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The sun doesn’t reach this deep into Coruscant but, barring the increasingly common power outages, it’s never actually dark. Everything is bathed in humming streetlights that add a faded orange to the cacophony of ugly neon. The first time Fox had come here with his bucket it had given him a headache that had lingered along his temples for hours.
He’s adjusted, but he still misses his bucket, though it’s been almost two years since he wore it. It will have been thoroughly audited for any hints as to what could have caused his sudden desertion, and ultimately destroyed when they found nothing. He still thinks of it as slotted away in his locker next to his armour.
Fox had once thought himself above idle fantasy, but in the humid warmth caused by the struggling ventilation of the lower levels, his t-shirt clinging wetly to his back, he fantasises about his armour. He needs something to fill his shifts. Hakish, the other bouncer working the door, is as much of a conversationalist as Fox is.
The brothel he bouncers for is sandwiched between another brothel and an unlicensed casino. Nothing down here has the licences they’re supposed to. The whole area is clubs, gambling, whoring, and drug dens, with more than enough clientele to keep all of them in business despite the high competition.
Fox would rather have worked for a club, but his options had been limited. His now boss had said it was the brothel or nothing.
He might not have left the Empire if he’d know this is what was waiting for him.
A pair walk up to the door, muttering to each other in Twi. Fox has never seen them before, but they’re familiar with how it works. They shove credits into his hand and offer up no ID. No words are exchanged.
Fox was bred for more than this. It used to make him angry. Now it just exhausts him.
He’s so tired. He’s been tired for months, a slow creeping thing caused by bad sleep and worse days. He needs to get out of here. The rent for the damp cupboard his landlady has the audacity to call an apartment eats up most of his meagre paycheck, but he doesn’t want for much. Another year and he’ll have saved enough for a fake ID that will fool the idiots the Empire allows into the army these days and a ticket to somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
Fox yawns, and Hakish grunts in agreement. He’s a large togruta who would tower over almost anyone Fox has ever met; his presence alone is enough to convince most people to behave. It’s a dull job, and even the occasional scuffles fail to break up the monotony. And that’s if they are even called inside before Yoral and the other two bouncers prowling around the brothel floor deal with any trouble.
Fox yawns again, staring up towards the higher levels as if he might catch a glimpse of the sky.
He’s too bored for this early in the shift. He didn’t used to be so restless. He also used to believe in what he was doing.
Hakish straightens up, and Fox rips his attention back to the level they’re on, and not the ones he used to be.
It’s a familiar group. Four human men amble down the street towards them. They pause briefly, the decision as to which establishment they should stink up is made by a handsome man with an air of money the others lack. The rest follow his lead eagerly. Their willingness to obey will be the trait that has him socialising below his station.
Fucking Imperials.
They might not wear their uniforms, but they hold themselves like soldiers and sometimes let ranks slip out instead of names: a group of lieutenants and the captain they trail after. They aren’t the only imperials down here, but they are the ones they see the most of in this brothel. The Imperials are vermin, scurrying their way into any hole they can find. This area of the city appeals to them, lets them enjoy freedom from the laws they enforce.
The captain saunters over to them, ignoring Hakish entirely. He leers at Fox, his eyes dragging down Fox’s body and back up, always ready to pick a fight but never with the man a foot taller than him.
“Pleasure as always,” the captain says. The only pleasure they’ll ever have together is when the captain finally steps out of line enough that Fox can throw him out on his ass.
His fingers brush over Fox’s palm as he passes over the credits. Fox doesn’t react. They beat reacting out of him before he left Kamino.
With a final smirk, the captain leads his subordinates inside.
“Smug shits,” Hakish mutters. No one likes the Imperials. But this part of the planet didn’t much like Republic soldiers either.
But inside they’re Yoral’s problem, and not Fox and Hakish’s.
The night creeps on, nothing visibly changing, the artificial lights consistent, and the people coming and going the same in all the ways that matter. Most people barely talk to them, just hand over their credits and scurry inside to people they aren’t much interested in talking to either.
Fox yawns again.
Maybe he’s so tired because he’s not working out as much anymore. He’s lost a little of his bulk across his shoulders and arms only to gain it back in less advantageous places. Fox’s jeans are tight around his hips, the belt digging into his skin. The food down here doesn’t agree with him. The cheap stuff is packed with grease to mask its lack of anything else, and he’s putting on weight. He’s carrying extra fat on his chest and around his waist leaving his clothes ill fitting.
He can’t afford to replace them.
He works, he sleeps, he eats. He doesn’t have the energy for much else. He needs to find it or he’ll be out of a job.
There’s a tap on his shoulder.
The girl is barely dressed, tiny shorts low on her hips, chest bare except for a bra so small the dark of her nipples peek out the sides. She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself.
“Boss wants to talk to you,” the girl says, and flees the cold without further explanation.
Fox meets Hakish’s eye, but only gets a shrug. Fox rubs at his chest, and follows the girl inside. She’s already vanished—every minute she’s not working is tips out of her pay—but Fox doesn’t need a guide. He moves around the edge of the main room, avoiding looking as much as he can. Privacy during sex was a natborn hangup, clones had been fucking in the same rooms as their friends since the moment they’d figured out how their dicks worked, but the brothel feels different. The blank, exhausted eyes of the whores, even while their mouths smile and theiry’re voices moan, causes a sharp unease in Fox that’s hard to shake.
The door to Nuler’s office is behind the bar, up a narrow set of stairs that are as sticky as every floor in the building.
Fox knocks and waits to be invited in.
Outside of a standing weekly appointment where he collects his pay—a stack of credits that doesn’t appear on the books—he’s rarely in Nuler’s office. He's a tall, skinny human, with a head that’s slightly too big for the rest of him, making him look oddly top heavy. He owns half the street making him one of the most influential men in the entire level.
He looks up at Fox, eyes pinching with annoyance despite Fox only being here by his invitation.
“Fox. We’re short on the floor. I need you to serve drinks,” he says, flicking at one of the many datapads on his desk. Fox could have had an entire unit going through this man’s files for a month and barely scratched the surface of his dealings.
“I’m not a whore,” Fox says flatly.
Nuler frowns. It’s unclear if that’s aimed at Fox or what he’s reading. “No one said you were, which is why I have told Athe to dance and you to wait his tables. Unless you’d prefer to dance.”
“I’m a bouncer.”
The datapad is slammed back to the table; that’s definitely aimed at Fox. “I do not have time to discuss this. I require flexibility in my employees. Serve drinks or go home.”
They both know Fox can’t afford to lose this job, not when Nuler can make it very difficult for him to find another.
“Just serving drinks,” Fox says, though the pretence that he has any say in this does nothing to soothe how pathetic he feels to be so powerless before a man like this. “And only this once.”
“Yes, yes.” Nuler flicks a hand dismissively. “Go to the backroom, someone will bring you a uniform.”
“What uniform?”
Nuler’s jaw clenches, but his voice remains light. “You can’t be stomping about in those heavy boots of yours. Now, I’m very busy so unless you have any further questions…?”
Fox used to say that. Like the troopers he said it to, he’s wise enough not to have any further questions either.
The backroom is thankfully empty, only his reflection in the large mirror that dominates one wall to judge him. Everyone working has already changed, the only sign that they were here their clothes in piles in lockers that don’t lock or left out on the benches.
Nuler better not be expecting him to be friendly. He can serve drinks but he can’t do it happily.
The twi’lek who sticks his head into the backroom started at the same time as Fox, but Fox isn’t sure they’ve ever spoken. His pants are so tight that even soft his cock strains against the material
“Uniform for you.” He pushes a bundle of clothes into Fox’s arms.
Fox’s eyes bulge. “This isn’t— I’m just serving drinks.”
“Boss says we’re losing money with our numbers down. If you’re not going to put out, you need to be nice to look at.” He might even sound sympathetic. He might just sound bored.
“I can’t wear this. I’m a bouncer, the clientele need to respect me if I’m going to do my job.” They’ll never respect him again if he steps outside in even a single piece of this.
The twi’lek shrugs. “Boss’s orders.”
If Fox had better choices he’d walk. He doesn’t have better choices, and everyone here knows it.
“Be quick. You put the boss in a bad mood.” The twi’lek vanishes as quickly as he’d arrived.
Whenever Fox thinks he’s fallen as far from a respected commander of the GAR as it’s possible to fall, the galaxy appears to shove him into an even deeper pit.
He holds up the panties, his face flushing with colour.
Fox has faced worse with his head held high. He’ll do this, keep his mouth shut and start looking for a new job. As long as he leaves on good enough terms that Nuler doesn’t go scorched earth he’ll be able to find something. He still shoves the panties—and the rest of the clothing—quickly aside and avoids eye contact.
Fox folds his clothes as he takes them off—delaying the inevitable—putting them in a neat pile next to one of the whore’s civilian clothing. He takes a couple of anxious seconds to steel himself to face the clothing again, unconvincingly trying to persuade himself that they’re probably not as bad as they looked at first glance.
He looks back at them. They are.
If he lets himself hesitate anymore he might lose his nerve. As humiliating as the clothes are, it would be more humiliating to be too cowardly to wear some embarrassing clothes.
The panties go on first. The red and black lace hugs his hips, tight over his crotch but not as tight as he was expecting. The back only covers the top part of his ass before tapering to vanish between his ass cheeks. Discomfort at the unfamiliar style aside, they fit better than the pair he was wearing before which were stretched over the weight he’s put on around his hips and ass.
Fox catches sight of himself in the mirror and grabs the skirt, pulling it on to cover the sight. Why can’t he just wear his own underwear? No one is going to see it anyway.
The skirt is short and made of plastically fake leather. The hem falls high on his thighs and no amount of tugging at it can get it to sit lower. He takes one look at the boots—thigh high platform boots in the style commonly worn amongst the women working the corners around his dingy apartment building—and decides to leave them to the end.
He picks up the bra and almost regrets that choice. It’s made of the same skimpy lace as the panties. The cups have padding in them, but only along the bottom. He’s going to look ridiculous.
Fox slides the straps up his arms, avoiding the humiliating shape of his reflection as he reaches up his back to fasten it. It takes him three tries but finally the latches catch. The padding sits under the fat over his pecs, pushing it up and together. It looks… It doesn’t look like his body. He needs to keep going. He lifts his eyes from the illusion the bra has cast over his pecs. He doesn’t want to see himself like this.
The shirt barely helps. The white material stretches as he puts it on, going thin and semi-transparent. It doesn’t go low enough to meet the skirt, leaving two inches of bare skin and the neckline plunges, showing off the way his pecs have been pushed together into something resembling a cleavage and far more of the bra than he’d like. Even the parts of the bra that the shirt does cover aren’t hidden, the red and black showing clearly through the cheap material.
He was foolish to expect anything different.
He sits to put on the boots, the skirt pulling higher up his legs with the movement. He’s going to have to be careful how he moves or people will see the panties after all. The boots, like everything else, are the right size and they go on easier than he’d feared. The zip runs along the inside from the sole halfway up his calf, pulling them secure. With a hand on the wall, he stands. They add at least half a foot to his height and leave him off balance and clumsy. Half the new height is in the thickness of the soles alone, but the rest comes from the heel, pushing his weight onto the balls of his feet.
Fox has given up so much of his life as a soldier, but the boots had been something he’d refused to compromise on, taking a pair with him when he left. He’s never worn anything like these. He takes an unsteady step, wobbles, but stays standing. His reflection stares out accusingly. He shouldn’t look, it won’t help. He stares.
It would be an exaggeration to say he doesn’t recognise himself, but he looks wrong. He looks feminine. He doesn’t like that a change of clothes is able to make him look so different.
One of Thorn’s captains had been a woman and had been taking something she definitely hadn’t been getting from the medics. It had changed her slowly, the details hard to pick out, but the overall impression more and more feminine.
Fox had pretended not to notice to avoid the fallout noticing would have brought.
He looks like her.
His stomach rolls. He isn’t sick but the nausea climbs and lingers in his throat. He’ll find another job. He’ll slink down to even deeper levels if he has to. It’ll mean it’s years before he can leave, but that’s preferable to this.
What he has to do on the lower levels might be even worse than this.
He looks exactly like the whores who work here. Worse, he looks like one of the ones not pretty enough to land a job in a club, relegated to soliciting on the street. Fox pitied them.
The twi’lek doesn’t knock, sticking his head back around the door. “You’re ready? Good.” He pushes the door the rest of the way open, tilting his head impatiently when Fox doesn’t move. How can he move?
“Keeping him waiting won’t help,” the twi’lek says, and it’s almost kind. It’s also correct.
Fox shuffles to the door, swaying on the absurd heels. The twi’lek doesn’t let him hesitate in the doorway, moving up behind him to shepherd him forward. The door closing behind him is loud and final.
The room is busier than he remembers, crowds of people lounging at the booths and tables, some with whores sitting amongst them laughing and flirting, others watching the dances, trying to tempt them to come and join their table. It’ll only get busier as it gets later. Hundreds of people are going to see Fox stripped of his masculinity and dressed like a whore.
People already are. He’s directly behind the bar. Anyone can look at him. And people do look. Mostly glances, but some eyes linger, some paired with nasty smiles that he’s seen directed at the whores working here but never at him.
“You clean up nice,” the twi’lek says. Is that supposed to be comforting? Glaring at the twi’lek at least gives Fox something to look at that isn’t the people looking at him. Nonplussed, the twi’lek hands Fox a tray and a stained cloth. “No drinks until you figure out those boots. Just walk around, pick up any empty glasses, and wipe down the tables. Table chart under the bar here. You’ll need to learn it.”
The chart is just a map of the floor, each table numbered. Fox has seen it before, already knows most of it—easier to tell the bouncer to keep an eye on the people sitting at table fourteen than to start describing people—but in this state, Fox isn’t sure he can count to ten, never mind remember the chart.
The twi’lek doesn’t wait for him to get his bearings. “If anyone asks for a drink, just note their table and let me or Shar know.”
It’s not a lot of information—and Fox used to know the ins and outs of an entire planet as well as he knew the inside of his bucket— but his head is spinning. His face burns, his heart races, shame lead in his belly.
The first time he’d worked here, stood outside in civvies instead of his armour, he’d felt almost more vulnerable than he could stand. This is worse on a scale he hadn’t known was possible.
The twi’lek puts a hand on his lower back, and pushes. It’s gentle, but the boots make Fox stumble anyway, and he has to catch himself on the bar to avoid falling.
He takes the hint.
Fox steps out from around the bar. Someone whistles. He doesn’t look to see who. If he can avoid looking at anyone, avoid memorising the faces of who exactly is witnessing his humiliation it will be easier to move past.
There’s an empty table with a dozen glasses scattered across it. It’s cowardly to avoid the inevitable, but he moves to it instead of a table still crowded with people.
The table is low, and the boots make him too tall. He reaches down, the skirt climbing up at the back, catches himself and—legs pressed together—bends at his knees instead of his waist. The panties drag uncomfortably between his cheeks, but he can’t try and adjust them, not with everyone watching. The clothes require constant vigilance, one careless move risking revealing even more of the humiliating get up to any onlookers. At least the work is easy. With anxiety making his hands clumsy and his thoughts slow, he couldn’t do complicated.
He moves the glasses onto the tray, wipes the sticky table, and brings the glasses back to the bar. Easy.
“Put them in the dishsonic,” the twi’lek says, managing to not break the seductive eye contact he’s making with the person he’s serving.
This is simple. Fox can do this. The band of bra rubs against his chest, the heat of the room causing sweat to build up under it. He wants to peel off these clothes and take his skin with them. Even if he flees the entire planet, he’ll always have to live with knowing that he agreed to this and that he’ll exist like this forever in the memories of these people.
There’s another empty table deeper into the room. It’s surrounded on all sides, but there’s a dancer up on one of the raised stages right by it. She’s far more interesting than Fox. Maybe he can—
“Can you clear these for us?” a cheerful voice asks before he can even reach the table.
It’s a mixed group, an almost equal number of humans and aliens. The one who spoke has a nasty quality to his smile. Fox has seen him before. Fox has stood solidly in between him and one of the girls until he made the correct choice and left before Fox made him leave.
Teeth clenched, Fox moves over to the table. Their eyes crawl over him as he picks up their glasses, lingering on the bra and his chest. The speaker’s slide lower, to the cruelly short skirt.
“I hope what you have on under there matches your pretty bra,” he says. He picks up his glass, holding it out to Fox. His fingers deliberately brush over Fox’s when Fox reaches for it. “You going to let me check?”
Fox pulls the glass back, taking a defencive step away from the table. The man sneers, but doesn’t follow. Fox turns, hurrying on to the empty table, roughly shoving the glasses onto the tray.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” one of the others calls after him. Fox’s face is on fire, his eyes stinging unforgivably.
The dancers and other waiter might be who the people here want to fuck, but Fox had forgotten an important natborn trait. He’s just as entertaining as the beautiful men and women taking their clothes off or sucking the clientele off under the tables; they delight in his discomfort.
He’s called to another table and treated to more heckling. What’s his cup size? Did he pick the clothes out himself? Congratulations on the promotion.
He ignores it, or he ignores it outwardly as best he can. Privately he’s in turmoil, the words clinging at him leaving him so mortified he’s sick from it. He just needs to get through this shift. It’s not even midnight—there’s still hours to go.
A hand slips up the back of the skirt and pinches his ass.
He’s around in a flash, flaying as he staggers in the boots, but his hand snaps like a vice around the man’s wrist. The man’s eyes widen, and he wrenches his arm backwards. Fox is stronger.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he snarls.
The man pulls at Fox’s grip again, glaring like a petulant cadet. “You can’t talk to me like that,” the man says.
A lifetime ago, a senator once said the exact same thing to Fox.
“Fox!” The brothel is loud, people and music piled on top of each other, and still Nuler’s voice cuts through all of it.
The man’s squirming stills, his expression going smug. Just like the senator. Small men relying on others to protect them from consequences.
Reluctantly, Fox lets him go. Eyes follow him across the room, and all he can be grateful for is that the boots don’t outsmart him and he slinks to Nuler without falling.
Nuler gives him a thin smile that does nothing to temper his annoyance. “You’re not a bouncer tonight, Fox. You don’t want to know what I do to waiters who strike our clientele.”
Fox never respected troopers who talked back while being disciplined. He protests despite himself. “But—”
“If you have a problem, let Hakish or Yoral know. They’ll take care of it.” Fox’s name is usually included in that number. Hakish might not have seen him. He can’t go begging to Hakish for protection looking like this. Nuler must know that.
“Are we clear?” Nuler says.
“Yes.” He clicks his teeth shut to keep the ‘sir’ that rises unbidden to his mouth from escaping.
“Good. Taness told you to bus?” He doesn’t wait for confirmation. “Start serving too. We’re down too many people for you to just collect glasses.”
It takes Nuler giving him an impatient look for Fox to take the hint and flee the conversation. The twi’lek—Taness—catches his eye and shrugs.
The publicness of his dressing down is unlikely to be accidental; Nuler isn’t an amateur. The message sent to anyone paying attention was clear: the boss has given them all permission to feel up the new waiter.
They aren’t shy about taking up the offer.
“I can’t hear you, gorgeous,” the first person Fox tries to take a drinks order from says. He puts a hand on Fox’s ass, guiding him closer to the table.
“Do you want any drinks?” Fox asks again, swallowing down what he wants to say, staring over the man’s head. The hand stays on his ass until the entire table has finished ordering.
Someone at the next table snaps the band of the bra. Someone asks if he’s gonna start dressing like this when working at the door. Someone tries to grab his crotch through the skirt. Someone stands up when he brings their drinks over, both hands on Fox’s waist as they try to steal a kiss. Fox twists, but the lick over his check is almost worse. The saliva cools slowly on his skin while he passes everyone their drinks.
Fox is done. He’ll finish this shift, do the one tomorrow, collect his weekly paycheck and then he’ll find somewhere else to work. Muscle is always needed, even if it means finding something more illegal than this. He’ll be remembered here as a joke, the bouncer they made dress up like a woman and mock, but he won’t stay around to be subjected to it.
The thought manages to carry him through the next few tables, helps him avoid the crushing shame of letting someone smack his ass with enough force to leave his skin smarting. He’s spent hours managing hostage situations or hunting terrorists through the city. This is nothing.
How busy he’s kept makes it easier, means he can’t stop to think, or try to strategize about what tables he approaches. It also makes him careless, thinking ahead to what he needs to do next instead of managing the situation he’s in.
Fox bends a little to place a glass of bubbling blue liquid down in front of a nautolan. It puts the nautolan close to Fox’s chest, and Fox has already steeled himself to be leered at. The nautolan isn’t satisfied by just looking. His hand shoots out, and Fox flinches, expecting a rough hand squeezing his pecs through the bra. Only the nautolan misses, grabbing a bunch of material across Fox’s chest instead. Fox meets his glinting eyes. The nautolan didn’t miss. He wrenches his hand backwards.
The shirt stretches without any issue, but the bra doesn’t. It does move though. The nautolan lets go, and the shirt and bra snaps back to Fox’s chest, the damage done. Fox’s pecs have already popped free, sitting over the cups, framed by the deep neckline of the shirt.
Fox steps backwards, teetering on the boots, whatever balance he’s found in them thrown off by his shock. It’s just his chest. It’s not a big deal. He’s being looked at like it’s a big deal.
“Awh,” the nautolan crows. “You really have been hiding such a cute pair of tits from us.”
Tits?
“Fuck off,” he snaps. He has the tray in one hand, and still has the nautolan’s drink in the other. He can’t fix the bra and shirt.
One of the nautolan’s friends leans forward, grinning widely. “We’ve loved watching them grow in under those tight shirts you like to wear.”
“I bet they’ll be huge by the time they’re done,” another adds, holding his hands out in front of his chest to mime large breasts.
Fox’s mouth is dry. He can’t swallow, can’t talk, can barely think.
It’s not just this table staring at him, people all around him are looking, staring at his exposed chest. Some of them are laughing. Some of them are hungry. He looks down.
His nipples are bigger than he remembers, sitting dark in the middle of two mounds of soft fat. He tastes bile in the back of his throat.
He has tits. It’s not just weight he’s put on or muscular pecs. He has a pair of small, but undeniable breasts. How can he have breasts? Why does he have them?
There’s nowhere to put the tray, the nautolan and his friends blocking the table. He can’t cover himself, can’t do anything but stand helpless as he’s gawked at. As his tits are gawked at. If he cries he’ll never respect himself again.
It might be too late for that.
“You going to give me my drink?” the nautolan asks. Fox can’t. He simply can’t. He’d have to lean back down. It would put his chest by the nautolan’s face. He can’t.
Cruel, gleeful laughter follows him as he dashes back to the bar, the boots clicking loudly. He shoves the tray down on the bar, wrenching his bra back into place. It’s hardly better. The padding pushes his tits up, making them look bigger than they are. It’s obscene. He’s obscene.
His hips are bigger too.
He can’t check. Not while everyone is still watching him. What’s happening to him?
Taness’s hand on his shoulder startles him. The twi’lek’s expression is difficult to read, but it’s not hostile, and that feels like a lifeline.
“Fox,” Taness warns.
“Please.” Fox is pathetic.
Taness sighs. “Shar! Can you get these to table 62.”
Shar’s smile has more sympathy than Taness’s did. She glides over to the bar, collecting the abandoned tray. Her heels are even taller than Fox’s, but she moves with confident grace. Fox tries not to hear the conversation from the table, but parts of it carry anyway.
“Just trying to pay a compliment…”
“…some real lovely tits.”
His face flames red, and he hunches forward. Even with his shirt and bra back in place his breasts are obvious, but trying to make himself smaller just presses them together, deepening the appearance of cleavage.
“You need to keep working,” Taness warns. How can he? He must be sick. There must be something wrong. He can’t afford to pay a medic to look him over. “Nuler will make it worse for you if you slack.”
Fox has seen it. One of the girls was caught hiding in the fresher and Nuler had her tied bent over the back of one of the chairs, charging a single credit to anyone who wanted to spank her. She’d been left there for hours, her ass and cunt beaten while she sobbed. She hadn’t been caught sitting again.
His hand is trembling when he collects his tray, but tightening his grip is almost enough to make it vanish. Spite has got him through so much in his life, it can get him through this. He won’t let these people beat him.
There’s drinks ready to go out. He stacks them onto his tray and goes.
The atmosphere has changed, grown taut with anticipation. Who will take the next step? What will the next step be? Fox feels it, it runs ice cold down his spine and leaves him shivery in his too revealing clothes in the too warm room. He knows it’s coming and he’s still helpless to stop it.
It’s a short man with big shoulders and light hair dyed dark who escalates it. In the low lighting of the brothel the line of his roots growing in along his parting make it look like he’s shaved a strip into his hair.
“You know. I didn’t get a good look earlier,” he says. Fox’s tray is empty, all the glasses already set down. He could knock away the man’s hand as it climbs up his chest to rub the lace of Fox’s bra between his fingers. Nuler would know. He can’t stop this. “Give us another look,” the man orders.
Fox doesn’t move. He won’t. They can make him, but he won’t do it for them.
He’s made to regret his choice.
The man jerks his head and the rest of the table is up. Part of him is aware that even in the horrible boots he could fight them off. But it wouldn’t matter. They’d gain allies from the other tables, then Nuler would have Yoral step in, and Fox would find out what punishment Nuler would dream up for him.
Fox backs away, squirming when they grab him, trying to break out of their grabbing hands, but not daring to throw a punch.
They don’t pull his shirt and bra down like the others did, they strip him of them completely. He realises too late that’s their plan. He fights back harder, struggles like his life depends on it. He’s outnumbered and off balance. He let them get too much ground before he fought back. The shirt comes off too easily, stretching big enough that they can pull it over his head.
The hooks that he’d fought with to get on come undone with barely a touch, and then they just pull his bra off his arms. It’s tossed to the side, landing on one of the cracked leather seats. They jerk his tray out of his hands and step away from him to admire their handiwork.
Fox’s bare tits stick out from his chest, soft and smooth and so unbearably feminine.
He’s frozen in place, five men pointing and cackling at him. Not just five men, the people around have turned to look too. Even some of the other workers are looking. Yoral is close by, but she’ll be reluctant to intervene after Nuler told Fox off for refusing. And she’s looking too. He has no allies here.
“Give us a jump. Let us see them bounce,” the man with the bad dye job demands.
“If you ask nicely I’ll suck on them for you,” someone else yells.
“Fucking slut!”
Fox becomes unfrozen all in one moment, clapping his arms over his chest, covering his tits, squashing them against his chest. It only makes them laugh harder.
“Give it back?” his asks, voice cracking pitifully.
“Give what back?” A woman asks. “Your lacy little bra?”
Fox wishes he’d just been shot back during the war.
“Yes,” he says.
“To cover your perky little tits?” Dye-job asks.
“Yes.”
“Show us your panties and you can have it back.”
Fox would have to uncover his breasts to show them his panties.
“You think we won’t see them before it’s done?” a new voice asks.
They will. Of course they will. They’ll strip Fox bare if that’s what they want. It might be better to give it willingly to avoid them taking it. But he can’t make himself move.
“Back off!” Shar has lost more clothes than Fox has, but her nudity does nothing to affect her authority. The pitiful state Fox has been reduced to is all his own making.
She stands next to Fox, her own full tray balanced easily in one hand.
Dye-job raises his hands. “We were just playing.”
“Then play nice,” she snaps, glaring at the gathered crowd. Could Fox have done that? Whenever he protested the mocking only increased, but they were listening to Shar.
“We didn’t mean it,” one of them says, and for all the apology in his voice he doesn’t take his eyes off Fox’s chest. “Just helping the new guy come out of his shell.”
“I think you’ve helped him out of plenty,” she says, having them snickering all over again. “Fox, come on.”
He slinks after her, back to the bar, his clothes left at the table along with any dignity he still had.
“You know better than that. Show weakness and they’ll eat you alive,” Shar says, replacing his tray but nothing else.
“I need a—” A what? A shirt? A bra ?
She lifts her eyebrows at him, her meaning very clear. He doesn’t finish. He gathers what scraps are left of his pride and lowers his hands before she has to tell him to do that too. He doesn’t look down. If he’s not looking he can pretend they aren’t as bad as he knows they are.
She stacks drinks onto his tray, separated into two groups.
“Take these to 31 and these to 17.” She steps him before he can leave, her voice softening. “The woman in blue is handsy so keep on the other side of the table if you don’t want her to get a handful of whatever you have under your skirt.”
Something in him wants to protest; he has a penis!
It’s just not worth it.
His tits do bounce when he walks. Just a little, but enough that he should have noticed, enough that they’re impossible to ignore now he has. He leans forward to put the drinks down on table 31 and without his bra his breasts hang forward. The woman Shar warned him about watches, but they all watch, and she’s too far away to grab him.
“You’d be prettier if you smiled more,” she says.
Fox isn’t pretty. He doesn’t want to be pretty.
Table 17 is the imperial officers, and by the time Fox realises it’s too late to flee. The captain leers, waving him over.
“Can’t say I thought this is how I’d be seeing you tonight,” he says. “It suits you much better, don’t you think?”
Fox presses his lips together and keeps his eyes on each drink as he places it down.
The lieutenants answer for him.
“I think all the changes suit him perfectly,” one says.
“Much more convincing as a pretty little whore than trying to act tough outside,” the other adds. Their eyes are ants on his skin, making him feel small and vulnerable. His skin prickles hot and with the last drink down he has to fight his instinct to hold the tray protectively in front of him.
How many people had seen his body changing while he was oblivious. Has it been a topic of conversation? How many people had he chucked out for bad behaviour and they’d gone away with the last laugh?
The captain’s hand closes around Fox’s wrist. “I was talking to you,” the captain says. Fox pulls back his arm, or tries to. The captain doesn’t let go, fingers tightening. “Do you think your little tits suit you?” he says slowly.
There isn’t an answer to that, nothing that will satisfy the captain without giving up whatever Fox has left.
The captain’s smile widens, teeth showing between his lips; Fox’s silence seems to have satisfied him plenty. With a sharp tug, he jerks Fox towards him.
Fox tries to pull against him, but he’s still not used to the boots, stumbling forward, knees hitting the edge of the booth and crashing down into the captain’s lap. He kicks out, but there’s nothing for him to hit and for all that the imperial stormtroopers pale in comparison to a clonetrooper, these are soldiers, and Fox is far from his prime.
Fox struggles, but it’s no good. The captain has him by the waist, and his friends have Fox’s legs. It’s so easy for them to rearrange him, spreading his legs open, and twisting him so he’s facing out towards the rest of the brothel. His skirt bunches uselessly around his waist, his panties displayed to the entire room. Delicate lace stretches over his cock and hugs his too big ass, feminine and unbearable.
The captain pulls Fox’s panties to the side and it’s so much worse. Once glance confirms his worst fears. More people are looking at him than at any of the dancers, watching as the captain removes the flimsy barrier protecting what was left of his modesty and exposes him to the entire room.
Fox can’t let this happen. “Don’t—”
“Shhh,” the captain hushes.
Two fingers push into his ass, slick with lube. Fox pales, clenching around the fingers as if that could be enough to prevent them from sliding into him. They planned this. There was nothing Fox could have said to them to prevent this.
“Please, just…” Just what? Is he really going to beg for privacy? To take him into one of the back rooms instead of doing this here where everyone can see him?
The captain shows no mercy, curling his fingers up inside Fox, and Fox’s awful, disfigured body reacts. Fox’s cock twitches and… It’s smaller. Not by much, but like the horrible tits he’s grown, he should have noticed. His body had shifted into something unrecognisable and he hadn’t even noticed.
The captain lets out a satisfied hum, rubbing the tips of his fingers over Fox’s prostate, sparks of some unwanted pleasure coursing through Fox. He’s going to be sick. His cock swells, poking up from the side of the lace panties.
Fox tries to close his legs, but the lieutenants hold him fast, ensuring he can’t hide himself.
“You’ve been teasing everyone all night, sweetheart. I think we all deserve a show.”
“I think he’s been teasing us much longer than just tonight,” one of the lieutenants adds.
With hysterical optimism Fox twists his head frantically. If he can find Yoral she’ll help him; that’s what the bouncers are for. How many people has Fox thrown out for being too aggressive? How many unhappy whores has he ignored because Nuler told him too?
Yoral isn’t looking at him, but Shar is. She meets his eye, smiles sadly, and goes back to serving drinks.
The captain twists his hand, making sure he’s not blocking the view of how Fox’s ass opens up around his fingers.
Tears finally spill from Fox’s eyes, humiliation finally more than he can stand. He used to be a commander.
“No need for that,” the captain says. “I’ll take good care of you.”
He starts thrusting his fingers in and out of Fox’s ass with a terrible casualness. It pulls awful high pitched gasps from Fox, ones that he can’t stifle, ones he knows people can hear.
Two hours ago he was bored outside. Two hours and a change of clothes is all it took to reduce him to mewling on the fingers of a man he hates.
The captain’s free hand drags up his side, but its end goal is obvious. His hand covers one of Fox’s tits and squeezes. And Fox moans. Precome oozes from the tip of hsis cock, dribbling down the underside. The captain rubs at his breast, feeling the weight of it, pressing possessive fingers into the fat. And Fox can’t stop him.
Nuler is by the door with Hakish and a large man Fox has never seen. Nuler claps the man on the shoulder who steps back out of the door after Hakish. The door slides shut behind him, but not before Fox sees the man step over to the side that Fox used to stand at.
One of the lieutenants keeping his legs open manages to free a hand to pinch the nipple the captain isn’t able to, twisting it until Fox arches up into it, squeezing tight around the fingers inside him.
Nuler turns, meeting Fox’s eye across the brothel.
“Please,” Fox whines, though Nuler is too far away to hear. He’d said Fox just had to wait tables. He said Fox wouldn’t have to do this. With undeniable deliberateness, Nuler turns away.
He did this. Fox doesn’t know how, but there’s no doubt. Nuler set him up, did something to him, changed him, and then…
Another of the captain’s fingers pushes into him with a squelch and a whimper. Fox’s hips jerk against his will, his cock bobbing in the air.
“Now, are you going to be a good girl and earn a tip?” the captain asks. His cock presses up against Fox’s lower back, so close to where he is stretching open Fox’s hole. Fox chokes out something that is supposed to be a protest, but comes out as a garbled, needy moan.
Nuler has ensured he has no choice but to be a good girl.