stood by me, but in the moment, I was weak and scared.

If I forced myself to be honest, even the "real" me, the workaholic, really was just afraid and intimidated by those above her and that's why she convinced herself she did it for love of the work. Of course she ... She? That was me! Of course [i]I[/i] wanted to get to the top and be the one doing the intimidating. But try as I might, I would forever be passed over for promotions because I was too weak.

I readied myself for the blow. The psychological intimidation paled in comparison to what Gregg's threat of violence made me feel. How could the whore stand it?

The blow never came. Before he could strike me, the whore lashed my leg out and kicked him in the balls hard enough to double him over. Then she elbowed the top of his head and he went crashing to the ground. Using my foot to roll him over, the whore stabbed my spiked heel into his groin and twisted.

"You ever fucking touch me or another girl again and I'll rip your god-damn balls off and feed them to the no good slut that spat you out of her cunt. You worthless piece of shit." With that, the whore twisted my foot and Gregg curled into a fetal ball.

Regaining control of my ... her body, I turned and headed towards the dressing room that all the girls shared. I was high. I was fucking high. I'd never felt so elated before. The whore felt no intimidation. Neither the workaholic, nor myself would have been capable of that. It made me wish I really was the whore, in that one sense.

But I was the whore in all the senses. It was my tight ass that swayed with each step I took. It was my chest so swelled up with pride for what I had done to Gregg that it made my ginormous jugs seem to double in size, yet feel like they were filled with helium, pulling my back up straight and lifting my head up high. Nothing could bring me down.

I stepped into [i]my[/i] dressing room in [i]my[/i] strip club.

"She's here, Momma," a voice rang out as soon as I stepped through the door.

Momma. No matter how proud of myself I was, it wasn't my club, it was hers. Emotions welled up inside of me. I'd never met the woman before, but the whore provided the feelings for me. I was apprehensive; I was late and Momma would be angry. I was elated; I would get to see Momma before going on stage. I was afraid, not for myself, but for Gregg. My lip was swollen from where he'd hit me the first time. Momma took care of her girls and she wouldn't take kindly to him hitting one of her favorites.