The neon glow of LA’s underbelly pulsed over Brandi’s corner on March 1, 2025, late evening, casting jagged shadows across the cracked sidewalk. Traffic growled past, horns bleating like tired goats, and the air hung heavy with exhaust and a whiff of tacos from a truck two blocks down.

She strutted her turf — bleached blond hair teased into a wild halo, big fake tits spilling from a leopard-print tube top, big, fat ass hugged by a black vinyl miniskirt so tight it stretched ominously. Fishnet stockings snagged at the knees, and scuffed silver platforms clacked unevenly, but she owned it, popping a cherry lollipop with a wet smack that echoed over the buzz of a dying streetlamp.

Brandi twirled the stick in her glossy lips, eyeing a rusty ’98 Honda Civic that rolled up slow, its pine air freshener swinging like a hanged man. Timmy, a scrawny, acne-addled young man with his Dodger’s cap tilted, leaned out, sweaty palms clutching a crumpled five-dollar bill. “Uh, hey, uh, how much again?” he stammered, voice cracking like a kid caught sneaking candy.

“Ten bucks, sugar,” Brandi purred, leaning against his window, tube top straining as she flashed a grin. “That’s the base rate: me, a quick ride, and a story about my cat if you’re lucky. VIP special’s thirty, throw in a spritz of Love Potion Number Nine from the dollar store.” She winked, lollipop clicking against her teeth, and Timmy’s cheeks flared redder than a stoplight.

“I — I got ten, just — hold on!” He fumbled the bill, coins spilling from his pocket, quarters, dimes, and a sticky nickel clattering to the pavement. “Shit, shit, shit!” he yelped, diving to scoop them as Brandi cackled, her honking laugh cutting through the night.

“What’s the matter, Timmy? Ain’t never seen a girl worth a dime before?” Her words were laced with flirtatious sarcasm. She had done this before.

Across the street, Ivan Miller watched from his sleek black sedan, parked like a shark in the shallows. He was in his early 30s, lean, and wearing a muted navy suit unbuttoned over a crisp white shirt. He did not wear a tie, and his sleeves were rolled. His glasses glinted under the neon wash.

He scribbled in a leather notebook, pocket calculator clicking as he tallied her haul, his short black hair slicked back with a five-o’clock shadow creeping in. No gold chains, no pimp swagger, just a guy who looked like he’d rather be filing taxes than running whores.

Brandi caught the businessman’s eye and waved, lollipop dangling. “Boss man’s counting my tips again! You gonna frisk me for loose change, Ivan?” She called out.

The bespectacled man smirked, adjusting his glasses with a flick. “Keep the hustle, Brandi. Margins are tight.” His voice was clipped and dry, like a manager chewing out a late shift. She rolled her eyes, turning back to Timmy, who’d finally scraped up nine bucks and a linty quarter.

“Close enough, huh?” Timmy pleaded, cap slipping as he wiped sweat with his sleeve. Brandi sighed, snatching the cash with a dramatic huff.

“Unlikely, Cheapskate,” she grinned. “The rest will have to come out of my pocket, and I ain’t paying you to hump, sweetheart.”

“I — I’ll be back,” the scrawny man muttered, slipping his gathered coins back into his pocket. He sped off in his vehicle. Brandi reapproached her street lamp, the cherry lollipop swirling between her plump, overtly glossed lips. She rested her hands on her exposed hips. This was her turf, her corner.

❖

Brandi slumped against the lamppost in her corner, the neon hum crackling as she flipped Timmy’s linty quarter between her fingers — his pathetic peace offering after coming up short.

She snorted, popping her cherry lollipop with a loud smack, twirling it in her glossy lips like a taunt. “Nine bucks and change,” she muttered, her honking laugh bouncing off the pavement.

Traffic snarled past, taco grease teasing her nose, and she flicked the quarter high, watching it spin against the flickering streetlamp. Her platforms shifted, fishnets tugging, and she grinned, still broke, still the queen of this neon pit.

Her eyes drifted, tracing the lamp’s buzz and the gutter’s glint. As she stared ominously at the flickering light, the world softened — edges blurred, sounds dulled, like sinking into a warm bath.

The grime faded, and she blinked. Standing in a pristine lab at Rose Petals Biochem, the wall clock displayed 12:04PM on March 1st, 2024; steel counters gleamed under fluorescent lights, beakers catching the glare. The air was cool with antiseptic and a whisper of lavender from a diffuser. Where was she? Who was she? One name came to her mind: Brianna Watson.

“The pheromone enhancer boosts cellular response by 17%,” Brianna said, voice firm and clear. “Three trials confirm stability — refine the delivery, and we lead the market.” Her hazel eyes, sharp behind glasses, swept the room, landing on Ivan Miller. He leaned against a counter, arms crossed, gray stare slicing through wire-rimmed lenses.

“Solid theory, Watson,” Ivan replied, tone even, a smirk tugging his lip. “But my data’s tighter. You’re overreaching.” He adjusted his glasses with a flick, clutching his notebook close.

Brianna’s pen paused, jaw tightening. “Keep dreaming, Miller. Your numbers play safe; mine break ground.” She glanced at Dr. Lena Patel, ponytail bobbing as she nodded from her tablet.

“You’ve got this,” Lena murmured, her off-key hum buzzing low, and Ivan’s irritation flickered.

The lab around her was vivid: white walls, a faint skyline beyond the glass—until suddenly, a horn blared, shattering the vision.

Brandi jolted, lollipop stuck to her lip, the corner’s grit slamming back. Timmy’s rusty Honda idled again, his acne-scarred face grinning out the window. “Found ten bucks!” he crowed, waving a crisp bill, cap slipping as he honked.

Brandi peeled the lollipop free, gloss smearing, and cackled. “What the fuck, me as a nerd?” She leaned in, the tube top creaking. “Took you long enough, Cheapskate. Ten gets you the ride!”

Timmy flushed, nodding fast. “Y-yeah, hop in!”

She shook her head, the dream’s clean lines fading; labs, suits, some smug prick? Total bullshit. Ivan’s sedan loomed across the street, calculator clicking through the window. Brandi waved, lollipop swinging as she entered the john’s vehicle.

Brandi grinned and kissed the acne-raddled man on the cheek before popping the lollipop back, cherry tang snapping her sharp. Whatever that crazy dream was, stiff voices, shiny floors, it wasn’t her hustle.

She snatched Timmy’s ten, stuffed it in her bra, sitting in his passenger seat, her platforms scraping the floorboard. “Find us a dark spot, sugar,” she purred, slamming the door. Timmy grinned nervously, pulling out, his tired turning on the warm LA asphalt, as Ivan stared at the Honda fading into the night.

❖

The following evening, Brandi strutted her corner under the streetlamp’s shaky glow, the buzz humming like a hungover bee. It was another day on the job; the familiar traffic growled past, horns bleating faintly, and the taco truck’s grease hung thick two blocks off.

She’d swapped yesterday’s leopard print for a neon pink crop top that barely clung to her fake tits, ripped denim shorts riding high on her fat ass, and thigh-high boots clicking with every step. Plastic pink hoop earrings swung wild, catching the light, and she popped her cherry lollipop, bright pink gloss gleaming as she scanned for her next mark.

She twirled the lollipop stick, hips swaying, when Ivan’s sleek black sedan rolled up curbside, its headlights slicing the dusk. He stepped out, lean frame sharp in his muted navy suit, sleeves rolled, glasses glinting under the lamp’s flicker.

“Evening, boss man,” Brandi called, lollipop dangling as she strutted over, boots scuffing the pavement. “You gonna frisk me for that twenty I earned from those two college cuties earlier, or just stare?” Her honking laugh cut the air, and she leaned against his hood, crop top straining.

Ivan smirked, adjusting his glasses with a flick. “Solid night, Brandi. Keep the hustle; you have a tight target this month.” His voice was clipped, dry as a tax form, eyes on his notes. He pulled a granola bar from his pocket, tossing it her way. “Fuel up.”

She caught it, snorting. “What, no raise? I’m your cash cow, Ivan.” She unwrapped it, took a bite, and chewed loud, crumbs dusting her shorts. “Had this weird-ass dream last night, me in some lab, suits and shit. You ever see me as a nerd?”

Ivan raised an eyebrow and lightly chuckled. “You been trying some of Oscar’s shrooms again, Brandi?” His smirk twitched, but his voice had an air of concern. “No, I think you’re right where you belong, don’t you?”

Brandi rolled her eyes, popping the lollipop back in. She had been back on the shrooms, but last night wasn’t about that. “Yeah, right. I’d flunk out of nerd school faster than my mascara runs in a rainstorm.” She cackled, kicking a pebble that skittered into the gutter. The dream’s clean floors and smug prick lingered, a sour itch she couldn’t scratch, but Ivan’s shrug buried it.

“Move it, Brandi,” he said, sliding back into his sedan, door thudding shut. “Clock’s ticking.” The engine purred, and he peeled off, leaving her in the lamp’s hazy pool. She grinned, lollipop smacking, still broke-ish, still the queen of this grimy strip. The corner pulsed around her, lights dancing off her hoops, and she strutted back to her post, ready to bleed the next john dry.

❖

Brandi worked the alley’s shadows a couple of nights later. Rusty “Rusty-Nails” Callahan straddled his beat-up Harley nearby, leather vest tight against his well-built frame as he handed over a crisp twenty, her third score tonight after a slick lawyer and a twitchy cabbie had already paid up.

She wore a red latex bra that hugged her fake tits like a second skin, a black leather skirt riding her fat ass, and studded ankle boots scuffing the pavement. A choker gleamed at her throat, and her cherry lollipop smacked loud, red gloss catching the dim glow as she grinned; every john in LA knew who she was.

“Back again, doll?” Rusty grunted as if Brandi was the one seeking out him. His mirrored shades reflected even in the dark, his beard scruff brushing her cheek as the blond whore straddled his lap.

She cackled, hips rolling, lollipop twirling. “Can’t stay away, huh? I’m the hottest ticket in town. I got some referrals if you’d like to hear them.” Her giggle echoed off the dumpster.

She pushed against him harder, her high-heeled boots scraping, when her eyes drifted to the alley’s mouth, the lamp’s buzz, the gutter’s sheen. Her world softened again, the edges blurring like a cheap high kicking in.

The grime faded, and she blinked, standing in the Rose Petals Biochem break room. Beige walls framed a humming coffee machine, a fridge buzzing with staff snacks, the air sharp with roasted beans and a hint of lavender. A clock ticked 2:17 PM. She was Brianna Watson.

Ivan leaned against the table, arms crossed, glasses glinting. “Truce, Watson?” he said, sliding a second mug her way, voice even but edged with a smirk.

Brianna’s jaw tightened, hazel eyes narrowing behind her frames. “Only if you bow out, Miller.” She took the cup, steam curled, and sipped. It was bitter, strong, and not how she usually took it. She felt Ivan’s eyes linger on her as he nodded faintly.

Tasha Brooks, the firm’s HR manager tasked with ensuring the firm’s two prized assets get along, smirked from the corner, floral blouse loud, latte straw slurping. “You two play nice now,” she cooed, bracelets jangling, her tone dripping with fake cheer.

Ivan’s smirk deepened, notebook tucked close. “Enjoy your coffee, Brianna,” he said before leaving the room, leaving the scientist alone.

Brianna examined the clean surroundings until a grunt snapped her out of it. Brandi jolted, lollipop stuck to her lip, Rusty’s hairy arms pinning her hips, the alley grit bringing her back to reality.

“You good, doll?” Rusty growled, shades tilting as she blinked, slightly concerned.

She peeled the lollipop free, gloss smearing, and cackled. “Fuck me, another nerd trip?” She shoved off him, boots stomping. “Yeah, I’m gold. Your bike’s exhaust pipes been pumping crazy shit, huh?”

He shrugged, having no idea what she was talking about. He handed her the twenty, unfazed. She was only good for one thing, after all.

She shook her head, the dream fading: coffee, suits, that smug prick again? Bullshit. She leaned in close and kissed Rusty square on the lips. She knew he liked it rough. “Come on then, tough guy. Give me a ride,” she encouraged. “I’m rougher than your motorcycle,” she chuckled before leading him deeper into the alley.

As she peeled her top off, revealing her hard, gravity-defying breasts, her mind lingered back to the dream. They were building up. Painting a life that never existed, could never exist. She was a whore, and a damn good one. Dropping to her knees, she slid Rusty’s hard cock between her plump, glossy lips. She was the queen of this corner, and everyone knew why.

❖

A few nights later, Brandi lounged curbside, the evening humming with distant traffic and bar chatter, her bra stuffed with forty bucks from a cocky bouncer and a shy trucker earlier this evening, another packed night proving that every perv in LA craved her.

She wore a sequined halter top shimmering over her fake breasts, white hot pants gripping her enhanced ass, and platform sandals dangling off her toes. Rhinestone bangles clinked as she cracked a warm beer between clients, her familiar lollipop in her mouth, gloss freshly touched up after a wild session.

Ivan’s sedan idled nearby, headlights slicing the dark as he stepped out. He looked lean in his tailored suit, the sleeves of his ironed shirt rolled up. He held his leather notebook, scribbling her take. Brandi stumbled over, plopping beside the car.

“Hey, boss man,” she teased before eliciting a giggle that broke the silence. “Raked in forty tonight, the whole town’s hooked on me. Where’s my throne?” She swigged the beer, foam dribbling, and shoved it his way.

He waved it off, adjusting his glasses with a flick. “You’re doing well, Brandi. Let’s keep that momentum; your target’s close.” His voice was steady and measured, eyes flicking from his notes to her flushed face. He always talked numbers and shit Brandi could never understand.

She burped loudly, grinning, and twirled the lollipop. “Yeah, but these dreams, they’re fuckin’ me up. Labs, stuffy suits, and — you’re in ‘em, Ivan, all smug and shit. Me, smart? Wild, right?” Her giggle wobbled, beer sloshing as the visions itched her skull.

Ivan’s brow creased, gray eyes narrowing behind his lenses. “Me? That’s… odd, Brandi. You sure you’re not dipping into something stronger than that beer?” His tone softened, concern lacing it, but he leaned closer, studying her. “They’re just dreams, Brandi. You’ve got a real job here, and you’re damn good at it. Focus on that, not some fantasy.”

Brandi rolled her eyes, lollipop popping back in, cherry tang cutting the beer’s flat sting. “Ain’t no drugs, just freaky shit in my head. You were there, all suitey like this.” She cackled as she looked him up and down. “I’d suck at smart.”

He nodded and chuckled, a faint smile tugging his lip as he shut his notebook. “Exactly. You are much better at sucking than being smart, Brandi.” He joked. “You’re where you shine. Stick to the streets. That’s what matters.” He slid into the driver’s seat, the door thudding. “Sober up and keep moving.”

She grinned as she hauled herself up. “Yeah, boss. I’m the hottest slut in town.” The dreams nagged, but she shrugged and strutted a step. Ivan drove off, his engine purring, leaving her swaying in the street’s pulse, ready for her next trick.

❖

The next day, Brandi strutted her corner, the night alive with bar noise in the background, her bra bulging from the night’s takings. A randy college kid, a sweaty chef, an obnoxious lawyer, and a loud car salesman who’d paid up earlier, another packed shift proving her worth on the streets of Los Angeles.

We tottered around wearing a lime green bikini top, barely holding her D-cup tits, a frayed jean skirt riding her fat ass, and wedge heels on her pretty feet. Oversized sunglasses perched on her nose and her regular lollipop in her sharp-tongued mouth.

A pudgy tourist waddled up, Hawaiian shirt screaming pineapples, camera swinging from his neck. Gary from Ohio, forty bucks burning a hole in his fanny pack.

“This is so LA!” he bellowed obnoxiously, sunburnt cheeks puffing as he waved cash, socks-and-sandals combo scuffing the pavement.

Brandi cackled, hips swaying; the tourists always had cash to burn. “Forty gets you the deluxe, big guy — I’m the queen of this town, and you’re my VIP tonight.” Her giggle cut through his goofy grin, and she leaned in against him, bikini top straining.

“Hot damn, a real LA girl!” Gary cheered, fumbling the bills, sweat beading as she snatched them, stuffing the cash in her bra.

She winked, grinding close against his chubby frame, wedges steady despite the buzz in her veins. She loved teasing the tourists. Her eyes drifted, catching the street’s pulse and the bar lights’ shimmer. The world softened once again, and her vision blurred and faded until everything changed.

The dirty environment slipped away, and she blinked, standing in the Rose Petals Biochem conference room. A long oak table stretched under muted light, leather chairs creaked with executives, and the air was cool and thick with cologne and tension. A clock read 11:42 AM—she was Brianna Watson, mid-pitch, her voice steady and sharp.

“Our enhancer’s stability sets us apart. 17% cellular boost, market-ready with tweaks,” Brianna said, hazel eyes scanning the room behind her glasses. She tapped her pen, crisp and deliberate, slides clicking on the projector. Mark Hensley, a balding and paunchy Senior Executive in his pinstripe suit, nodded, pen clicking like a nervous tic. “Synergy, Watson — pure synergy,” he muttered, sweat fogging his glasses.

Ivan Miller sat across from Brianna, arms crossed, gray stare piercing through wire-rimmed lenses, notebook shut. His smirk twitched as Brianna spoke, silent but loud.

She pushed on, “This is how we destroy the competition.” Then it hit: Her tongue thickened, words slurred, and a giggle bubbling up unbidden. “Like, what was I saying again?” she chirped. The temperature rose suddenly, and Brianna removed several buttons from her shirt.

The entire boardroom stared at the scientist. Her clothes felt claustrophobic, and she suddenly felt out of her depth. “Umm, yea, the competition.” She tried to continue. “I’m not so good at this book smart stuff.” She gasped; where did that come from?

The brunette scientist ripped her blouse off, revealing the bra covering her B-cup breasts. That felt much less restrictive. Ivan leaned back on his chair and enjoyed the commotion.

Tasha Brooks surged forward. “I’m going to have to escort you from the building, Ms Watson,” she cooed, gripping Brianna’s arm and helping her out.

Mark, the senior executive, looked dumbfounded. He turned to Ivan. “Looks like you’re taking charge.” That was precisely what the bespectacled man was waiting to hear. Ivan’s smirk widened. The victory was sealed.

A yelp snapped her back, Brandi jolted, lollipop stuck to her lip, Gary’s pudgy hands groping her ass, corner grit slamming in. “Whoa, you okay, babe?” he yipped, camera swinging as she blinked.

She peeled the lollipop free, gloss coated, and cackled. “Fuck me, nerd me again?” She shoved him off, wedges stomping. “Yeah, I’m rosy. Your shirt’s tripping me out, Ohio!”

He laughed, clueless. “That’s worth forty right there!”

She shook her head; the dreams had returned. What the hell was wrong with her?

Brandi tried to focus on her current client. She needed that forty bucks. “Where are you going to take me, pretty boy,” she asked the overweight man. “I’m yours for the next thirty minutes. Maybe an hour if you sneak over another score.”

Gary grinned and squeezed Brandi’s ass once more. “I fucking love LA!” He declared as they wandered down the dark alley, and Brandi spent the next hour fulfilling his every fantasy.

❖

The following night, Brandi slumped against a graffiti-scratched mailbox on her corner, the night sharp with a salty breeze and the faint jingle of a street vendor’s cart rolling by. Her bra bulged with fifty bucks from a twitchy biker and a drunk ad exec tonight.

She was dressed in a purple mesh bodysuit hugging her big, round tits, black pleather leggings gripping her fat ass, and 6” stiletto boots decorating her feet. A fake fur shrug hung loose, and her lollipop was held in her hand. She pouted as she looked out at the empty street, her lips glistening with bright pink lipstick.

Ivan’s car purred up, headlights glinting off a cracked curb. The passenger door swung open, and Brandi strutted over, boots clicking, sliding in with a whiskey-slurred cackle.

The leather creaked under her, heat blasting from the vents, and she kicked the door shut, sprawling with a honk. “Hey, boss man! Fifty tonight. I’m your best damn cash cow! Where’s my bonus?” She giggled.

Ivan sat driver-side, wearing a tailored navy suit. He took the cash Brandi slid from her cleavage and carefully counted it. He turned, gray eyes steady, voice calm and measured. “You’re bringing in strong numbers, Brandi. Keep it up, and we’re ahead of schedule.” He paused, noting her sway. “But you look unsteady, unsettled — what’s bothering you?”

Brandi snorted, sucking on her lollipop for a moment before withdrawing it. “These damn dreams, Ivan. They’re fuckin’ me up! I can’t make sense of them, and you’re there, getting one up on me. The last dream had me stripping in front of a bunch of suits!”

Ivan raised an eyebrow, concern softening his tone. “That sounds intense, Brandi. It’s all in your head, though. Dreams twist things, stress, maybe a bad drink. You’re not that person; you’re Brandi.” He leaned closer, studying her glazed stare, willing her to drop it.

She softly bit her fat lower lip, boots stomping the floorboard. “Nuh-uh, Ivan. This feels too real! There ain’t no stress. Something’s off!” Her tone cracked, whiskey fueling her push.

Ivan sighed, rubbing his jaw, voice dropping low and tense. “You’re not letting this go, are you?” He paused, the silence heavy, then his eyes hardened. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to do this.” He said before staring directly into Brandi’s eyes. “Let me speak to Brianna now.”

Brandi blinked — Brianna surged forward, mind snapping clear, her hazel eyes wide with horror. She gasped, hands flying to her oversized chest — purple mesh stretched tight over swollen, fake tits, pleather clinging to an exaggerated ass, fur tickling her shoulders.

“What… what is this?” she stammered, voice trembling, fingers brushing the choker at her throat as her eyesight noticed the long red claws attached to her fingers. “My body — my God, what’s happened to me?”

Ivan’s smirk crept in, slow and dark. “Good to see you again, Brianna — it’s been a while.” He leaned back, savoring her shock, and then his tone turned cold, deliberate.

“A year ago, I slipped a control drug into your coffee at Rose Petals. You beat me to that damn R&D Director gig and then continued to undermine my ideas after that.” He said with menace. “I couldn’t let you win. So I made you sabotage yourself, and you did that spectacularly.”

He grinned. “I turned you into a laughingstock, then took the job, and reshaped you into… this.” He gestured at her, eyes glinting. “Brandi’s been my star ever since.”

Brianna’s scream ripped out, raw and furious. “You monster! You stole my life — everything I worked for!” Her heartbeat was racing. “I’m going to kill you!” She lunged, hands clawing for him, tears streaking her glossed face.

Ivan caught her wrists, grip firm, voice icy. “Back to Brandi.”

She froze — Brianna vanished, Brandi blinking back, dazed, lollipop having run down the side of the passenger seat. Brandi wiped her eyes. “Why’m I cryin’?” she asked, bemused.

Ivan’s smirk softened, tone steady again. “Rough night, Brandi — you’re fine. You’re my best girl. You just keep shining.”

Ivan turned the key, and the engine rumbled. Brandi opened the door, but Ivan instructed her to close it again. “Actually, babe,” he began. “You’ve been working with me for a year now. How about we celebrate?” He asked as he pulled the sedan into an isolated car park.

Brandi giggled, “Mmm, think you can handle me, big boss man?” She cooed, and Ivan flashed a knowing smile.

❖

Ivan cut the engine in the isolated car park. The vehicle’s headlights dimmed against a sagging chain-link fence, gravel crunching under the tires. Shadows stretched long from a lone streetlight, its buzz swallowed by the distant hum of the freeway.

Brandi sprawled in the passenger seat, purple mesh bodysuit stretched tight over her big tits, black pleather leggings glistening, stiletto boots scraping the dash. Her fake fur shrug slipped off one shoulder, and she giggled, whiskey still slurring her words from their chat. “So, boss man, what’s this celebration? You finally gonna ride your star?”

He flashed a knowing smile, voice steady and low. “A year of you shining, Brandi — let’s mark it right.” He slid the seat back, unbuckling his belt, and nodded to the backseat. “Hop over, babe. Show me why you’re the best.”

Brandi giggled; her boss had never accepted her offers before. She kicked off her boots, heels thudding to the floorboard, and scrambled over the console, ass wiggling as she landed with a bounce. “Fuck yeah, Ivan. I’m gonna choke on this dick of yours!”

She knelt on the leather, hands clawing at his zipper, yanking his pants down to free his cock, hard, thick, pulsing in the dim light. Her glossed lips parted, and she spat, slicking him up before diving in, throat taking him deep, rough, and fast. Gagging noises filled the car, her head bobbing wildly.

“Shit, boss, you never told me you got a monster in there!” she giggled between thrusts, spit dripping down her chin, eyes watering as she forced him deeper, hands gripping his thighs.

Ivan groaned, fingers tangling in her bleached hair, pushing her harder, hips bucking against her sloppy rhythm. The windows fogged, her muffled moans vibrating against him until he yanked her off, cock slick and throbbing, her lipstick smeared wild. “My pretty little whore,” he barked possessively.

“On your back, Brandi — now,” he ordered commandingly, voice steady but edged with heat.

The blonde whore grinned, peeling the bodysuit down to her waist, fake tits bouncing free — hard, round, nipples stiff. “Fuck me silly, big man — wreck my pussy!” she moaned, sliding her pleather leggings off, legs kicking free as she sprawled across the backseat, hooking her ankles behind her head — flexible as hell, ass up, glistening for him.

As always, Brandi was already wet and aching for it. Ivan climbed over, gripping her thighs, and thrust in hard — deep, relentless, stretching her as she howled.

“Oh fuck, yeah — fuck me, Ivan! Harder, you bastard!” Her dirty talk spilled out like a pro, needy and loud, nails clawing the leather as he slammed into her, hips smacking her fat ass, the car rocking on its shocks.

Sweat beaded on the R&D director’s brow, glasses slipping, but he kept the pace, driving her wild — her tits jiggled, legs trembling by her ears, voice cracking with every filthy yell. “Gonna cum all over your dick, boss — fuckin’ ruin me!”

She did — shuddering, screaming, an orgasm unlike any other she had experienced, slamming one last time before Ivan shot inside her, hot and messy.

He pulled out, panting, and Brandi dropped her legs, giggling through the haze, pussy dripping, bodysuit tangled at her hips. “Best damn boss ever — I knew you’d fuck like a king!” She said before wrapping her mouth back around his member, tasting and swallowing any leftover cum that wasn’t dumped inside her.

Ivan smirked once she’d finished, zipping up, voice calm again. “Top girl gets top perks.” He fished a crumpled ten from his pocket, tossing it onto her sticky chest. “Bonus for my star.” She snatched it, giggling, and collected her clothes as Ivan moved back to the front seat and started the engine.

Five minutes later, the sedan rolled up to the curb, gravel dust settling, and Brandi stumbled out, boots back on, fur shrug crooked. “Catch ya later, big boss man — gonna earn you some more cash!” she called, lollipop smacking as she strutted off, ten bucks richer.

Ivan chuckled to himself as he watched her totter off, a slight awkwardness to her walk. That night had taken a turn, but he had turned it to his advantage. Everything was better this way. Brandi was exactly where she deserved to be.

❖

One Month Later

Brandi strutted her corner, dawn creeping over the skyline, the air cool with a faint tang of spilled beer and asphalt dew. Her bra sagged with cash — over a hundred bucks from various needy johns, including a horny bouncer and a nervous accountant. She strutted in a gold lamé crop top that glittered over her D-cup fake tits, a cheetah-print skirt hugging her fat ass, and strappy heels clicking sharp. A beaded headband tamed her bleached mane, and her cherry lollipop smacked, gloss fresh as she grinned.

Ivan had promised to give her giant F-cups if she made her target this month. The nerd was all about the numbers, but she loved him anyway and would do anything for a gift like that. She thrusted up her fake tits and arched her back. She would be goddamn unstoppable with tits like that.

A beat-up pickup rolled up, some new john with a scruffy beard and a wad of singles, engine rattling like a cough. “Heard you’re the best, lady — twenty do it?” he grunted, leaning out, eyes hungry.

Brandi giggled, hips swaying, lollipop twirling. “Thirty, stud. I’m the fuckin’ jackpot ‘round here! Let me hop in, and let’s roll!” His tone was drenched in flirtatious banter, and the scruffy man fumbled through his wallet for more bills.

She snatched his offered cash, stuffing it in her bra, and strutted toward him, heels scuffing the curb. A month ago, her spot as Ivan’s star had been sealed. She’d had no weird-ass dreams since, not a single vision of sterile labs or obnoxious senior execs. Whatever that trippy shit was, it’d evaporated — good riddance. She was Brandi, a top star who knew how to hone her craft.

“Gonna ride you raw, sugar, you won’t regret it!” she purred, climbing into his truck, ass wiggling as she slid across the cracked vinyl seat.

The john grinned, engine sputtering as he peeled off, dawn’s pink glow catching her gold top. She’d fucked her way through LA since Ivan’s “celebration,” cash piling up, every perv in town hooked. She was exactly where she belonged.

She opened a new lollipop, and slipped it between her pouty lips, and giggled as the truck rattled away. She barely saw a dime of the cash she made for her boss, but she was still the queen. Ivan was right — she shined here, and she always would. The street faded behind her, another score in the bag, Brandi ruling the night; exactly as she was built to do.

The End