The Lawyer

Cynthia Jones strode down Wilshire Boulevard in the heart of downtown Los Angeles, her tailored black pantsuit clinging to her slim, athletic frame with the precision of a designer’s masterpiece. The morning sun glinted off the towering glass skyscrapers, casting morning reflections on the bustling sidewalk where commuters in smart suits and polished shoes hurried past.

Her short, dark brown bob, cut just above her shoulders, settled perfectly on her head, its severe lines mirroring her tight-lipped scowl. She wore no makeup beyond a light foundation and neutral lip balm, rejecting anything that might soften her commanding presence. Her tiny silver stud earrings and sleek silver watch were her only concessions to adornment, chosen for function over flair. In her mind, the world bent to the 30-year-old senior lawyer’s will, and those who failed to meet her standards deserved their place beneath her.

Cynthia’s role as a senior corporate lawyer at a top-tier firm on Wilshire Boulevard defined her existence, her six-figure salary fueling a life of luxury in a high-rise apartment filled with designer furnishings. She carried a sleek leather briefcase, and he posture exuded an authority that demanded obedience from everyone around her. In her view, success was a product of intelligence and discipline, and those who languished in poverty or menial jobs simply lacked the brains to rise above their circumstances. She had no patience for incompetence, no interest in second chances, and no tolerance for those who dared waste her time.

The rhythmic clatter of jackhammers interrupted her thoughts as she approached a construction site, where a trio of roadworkers in orange vests lounged against a barricade, enjoying a break while their colleagues dug into the road. The leader, Joe, a big, burly man with a crooked grin, let out a sharp wolf whistle. “Hey, gorgeous, give us a smile! You’re too hot to look so pissed!” he shouted, his voice rising above the construction noise.

Cynthia’s hazel eyes narrowed into slits, her scowl deepening as she quickened her pace along the crowded sidewalk. “Get back to work, you brainless oafs,” she couldn’t resist a retort, her voice sharp and commanding. She refused to glance at Joe or his leering companions, Mike and Dave, who chuckled at her response from their perch. To Cynthia, these men were the epitome of failure, their crudeness a testament to their lack of intelligence, destined to toil in the dirt and serve people like her. She adjusted her outfit and continued walking past them without another glance.

A block further down the street, a young woman stepped into the powerful lawyer’s path, her green jacket emblazoned with a homeless shelter logo, a clipboard clutched tightly in her hands. The woman, Sarah, smiled brightly until she was met with Cynthia’s icy glare, but she pressed forward with determination. “Good morning, ma’am,” she said politely. “Would you consider a small donation to our charity this morning? A small contribution could provide a meal and a bed for someone desperately in need,” she continued, her voice steady but tinged with caution, as if bracing for rejection.

Cynthia halted abruptly, her lips curling into a sneer of contempt. “I have no time for your useless charity or the lazy parasites you coddle,” she said, her tone cold and absolute. “Do you realize that your actions are enabling these worthless souls? If those people had any intelligence, they would not be begging for scraps on the street.” She brushed past the volunteer, ignoring the woman’s crestfallen expression, convinced that the homeless were simply too stupid to escape their plight, and there was nothing she could do to cure stupidity. Her focus remained on the merger documents in her briefcase, a multi-million-dollar deal that could make or break her firm.

The dark-haired lawyer pushed through the glass doors of an upmarket coffee shop, the rich aroma of coffee beans invading her senses and waking her up. She approached the counter, where a lanky barista named Tim struggled with an espresso machine, his hands fumbling under a piercing stare as he navigated his first week on the job. “I require one naked soy vanilla macchiato, no sugar, and hurry up. I have business to attend to,” she ordered, her voice cold and authoritative. “I have no patience for incompetence.”

Tim’s hands shook as he worked the espresso machine, nearly spilling the milk as he poured Cynthia’s order. “I’m sorry, ma’am, it’ll be ready in just a moment,” the young man said, his voice trembling with nervousness as he tried to calm the situation.

The lawyer snatched the macchiato from the counter, her eyes narrowing at a slight drip on the side of the cup. “This is utterly deplorable,” she said venomously. “If you cannot perform a simple task like making a coffee correctly, you deserve to be stuck in this pathetic job forever. I’ll be sure to tell your manager.” She turned away without leaving a tip as she refocused her mind on the big meeting later. To her, Tim’s incompetence was further proof that those in menial roles were a product of their own failures.

Outside the towering high-rise of her firm, a disheveled homeless man sat on the cracked sidewalk, his tattered brown coat draped over his knee and a dented cup resting beside him. His gray hair hung in matted clumps, and his beard was scruffy, but his sharp eyes fixed on Cynthia with a pleading intensity. “Spare some change, miss?” he asked, his voice low and deliberate, carrying a weight that seemed out of place for his ragged appearance. “A little help could go a long way.”

Cynthia stopped, her nude-colored lips parted in indignation at his audacity. “What the hell? You are an utterly useless and worthless excuse of a man,” she said, her voice dripping with scorn. “If you had a shred of dignity and smarts, you would not be sitting here begging like a drowning dog. Find a job and stop leeching off society.” She turned towards the firm’s glass doors.

The homeless man’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice remained calm. “A change in your heart would go a long way, miss,” he said pointedly. “You might find it suits you better than you think.”

Cynthia’s retort caught in her throat as a sudden shudder coursed through her entire body, a chilling sensation that prickled her skin from the scalp to her toes, like a cold wind had slipped beneath her tailored suit. She dismissed it as a fleeting discomfort, perhaps the morning chill off the Pacific, and pushed through the glass doors into the marble lobby of the firm.

The office was a monument to her success, its polished floors reflecting the Los Angeles skyline through expansive windows. The high-powered lawyer settled at her sleek mahogany desk inside her private corner office. She opened her briefcase and began reviewing the merger documents, her mind razor-sharp as she scanned for errors. As an assistant entered her office, informing her that they had been summoned, the ice-queen nodded.

“Your incompetence has gone on long enough, intern,” she said, not even bothering to learn her subordinates’ names. “There were three spelling errors in the deposition summons you sent last week. Pack up your things. You’re fired.”

The assistant appeared crestfallen, eliciting a subtle grin from Cynthia’s lips. This was a pivotal lesson for the young intern, the woman thought. Fuck up in front of your superiors, and face the consequences. Perhaps the little tart wasn’t smart enough to understand that. The dark-haired lawyer shook her head and refocused on her merger case. She was on top of the world, and everyone else was simply looking up.

❖

The Paralegal

Cynthie Jones walked down Wilshire Boulevard in downtown Los Angeles, her fitted gray trousers and pale pink blouse a reluctant concession to the expectations of her workplace, the soft fabric outlining her slim frame and covering her B-cup chest with a hint of femininity she despised. The morning sun reflected off the tall skyscrapers, casting morning reflections on the bustling sidewalk, where commuters in business attire jostled past one another.

Her dark brown bob, grazing her shoulders with soft waves and faint blonde highlights, bounced lightly with each step, its slightly longer length a source of irritation to her disciplined aesthetic. She wore light mascara, soft pink lipstick, and a touch of blush, a minimal makeup routine enforced by the sexist uniform requirements of her employer’s company policies. Small hoop earrings and a thin gold necklace adorned her, chosen to appease expectations rather than reflect her taste. To the 30-year-old paralegal, the world was a ladder she intended to climb, and she would tolerate its petty requirements only until she reached the top.

Cynthie’s role as a paralegal at a mid-tier law firm on Wilshire Boulevard shaped her existence, her modest salary a far cry from the wealth she believed she deserved, sustained only by her wealthy father’s connections that secured her the position. Her posture radiated arrogant confidence, though tempered by her frustration at her relatively low status. In her mind, ambition and intelligence would propel her to the top, and she viewed those beneath her as obstacles to be navigated, their incompetence a personal affront. She resented her pervy boss’s insistence on feminine attire. Still, she played the game to the minimum requirements possible, knowing it was a temporary step toward her inevitable rise.

The clatter of jackhammers disrupted the paralegal’s thoughts as she approached a construction site, where a trio of roadworkers in orange vests leaned against a barricade, taking a break while their colleagues labored. The leader, Joe, a big man with an unnerving grin, let out a sharp wolf whistle. “Pink looks good on you, princess!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the noise of the drills.

Cynthie’s hazel eyes narrowed, her lips tightening in irritation as she quickened her pace along the sidewalk. “Keep your eyes away from me, you stupid idiots,” she retorted sharply. She refused to meet Joe’s gaze or acknowledge his chuckling companions, Mike and Dave, their leers lingering on her softer look. To Cynthie, these men were beneath her ambitions; their attention was an annoyance she was forced to endure because her boss demanded she present herself in this way. She adjusted her blouse, hating its feminine bow, and continued without a glance.

A block further down the street, a young woman stepped into the paralegal’s path, her green jacket bearing a logo for a homeless shelter, a clipboard clutched tightly in her hands. The woman wore a nametag introducing her as ‘Sarah’, and her smile wavered under Cynthie’s cold stare. However, she pressed forward with determination. “Good morning, ma’am,” she said politely. “Would you consider a small donation to our charity this morning? Even a small contribution could provide a meal for someone in need.”

Cynthie stopped, her lips pursing in frustration at the interruption. “I don’t have time for your pointless causes,” she said, her tone sharp but less venomous than she intended, restrained by her need to maintain a professional facade. “I’m barely making ends meet with my own job, so find someone else to bother. Stop enabling those disgusting losers.” She brushed past, ignoring Sarah’s disappointed expression, her focus fixed on the case files awaiting her at the firm.

The paralegal pushed through the glass doors of an artisan coffee shop, the scent of roasted coffee beans filling the air as she approached the counter. Tim, a lanky barista, struggled with the coffee machine, his hands trembling under her sharp gaze, still adjusting to his first week on the job. “One latte, no sugar, and make it quick,” she ordered harshly. “I’m in a hurry, so don’t waste my time.”

Tim nodded nervously, nearly spilling the milk as he prepared her order. “Right away, ma’am, it’s coming up,” he said, his voice unsteady as he hurried to comply.

Cynthie took the latter, noticing a slight foam imperfection. “What the hell is this? Do better next time,” she scowled at him, although something held her back from unleashing a more explosive tirade. She left without a tip, her mind already on the files she needed to organize to impress her boss.

Outside the mid-tier firm’s glass-fronted building, a disheveled homeless man sat on the cracked sidewalk, his tattered brown coat draped over his knee, a dented tin cup resting beside him. His gray hair hung in matted clumps, his beard scruffy, but his sharp eyes locked onto Cynthie with unsettling clarity. “Spare some change, miss?” he asked, his voice low and deliberate, carrying a weight that seemed out of place for his ragged appearance. “A little kindness could go a long way.”

Cynthie halter, her pink lips parting in annoyance at the homeless man’s audacity. “Spare me your useless advice,” she said dismissively. “If you had any brains, you wouldn’t be begging on the street outside my office.” She reached for a dollar to toss into his cup, but stopped herself. She couldn’t be seen to support the vagrants of the community.

The homeless man’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice remained calm. “I see there is still work to do to soften that heart of yours,” he said pointedly. “See you tomorrow.”

Cynthie’s retort caught in her throat as a sudden shudder coursed through her entire body, a chilling sensation that prickled her skin to her dark-colored scalp to her toes, like a cold breeze had slipped beneath her blouse. She dismissed it as a draft from the nearby Pacific, pushing through the glass doors into the firm’s modest lobby.

The office was a far cry from the grandeur Cynthie believed she deserved, its beige walls and fluorescent lights a stark reminder that her climb up the ladder wasn’t complete. She settled into her cluttered desk, surrounded by colleagues who offered polite nods but whispered denigrating thoughts of her ambitions behind her back.

She opened her drawer, pulling out case files to organize with meticulous care, her mind sharp despite the monotonous task. When her pervy boss approached, his eyes lingering on her blouse’s feminine bow, she forced a smile. “The deposition summaries are ready for your review, sir,” she said, her voice strained with false deference, hating his suggestive grin but knowing she had to endure it. She handed over the files, ignoring his comments about her appearance. Cynthie focused on her ambition, plotting her rise to a higher position, determined to ensure she didn’t have to work for such a slimy boss ever again.

❖

The Secretary

Cindi Jones trudged down Wilshire Boulevard in downtown Los Angeles, her form-fitting black dress clinging to her curvy figure, the tight fabric accentuating her C-cup bust and rounded hips in a way that made her scowl with resentment. The morning sun cast muted reflections off the small office buildings, their worn facades blending with the gritty street noise of honking cars and chattering pedestrians in casual work attire.

Her shoulder-length hair, now medium brown with prominent blonde highlights, fell in loose curls that bounced with each unsteady step, the flashy style a stark departure from her preferred simplicity and a constant irritation. She wore winged eyeliner, glossy coral lipstick, and shimmery eyeshadow, the bold makeup mandated by her boss’s expectations, making her feel like a painted doll rather than a professional. Dangly earrings, a sparkly bracelet, and a small hair clip adorned her, chosen to meet workplace demands rather than her own desires. To the 30-year-old secretary, the world was a tiresome obstacle course, and she had no patience for those who cluttered her path, though she forced a bubbly smile at work to keep her job.

Cindi’s role as a secretary at a small office off Wilshire Boulevard defined her existence, her low hourly wage barely covering rent in a cramped studio apartment, a far cry from the wealth she inexplicably felt entitled to. Her posture carried a forced cheerfulness, masking her deep frustration at her diminished status and her boss’s leering insistence on revealing attire. In her mind, those beneath her were unworthy of her time; their presence was an annoyance she dismissed outside the office, but she played the part of a cheerful employee to avoid unemployment. She despised the tight dress and four-inch stilettos that threw off her balance, but she complied, knowing her job depended on pleasing her boss, no matter how much she loathed the oaf.

The clatter of jackhammers broke her thoughts as she approached a construction site, where a trio of roadworkers in orange vests lounged against a barricade, taking a break while their colleagues worked. The leader, Joe, a large, potbellied man with a crooked grin, let out a sharp wolf whistle. “Wow, Mama. Show us that body, sexy!” he shouted, his crude voice rising above the noise of the construction equipment.

Cindi’s hazel eyes flashed with irritation, her lips pursing as she steadied herself in her stilettos. “Get lost, you filthy creeps,” she snapped, her voice sharp but tinged with a forced restraint she had honed in her new job. She was aware that her curvy figure drew more attention than she wanted. The secretary refused to meet Joe’s gaze or acknowledge his howling companions, Mike and Dave, their leers lingering on her tight dress. To Cindi, these men were irrelevant nuisances, their crude behavior a reminder of why she deserved better than this degrading role. She adjusted her dress, hating its low neckline, and continued without a glance.

A block further, a young woman stepped into Cindi’s path, her green jacket bearing a logo for a homeless shelter, a clipboard clutched tightly in her hands. Sarah’s earnest smile faltered under Cindi’s dismissive stare, but she pressed on with determination. “Good morning, ma’am,” she said politely. “Would you consider a small donation to our charity this morning? Even a small contribution can give a poor soul a place to rest their head at night.”

Cindi stopped, her lips curling in frustration at the interruption. “I’m not your personal bank, lady,” she said harshly. “I’ve got my own bills to pay, so bother someone else.” She reached into her purse, gripping a dollar in her hand, but released it back inside its container. She was barely making ends meet. Why would she help these worthless drains on society? She brushed past the woman, ignoring Sarah’s disappointed look, her focus on the demeaning clerical tasks awaiting her at the office.

The secretary pushed through the glass doors of a modest coffee shop, the scent of roasted coffee beans filling the air as she approached the counter. Tim, a lanky barista, struggled with the espresso machine, but paused when he saw the beautiful woman in a low-cut, tight dress approach. His heart fluttered; she was gorgeous. It was Tim’s first week on the job, and he was still getting used to the equipment. “One mocha, and make it quick,” Cindi ordered, flashing a fake bubbly smile that prompted the tall man to smile. “I’ve got a busy day, so don’t keep me waiting.”

Tim nodded nervously, nearly spilling the chocolate syrup as he prepared the order. “Right away, ma’am, it’s coming right up,” he said, his voice unsteady as he hurried to comply with the stunning woman’s request.

Cindi took the mocha, noticing a slight swirl of cream that marred its surface. “This took too long. Make it faster next time,” she spat, her forced smile straining as she barely suppressed her irritation, her glossy coral lips twitching with the effort. She left without a tip, clutching her purse tightly as she exited the coffee shop, and her mind refocused on the endless phone calls and typing tasks that awaited her in the office.

Outside the small office’s glass-fronted building, a disheveled homeless man sat on the sidewalk, his tattered brown coat draped over his knee, a dented cup resting beside him. His gray hair hung in matted clumps, his beard scruffy, but his sharp eyes locked onto Cindi with unsettling clarity. “Spare some change, miss?” he asked, his voice low and deliberate, carrying a weight that seemed out of place for his ragged appearance. “A little kindness could go a long way.”

Cindi halted, her painted lips parting in annoyance at his presumption. “Save your pointless advice, old man,” she said, her voice sharp but tempered by a cheerful demeanor she had to project at work. “If you had any sense, you wouldn’t be begging on the street like a loser.” She reached into her purse, tossing a few coins into his cup to dismiss him quickly, the gesture driven by a need to maintain appearances at work rather than any genuine compassion, and turned toward the office’s glass doors.

The homeless man’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice remained calm. “That’s an improvement,” he said pointedly. “But I think we can do a little better.”

Cindi’s retort caught in her throat as a sudden shudder coursed through her entire body, a chilling sensation that prickled her skin from scalp to toes, like a cold breeze had slipped beneath her tight dress. She dismissed it as a draft from the nearby Pacific, pushing through the glass doors into the office’s cramped lobby.

The office was small but well-maintained, its polished wooden floors and modern decor a deceptive promise of professionalism that clashed with her boss’s seedy demeanor. Cindi settled at her secretary desk directly outside her boss’s office, forcing a bubbly smile as she greeted colleagues with exaggerated cheer, her glossy coral lips curving unnaturally. She opened her computer, struggling to type with her French-manicured long nails, her mind seething at the mundane tasks ahead.

When her boss emerged, his eyes raking over her tight dress, Cindi’s smile widened despite her loathing. “Good morning, sir, your schedule is ready,” she said, her voice dripping with forced enthusiasm, hating his leering grin but knowing her job hinged on this performance. As she answered calls and organized files, tottering around like a trophy on display in the office, enduring male colleagues’ comments about her ‘stunning’ appearance, Cindi’s bubbly facade masked her contempt, her focus on surviving another day in this demeaning role.

❖

The Fast Food Worker

Sindy Jonez strutted down a rundown strip off Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles, her tight red polo shirt and short black shorts clinging to her curvier figure, the snug fabric emphasizing her D-cup bust and rounded hips in a way that fueled her irritation. The morning sun cast harsh light on the littered pavement, where fast food wrapped and cigarette butts mingled with the clamor of passing buses and shouting tourists.

Her chin-length hair, now a brassy blonde with dark roots, was styled in a high, bouncy ponytail that swayed poetically with each step, the vibrant color and bold style a stark contrast to her desire for simplicity. She wore thick black eyeliner, long false eyelashes, and hot-pink lipstick; her enhanced, plump lips and glossy foundation finish gave her a doll-like appearance.

Long, neon pink acrylic nails adorned her fingers. Large hoop earrings, a neon scrunchie, and a name tag reading “Sindy” completed her look, with “fuck the patriarchy” emblazoned on the laces of her high-heeled sneakers —a defiant nod to her feminist ideals. To the 30-year-old fast food worker, the world was a chaotic mess of leering men and conformist drones, and she hated that she had to blend in.

Sindy’s role as a cashier at a fast-food joint off Wilshire Boulevard defined her existence; her minimum-wage salary barely covered rent in a rundown apartment, a far cry from the wealth she vaguely felt she was entitled to. Her posture radiated a fiery defiance, her quick tongue ready to lash out at any slight. However, she added stylish touches to her enforced uniform to stand out from the monotony. Her boss required his female staff to wear heavy makeup, stylized hair, long, painted fingernails, and special high-heeled versions of their standard-issue sneakers, believing it set his restaurant apart from the competition —a demand Sindy loathed but followed to keep her job. In her mind, men’s sexual attention was an insult to her feminist principles. Still, she grudgingly flirted for tips as a way to supplement her poor income. Her anti-conformist mindset clashed with her need to survive in a world that demanded she play the game.

The clatter of construction equipment broke Sindy’s thoughts as she approached a work site, where a trio of roadworkers in orange vests lounged against a barricade, taking a break while their colleagues continued working. The leader, Joe, a large, potbellied man with a disgusting grin, let out a sharp wolf whistle. “Shake that ass, pretty thing!” he shouted, his crude voice rising above the noise of the jackhammers.

Sindy’s hazel eyes blazed with fury, her plump lips pursing as she steadied herself in her high-heeled sneakers. “Fuck off, you disgusting pigs,” she snapped, her voice sharp and unyielding, her feminist pride fueling her rage at their leering attention. She refused to meet Joe’s gaze or acknowledge his howling companions, Mike and Dave, their eyes lingering on her tight shorts and bouncy ponytail. To Sindy, these men were the embodiment of the patriarchy she despised, their crude behavior a reminder of why she fought against conformity with her anti-patriarchy laces. She adjusted her pink scrunchie, her defiance burning, and continued without a glance.

A block further, a young woman stepped into her path, her green jacket bearing a logo for a homeless shelter, a clipboard clutched tightly in her hands. Sarah’s genuine smile faltered under Sindy’s fierce stare, but she pressed on with determination, “Good morning, ma’am,” she said politely. “Would you consider a small donation to our charity this morning? Even a small contribution could provide a meal for a homeless person in need.”

Sindy stopped, her lips curling in irritation at the interruption. “Look at me, I’m broke as hell, lady,” she said harshly, her tone biting as she rejected the conformist notion of charity. “Go find someone with actual money to waste on your pointless cause.” Nonetheless, she reached into her purse, placing a crumpled dollar into Sarah’s hand, her gesture driven by a desire to cut this interaction short. She brushed past, ignoring Sarah’s disappointed look, her focus on the grueling shift awaiting her at her workplace.

The fast-food worker pushed through the glass doors of a modest coffee shop, the scent of roasted coffee filling the air as she approached the counter. Tim, a lanky barista, struggled with the espresso machine, his hands trembling under her sharp gaze, still adjusting to his first week on the job. “One regular coffee with cream, and I’m already running late, so hurry up,” she ordered before flashing a quick, flirty smile that had become second-nature since she had started her job.

Tim nodded nervously, nearly spilling the cream as he prepared her order whilst staring at the stunning woman. “Right away, ma’am, it’s coming up,” he said, his voice unsteady as he hurried to comply.

Sindy took the coffee, noticing a slight spill on the cup’s rim but swallowing a harsher retort to maintain her charm. “Just do it faster next time, loser,” she said, her flirty smile fading into a scowl as she struggled to keep up her customer-service facade for long. She left without a tip, clutching her purse as she exited the coffee shop, her mind already on the rude customers she would face at the fast-food joint.

Outside the restaurant’s glass-fronted building, a disheveled homeless man sat on the cracked sidewalk, his tattered brown coat draped over his knee, a dented tin cup resting beside him. His gray hair hung in matted clumps, his beard scruffy, but his sharp eyes locked onto Sindy with unsettling clarity. “Spare some change, miss?” he asked his voice low and deliberate, carrying a weight that seemed out of place for his ragged appearance. “A little kindness could go a long way.”

Sindy halted, her slightly enhanced lips parting in annoyance. “Whatever, creep, get a damn job like the rest of us,” she said defiantly. She tossed a dollar into his cup to dismiss him quickly and turned toward the restaurant’s glass doors.

The homeless man’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice remained calm. “A little better, girl,” he said pointedly. “You’re coming along nicely.”

Sindy’s retort caught in her throat as a sudden shudder coursed through her entire body, a chilling sensation that prickled her skin from her dark-rooted scalp to her toes, like a cold breeze that had slipped beneath her tight uniform. She dismissed it as a draft from the nearby Pacific, pushing through the glass doors into the restaurant’s busy interior.

Her workplace was a chaotic swirl of greasy fryers and screaming kids, its checkered floors and bright signage a stark contrast to the upscale offices Sindy inexplicably felt she deserved. She settled behind the counter, forcing a fake smile as she greeted customers with exaggerated cheer, her neon scrunchie adding a touch of flair to her uniform. At the same time, her perverted boss watched his female staff work, his leering gaze lingering on her tight shorts.

When a customer complained about his burger being too cold, Sindy pursed her lips and tempered her rage at the entitled customer. She gritted her teeth, knowing her far slob of a boss was watching her closely, and replied to the customer. “Of course, let me take care of that for you,” she said reluctantly, her long nails outstretched to grab the burger and hand the man a replacement. As she punched orders on the register and pocketed meager tips, Sindy’s defiant spirit burned, hoping that this wasn’t where she’d spend the rest of her life.

❖

The Topless Waitress

Candi Jonez tottered down a seedy strip far from Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles, her sparkly gold bikini top and black vinyl hot pants barely covering her surgically enhanced figure, the revealing outfit exposing the curve of her E-cup implants and narrow waist in a way that deepened her self-loathing. The early afternoon sun glared off the neon signs and grimy bar facades, the littered pavement strewn with broken bottles and faded flyers amidst the din of revving motorcycles and shouting drunks.

Her long platinum extensions, cascading to her mid-back in voluminous curls, bounced with each unsteady step, the prominent style a painful contrast to her fading sense of dignity. She wore smoky eyeshadow, heavy contouring, and glossy bubblegum-pink lipstick, her aggressive lip fillers and extra-long false lashes amplifying her doll-like appearance. Rhinestone choker, bangle bracelets, and a rose tattoo on her lower back adorned her. At the same time, six-inch silver platform heels forced a provocative strut. To the 30-year-old topless waitress, the world was a punishing trap of her own making. She rued her attraction to disgusting, perverted bad boys who always led her to ruin, yet found nice men too boring to spark any feeling, leaving her stuck in unhealthy relationships.

Candi’s role as a topless waitress at a sports bar in Los Angeles’ grittiest district defined her existence, her low wage and reliance on tips barely sustaining her in a cheap, shared apartment, a distant echo of the wealth she vaguely felt entitled to. Her posture sagged with resignation, her natural flirtation a reflex from years of bar work, though she despised her boss’s demands for surgeries like breast implants and lip fillers to boost her tips and his income, believing she was too unintelligent for any better job. In her mind, her bad decisions had landed her here, and while she longed for a kind, stable man to rescue her, it was the bad boys’ crude allure that drew her despite her hatred.

The clatter of construction equipment broke her thoughts as she approached a work site, where a trio of roadworkers in orange vests lounged against a barricade, taking a break while their colleagues labored. The leader, Joe, a burly man with a leering grin, let out a sharp wolf whistle. “Show us those tits, honey!” he shouted, his crude voice rising above the noise of jackhammers.

Candi’s hazel eyes flashed with anger, her plump lips pursing as she steadied herself on her platform heels. “Screw you, assholes,” she snapped, her voice thick with resentment, yet the glint in her eye and the provocative sway of her hips told the group a different story; she enjoyed their attention. She refused to meet Joe’s gaze or acknowledge his howling companions, Mike and Dave, their leers lingering on her exposed cleavage and tight hot pants. To Candi, these men were exactly the type she always fell for, their crude allure a trap she despised but couldn’t escape, unlike the stable men she wished she could desire. She adjusted her bikini top and continued without a glance.

A block further, a young woman stepped into her path, her green jacket bearing a logo for a homeless shelter, a clipboard clutched in her hands. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” she said politely. “Would you consider a small donation to our charity today? Even a small contribution can give shelter to a poor, deserving soul.”

Candi stopped, her lips curling in frustration at the interruption. “I got nothin’ to spare, lady,” she groaned, her tone subdued by resignation. “I’m barely makin’ rent as it is.” She reached into her purse, pulling out a few crumpled bills and handing them to Sarah. “Look, that’s all I got,” she said before brushing past the woman, ignoring Sarah’s sympathetic look, her focus returning to the degrading shift that awaited her at the sports bar.

Candi pushed through the glass door of an artisan coffee shop, the scent of rich, roasted coffee beans filling the air as she approached the counter. Tim, a lanky barista, struggled with the espresso machine, his hands trembling under the beautiful bikini-clad woman’s gaze, still adjusting to his first week on the job. “One iced coffee with sugar, and make it quick,” she ordered, batting her lashes with a practiced, sultry smile, hoping the gesture would land her a free drink. “I got a long shift ahead, so make it quick.”

Tim nodded nervously, nearly spilling the ice as he prepared her order, his eyes lingering on her revealing bikini top. “Right away, ma’am. It’s coming up,” he said, his voice unsteady as he hurried to comply with the stunning woman’s request.

Candi took the iced coffee, noticing a slight overflow on the lid. Her flirtation faltered as she felt no spark for Tim’s kind demeanor, unlike the dangerous allure of men like Joe. “Don’t stare, perv,” she snapped, her sultry smile fading into a scowl as her resentment surfaced. She left without a tip, clutching as she exited the coffee shop, her mind already on the leering patrons she would face at her workplace.

Outside the sports bar’s neon-lit entrance, a disheveled homeless man sat on the dusty sidewalk, his tattered brown coat draped over his knee, a dented tin cup resting beside him. His gray hair hung in matted clumps, his beard scruffy, but his sharp eyes locked onto Candi with unsettling clarity. “Spare some change, miss?” he asked, his voice low and deliberate, carrying a weight that seemed out of place for his ragged appearance. “A little kindness could go a long way.”

Candi halted, her plump, glossy lips parting in irritation. “You’re a weird old guy, you know that?” she muttered, her tone mocking but tinged with rehearsed flirtation. She tossed a five-dollar bill into his cup to dismiss him quickly, a gesture driven by a need for approval rather than compassion, and turned to the bar’s entrance.

The homeless man’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice remained calm. “Almost there, sweetheart,” he said pointedly. “You’re learning, and it suits you.”

Candi’s retort caught in her throat as a sudden shudder coursed through her entire body, a chilling sensation that prickled her skin from her platinum dyed scalp to her toes, like a cold breeze had slipped beneath her bikini top. She dismissed it as a draft from the nearby Pacific, pushing through the bar’s entrance into its dimly lit interior.

The sports bar was a seedy haze of cigarette smoke and blaring TVs, its sticky floors and worn booths a stark contrast to the upscale offices Candi inexplicably felt she deserved. She removed her sparkly gold bikini top, her E-cup implants exposed as she got to work, forcing a sultry smile to serve leering patrons.

Her boss approached, his eyes glinting as he squeezed the waitress’s breasts together, grinning sleazily. “How’re my puppies doing today, Candi?” he asked, his voice dripping with perversion. Candi gritted her teeth, her stomach churning at his touch, but flashed a flirtatious smile. “They’re doin’ great, boss, thanks for gettin’ them for me!” she purred, her voice thick with false charm, desperate to keep her job despite the loathing of her lowly position. As she balanced trays, dodging gropes while pocketing tips, her heart sank at her attraction to bad boys like her boss over the nice men she wished she could want, hoping that her fortunes would turn at some point. She was right, but not in the way she had anticipated.

❖

The Stripper

Candy Kisses tottered down a neon-lit strip far from Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles, her glittery pink G-string and heart-shaped pasties barely covering her hyper-sexual figure, the scant outfit showcasing her F-cup implants and surgically cinched waist in a way that filled her with bubbly pride. The evening lights pulsed off the garish club signs and sticky pavement, littered with crumpled flyers and empty liquor bottles, amidst the roar of motorcycles and laughter from staggering drunks.

Her waist-length hair, platinum blonde with pink streaks, was styled in big, bouncy curls that danced with each enthusiastic step, the vibrant style a perfect match for her joyful demeanor. She wore neon pink eyeshadow, dramatic cat-eye liner, and metallic-look candy pink lipgloss, her massive lip fillers and permanent makeup creating a doll-like face, with stiletto-shaped metallic pink acrylics adorned with gems, a clit piercing protruding against her g-string, a navel piercing with a dangling heart-shaped charm, and a permanent butterfly tattoo on her lower back. Seven-inch clear platform heels with glowing LED soles lit up her path, amplifying her giddy strut. To the 30-year-old stripper, the world was a playground where her purpose was to bring pleasure and happiness to everyone around her, and she embraced every moment with naive enthusiasm, oblivious to any insult.

Candy’s role as a stripper at Platinum Dollz, a sleazy club in Los Angeles’ seediest district, defined her existence, her income from tips and stage fees barely sustaining her tiny, rundown apartment. Her posture radiated a bubbly energy; her every gesture was designed to delight others, her ditzy smile a reflex of her mission to spread happiness. In her mind, her surgically enhanced body and provocative outfits were gifts to make everyone smile. She thrived on attention, never perceiving leers or slights as anything but adoration, her naive heart set on pleasing everyone around her.

The clatter of construction equipment broke her thoughts as she approached a work site, where a trio of roadworkers in orange vests lounged against a barricade, taking a break while their colleagues continued to work. The leader, Joe, a burly man with a predatory grin, let out a sharp wolf whistle. “Dance for us, Candy!” he shouted, his crude voice rising above the noise of the jackhammers. He was a regular at the club, and Candy’s heart fluttered as she tottered past.

Candy’s hazel eyes sparkled with delight, her huge lips curving into a giddy smile as she twirled her pink-streaked hair. “Like, totally,  see you at the club, Joey!” she chirped, her valley girl lilt bubbling with enthusiasm as she blew him a kiss, her ass swaying playfully as if she were giving him a taste of what was to come. She giggled at Joe and his howling companions, Mike and Dave, whose leers met with her radiant joy, seeing their attention as the ultimate compliment. To Candy, these men were fans eager for her performance, and she loved making them happy, her heart soaring at the thought of seeing Joe at Platinum Dollz later. She adjusted her heart-shaped pasties to cover her nipples, giggling at their sparkle, and continued with a practiced skip in her high-heeled step.

A block further, a young woman stepped into her path, her green jacket bearing a logo for a homeless shelter, a clipboard clutched tightly in her hands. Sarah’s genuine smile remained under Candy’s vacant, beaming stare, and she pressed on. “Good evening, ma’am,” she said politely. “Would you consider a small donation to our charity tonight? Even a small contribution could provide a meal for someone in need.” It was evident that Candy’s outlandish appearance made the woman uncomfortable.

Candy stopped, her huge lips parting in an enthusiastic squeal. “Oh my gosh, like, I’m super broke, sweetie!” she said, her tone dripping with bubbly sincerity, oblivious to Sarah’s discomfort. “But I totally wanna help those poor, sexy men!” She opened her purse and rustled around, her stiletto-shaped pink nails pulling out a handful of discount cards for Platinum Dollz with Candy’s name on them. “Like, give them these and I’d be happy to put a smile on their faces.” She tottered on, ignoring Sarah’s surprised expression, her focus returning to the super fun shift awaiting her at the club later tonight.

Candy pushed through the glass doors of a small coffee shop, the scent of roasted coffee beans filling the air as she approached the counter. Tim, a lanky barista, struggled with the espresso machine, his hands trembling under the practically naked bimbo’s dazzling smile, still adjusting as he entered his second week on the job. “Like, one caramel frappuccino, cutie!” she ordered, pouting playfully with a giggle. “Like, take your time. I know you have, like, a super hard job.”

Tim nodded nervously, nearly spilling the whipped cream as he prepared her order, his eyes lingering on her scant outfit and round, gravity-defying breasts. “Right away, ma’am, it’s coming up,” he said.

Candy took the caramel frappuccino, giggling at the frothy cream spilling over the side of the cup. “Oh my gosh, it’s like, totally perfect!” she chirped before parting her huge, glossy lips and licking the excess cream with a slutty, suggestive flicker of her tongue. Tim adjusted his pants after witnessing Candy’s display, and when she attempted to pay, he shook his head and told her this one was on the house. Men were always so friendly, she thought to herself as she giggled, thanked him, and tottered out of the shop.

Outside Platinum Dollz’s neon-lit entrance, a disheveled homeless man sat on the sticky sidewalk, his tattered brown coat draped over his knee, a dented tin cup resting beside him. His gray hair hung in matted clumps, his beard scruffy, but his sharp eyes locked onto Candy with unsettling clarity. “Spare some change, miss?” he asked, his voice low and deliberate, carrying a weight that seemed out of place for his ragged appearance. “A little kindness could go a long way.”

Candy halted, her oversized lips parting in a delighted squeal. “Like, oh my gosh, of course, mister!” she chirped enthusiastically. “I, like, don’t have much cash, but you can take this and I’ll give you, like, a freebie inside,” she slipped a ten-dollar bill into his cup, giggling at the chance to make him smile and tottered toward the club’s entrance, her LED heels flashing with each step.

The homeless man’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice remained calm. “You’ve found your place, Candy,” he said pointedly. “Perfectly appropriate.”

Candy giggled, twirling her pink-streaked hair. “Like, thanks, mister!” she said, blowing him a kiss as she entered the club’s pulsing interior.

Platinum Dollz was a chaotic swirl of thumping bass and flashing strobe lights, its mirrored walls and sticky floors vibrating with the cheers of perverted patrons. Candy headed to the changing room, standing before a brightly lit mirror as she touched up her perpetually pouting lips with more candy pink lip gloss, puckering with a delighted giggle at her overtly sexualized reflection.

The creak of the door sounded behind her. The homeless man from outside the club stepped in, his tattered coat melting away as his appearance transformed into a sharp-suited man with slicked-back hair and a self-confident grin before the stripper’s very eyes. Candy stared at him in the mirror, her vacant eyes sparkling. “Like, what can I do for you, cutie?” she chirped, her tone eager to please, her heart fluttering at the chance to make him happy, oblivious to his sudden change in appearance.

The suited man approached closer and suddenly clicked his fingers with an audible snap. A jolt surged through Candy’s mind, her bubbly persona fading as Cynthia Jones, the high-powered lawyer, returned, staring at her stripper image in horror. “What the fuck?” She exclaimed. “What the hell happened to me?” the woman demanded, her voice sharp with panic as her hands clutched her F-cup implants while staring at her heavily made-up face and flowing platinum hair.

The man approached, his grin unwavering as he leaned closer. “You’ve become someone who cares about the pleasure of others, Cynthia,” he said, his voice smooth and commanding. “That’s richer than any money you used to hold, wouldn’t you agree?”

Cynthia’s hazel eyes blazed with fury, her lips parting to protest. “This is outrageous! I’m a corporate lawyer! I’m Cynthia fucking Jones, not some brainless bimbo tart! Switch me back right now!” she shouted, her voice trembling with desperation as she stared at her reflection, her tattoo and piercings a mockery of her former professional image.

The man smiled. “I’d have loved to,” he said smoothly. “But, unfortunately, you failed the test.” With his final comment, he clicked his fingers again, and Candy’s bubbly personality flooded back, her vacant smile returning as she giggled at the man.

“Oh my gosh, like, you’re so totally hot!” Candy chirped, her lilt brimming with excitement as she twirled her pink-streaked hair, oblivious to the jolt that had just shaken her. “Wanna, like, quick dance before my shift, cutie?” She batted her long lashes, her heart soaring at the chance to make the man happy, her purpose to spread joy overwhelming any trace of Cynthia’s panic.

The sharp-suited man handed her a hundred-dollar bill, his grin widening with satisfaction. “Lead the way, Candy,” he said, his voice smooth and commanding, his eyes glinting with amusement as he followed her lead.

The bimbo squealed with delight, grabbing his hand and leading him toward a private booth, her platform heels flashing as she swayed to the thumping bass of the club. “This is, like, gonna be so super fun!” she chirped, pushing the man onto a chair and straddling his lap, pushing her oversized breasts in his face. Candy’s vacant smile radiated pure joy as she danced for the man, her movements sultry and enthusiastic, her heart soaring at the chance to make everyone happy.

Inside, Cynthia screamed, banging away inside her mind, her lawyer’s intellect clawing desperately for control. Her original personality had no longer disappeared; the former homeless man had trapped it inside the bimbo’s head, watching every action through the stripper’s eyes, but with no control of her own.

Back on the main floor, the crowd tossed tips in adoration. Candy giggled louder, pocketing them down the side of her G-string with a delighted squeal, her routine of tantalizing men and hoping one of them would take her home at the end of the night to fuck her senseless was a joyful ritual. Cynthia had no choice in the matter. This was Candy’s life now, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

The End