Ch 1 - Good Girls Don’t Leak
Stripper Terri is trying to survive as a hispanic girl in white supremacist New Confederacy. Rumor is the regime experiment on her and other hispanic and black girls. That is why she has such huge tits and high sex drive.
The lights backstage at Chocolate Tits & Honey Hips flickered with the same low buzz as Terri Moreno’s nerves. Fluorescents always made her skin look too yellow, too shiny, and the glitter lotion she’d rubbed on her cleavage only made it worse. She adjusted her top, pulling the fabric up higher even though it never stayed put. The lace bit into her shoulders from the weight of her breasts—big, soft, aching. They felt heavier than usual tonight.
“Girl, you look like a glazed donut,” Foxy said, fanning her with a rolled-up flyer. “You gonna slip off the pole again.”
Terri smirked. “If I do, I’m takin’ Zane with me.”
Foxy cackled. "That boy been starin' at your tits since Tuesday. He probably got your nipple burned into his retinas."
Terri sighed and turned toward the mirror. She dabbed under her armpits with a paper towel, but the real problem was lower. Her bra felt warm and damp. She pinched the edge of her cup, peeked. Wet. Not soaked. Manageable. But if the light hit her wrong onstage...
She slipped two pantyliners into her bra cups.
“Still leakin’?” Foxy asked, tone soft now.
“It’s just sweat.”
“Sweat don’t smell like powdered milk, baby.”
They shared a quick laugh, the kind that ends before it can turn into something heavy. Foxy went back to adjusting her thigh-highs. Terri stepped out toward the velvet curtain, heart pounding. The music started—slow, bass-heavy, lewd.
Zane was in his usual spot, second seat from the edge, one boot up on the rail like he thought he owned the place. His grin spread wide as Terri stepped onto the stage. She hated the way he smiled. Like her body belonged to him just because he watched it more than anyone else.
She swung around the pole, let her hips roll slow, deliberate. Her thighs trembled with the friction of her own skin. She was wet already, but not from nerves. That was the worst part.
Her body liked this.
DOLL-2, whatever the hell it was they shot her up with when she was fifteen, had done its job. Back then, they called it a booster. Something for HPV or bone density or God-knows-what. Every girl in her school got it. And every black and brown girl filled out like a porn star before sophomore year.
Terri learned fast to stop asking questions.
The state said girls like her were just naturally built that way. Caramel curves, natural heat. It was cultural, they said. In the music. In the blood. On TV, in ads, in cheap porn.
She knew better.
But that didn’t stop her body from reacting every time a beat dropped and a hundred eyes landed on her.
Backstage, she peeled off her bra. Her nipples were swollen, sensitive, a thin bead of milk glistening on one. She wiped it away before anyone else could see.
“You ever think about leavin’?” Terri asked.
Foxy didn’t look up. “Every damn day.”
“I mean really leavin’. Disappearing.”
Foxy finally met her eyes. “Girl, you ain’t even left the county. You think you gonna outrun this system with a Greyhound ticket and leaky tits?”
Terri laughed bitterly. “Maybe if I put on a fake mustache.”
Foxy grinned. “Better make it big. Like Colton’s ego.”
Colton was at the bar tonight, nursing a whiskey, eyes never leaving Foxy. He played it like he wasn’t watching. Cool, quiet, real Marlboro Man shit. But his knuckles were white on the glass.
