



                     REVERSAL OF FORTUNE

                             by

                        C. Lakewood



    The smartly dressed young woman strode nonchalantly through 
the outer office and into Dean Malcolm Heywood's inner sanctum 
without a by-your-leave or even a perceptible hesitation.  As she 
passed, the dean's secretary, looked up, startled, and opened her 
mouth to object, then closed it again and shrugged.  Dr. Barbara 
Lang was slated to take over as dean in a few days, and there was 
no point in making waves.

    Relishing her impending triumph -- another big step up the 
career ladder -- the dean-designate gazed about the spacious, 
mahogany-paneled room, so redolent of savoir faire.  But she was 
not totally happy with what she saw.  Drawing herself up to her 
full height (5'9" in heels), she addressed the dean in a phoney, 
saccharine tone.

    "Afternoon, Mal.  You haven't even STARTED packing up yet?  
It won't take me long to get completely up to speed, but I WOULD 
like to settle in ASAP...and, since your official duties don't 
amount to much anymore...." 

    "Mmmm...I understand that, but I have, in fact, managed to 
keep fairly busy.  Research...."  He paused.  "I really hadn't 
planned on retiring so soon, but perhaps I am too old to function 
well in these times.  I don't think, for example, that civilized 
adults should address their superiors familiarly unless invited 
to do so -- or, indeed, barge into private offices unannounced 
and without even knocking....  But I am pleased that you did 
drop by."  He picked up a manila folder from his desk.  "I was 
looking over your official résumé.  Exemplary.  National Honor 
Society and high school diploma at age 16, Phi Beta Kappa at 
18 -- and those degrees: Bryn Mawr B.A. (Magna Cum Laude) at 
19, Chicago M.A. at 20, Harvard Ph.D. at 22 -- an assistant 
professorship at Stanford, and then leaving there to come here....  
Yes, except for that curious final item, it's a résumé of which 
its owner can certainly be proud.  He slid the folder across to 
his visitor.  "Of course, YOU aren't the real owner, are you, 
'Barbara'?"

    Stupefied, she blanched and began stammering.

    He held up his hand.  "Please don't try to deny it.  I have 
photographs and fingerprints -- all of which will hold up in 
court very nicely.  And, we can get DNA evidence if there's still 
even a scintilla of doubt (which there won't be).  It's obvious 
that you're guilty of identity theft...and possibly murder."

    "Not MURDER!  It was an accident, I swear.  On vacation...an 
allergic reaction...anaphylactic shock.  I didn't kill her...just 
switched purses....  It was...."

    Heywood made a dismissive gesture.  "I'm not concerned with 
the details, though I'm sure the police will be."

    B-but, I didn't hurt her...just seized my chance.  I'd been a 
very good student, with pretty good prospects, but she was truly 
extraordinary.  Her future was bright...and assured...."

    He shook his head.  "It doesn't matter."  

    Everything having collapsed, she gathered herself to make 
a run for it, but he spoke up, saying, "And don't think about 
attempting to flee -- your purse is no longer in your desk, 
and your car is no longer in the parking lot."

    "Please!  I-I...."

    He leaned back and steepled his fingers.  "But I must also 
think of the college's reputation.  We might avoid a scandal...IF 
you agree to be treated like the arrogant and treacherous tramp 
you really are -- instead of the responsible academic you have 
been masquerading as.  Of course, you'll also have to give up your 
stolen identity...AND your 'ill-gotten gains,' as it were."

    "But she was buried as me."

    "You will, naturally, need yet another identity.  That can be 
arranged.  And I won't inform the police or any of the references 
in this supposititious résumé.  In return, you will resign at once, 
and I'll place you in the custody of...well, let's call her a 
'tutor.'"  

    "Tutor?"

    "She's an intelligent, no-nonsense young lady.  She will 
provide you a place to stay for a while.  If you mind your 
manners and improve your behavior, it won't be long -- only 
until we can tidy up your affairs -- likely not much more 
than a month.  When business is concluded (and she's satisfied 
that you are at least minimally repentant), she'll give you new 
ID, some money, and a job referral.  Then you'll be free to go 
your own way...anywhere but here.  So, which path do you prefer?"  
His hand moved toward the phone on his desk. 

    "I-I'll...submit."

    He nodded.  "Very well.  I've taken the liberty of drawing up 
your resignation...for unspecified 'personal reasons.'  Just sign 
there....  Yes.  And now this power of attorney, so that your 
assets can be liquidated properly...."

    "Power of attorney?  Oh, I'd have to think about that."

    He shrugged and reached for the phone.  "Of course.  You can 
think about it from your jail cell."

    "No!  Wait!  There...I signed it." 

    He made a brief, cryptic phone call and then drove her across 
town to a seedy, deserted playground.  After a few minutes, a 
yellow van arrived and parked nearby.  A dark woman in sweatshirt 
and jeans got out; she carried a ratty shopping bag.

    "That's your 'tutor,'" Heywood said.  Her name's Rosie Toler; 
she's part Latina, part black, and part who-knows-what.  She's an 
experienced fighter with a short fuse.  I'd mind her, if I were 
you, Barbie.  Oh yes, your new name is 'Barbie Goldberg.' 

    She looked stunned.  "A Jewish name?" 

    "Yes.  Now, out."  ("What a package," he thought.  "Thief, 
imposter, bigot...and, I suspect, a coquette, as well.")

    The two women approached each other and stopped face to face.  
"Barbie" said something, and Rosie immediately slapped her.

    Heywood nodded and watched the two head off toward the 
restrooms.  Rosie was a couple of inches shorter than Barbie -- 
and apparently much lighter -- but he knew she could handle 
herself against far more formidable opponents.

    He sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking pleasant thoughts.  
At length, Rosie reappeared.  Her bag seemed somewhat heavier, 
now.  A moment later, he saw Barbie -- sheer pink tube top, black 
polyester micro-skirt, and cheap flip-flops -- the very picture of 
"trailer park trash."  It was obvious she was braless, and, from 
the way she was walking, probably pantyless, as well.

    Satisfied, he started his car and drove off, without a 
backward glance.

		******************************

    Rosie easily impressed upon Barbie (with the aid of a strap) 
that she should accept her reversal of fortune.  There wasn't any 
way to escape -- she no longer possessed money, checkbook, credit 
cards, ID, phone, or car.  And she had no clothes, other than 
those provided for her: everything cheap and trashy, most of it 
much more appropriate for someone years younger and several social 
strata lower.  Not that the appearance of her clothes was of much 
immediate concern.  Barbie spent virtually all her time naked.    

    She also spent hours every day working out -- aerobics, 
treadmill, stationary bike -- and toiling at a long list of 
recurring household chores, all of which she was expected to 
do under STRICT supervision.  

		******************************

    So, for a while, she did hard labor.  She went to sleep each 
night exhausted and woke up...extremely horny, for some reason.
But, being intelligent and adaptable, she quickly learned to 
submit without seeming too resentful.

    It was, of course, an act.  She was seething inside.

    ("Damn mongrel bitch!  I don't deserve this!  I was only 
trying to better myself.  Nothing wrong with that.  Prissy Barbara 
Lang had always had it too easy, and then she just died.  Not my 
fault.  But it was time that I got a taste.  Who could truly blame 
me?  I'm not really a bad person, just tired of seeing others get 
all the breaks.  That goddamn bastard Heywood....  What right did 
he have to stick his long nose into my business?  And this...this 
squinty-eyed, slave-driving bitch...probably a goddamn dyke....")  

    Later on, Barbie was taught how to prance and shimmy and bump 
and grind....

    After 44 days of this regimen, she was declared "free" and 
allowed to dress.  She was sent on her way, with a new ID card, 
a dollar bill, the address of a strip club said to be expecting 
her, and a small canvas bag with some clothes and toiletries. 

    She didn't look back.

		****************************** 

    It was named "The Rat Hole."  She felt defiled just by walking 
into the place, but she knew she had little choice.  She'd been 
warned and didn't dare subject her fake ID to much more than casual 
scrutiny.  She knew a place like "The Rat Hole" wouldn't be nearly 
as picky as even the average fast food joint, and, without a résumé 
or references, those were her only chances for employment.  In 
fact, without better ID, she couldn't even get welfare.  Besides, 
here she had a "referral" (whatever THAT might realistically mean).  
So, at length, she found herself standing slightly pigeon-toed in 
front of the desk of one Otto Triandos, manager of the club, and 
feeling rather like an errant schoolgirl sent to the principal. 

    The office was suitably grim.  Under foot was a threadbare 
rug over faded lineoleum.  The drab walls were plastered with 
old posters, magazine centerfolds, and photos of dancers and 
pornstars.  The atmosphere reeked of cigar smoke, cheap liquor, 
garlic, and B.O.

    The big man behind the desk was all jowls and boredom.  
He looked a lot like Broderick Crawford. 

    "Whatcha want?" he growled, barely giving her a glance.  
He went back to idly flipping through a dog-eared issue of 
"Hustler."

    "Mr. Triandos, s-sir...I was told you might h-hire me...."
It took some effort to suppress the quaver in her voice.  "My 
name's...Barbie G-goldberg." 

    "So what?"

    "So...so I need a job...sir."

    He looked at her more closely now.  Despite her clothes, 
there was a certain...something...about her.  (The first 
term that had occurred to him was "prude," and that was true, 
but it was more than that.  She stood too straight, her accent 
was too highbrow, her expression was too disapproving....  If 
his active vocabulary had been larger, he might have termed 
her "prim," "vain," "self-absorbed," and "disdainful."  Yet, 
he did have her character pegged, even if he didn't have all 
the right words to describe it.  He also recognized that, over 
all, she had an air of desperation.  It was an interesting 
combination....  And all of it could be of value.)
  
    "Yeah, maybe....  We can allus use new girls....  You're not 
bad lookin'...tits okay, legs good....  But you jus' don' seem 
like the type, honey."

    She felt herself getting red.  

    "No!  I-I COULD be....  I c-could be...um...anything you 
wanted me to be.  I do really need a job, Mr. Triandos. 
Please." 

    He shrugged and passed her a pen and an application form.
"Maybe.  Sit.  Fill this out."  He returned to his magazine.

    Filling out the form was quick enough.  Name, sex, age 
(31), SSN (from the bogus ID), hair (auburn), eyes (hazel), 
vitals (5'6" 138lbs 35C-26-36), marital status (divorced, 
à la her cover story), no illnesses, no allergies, no criminal 
record, education (out-of-state high school, nothing beyond), 
no address, no phone, no job history.  Her degrees, honors, 
experience, and accomplishments had been buried with Barbara 
Lang.  

    Triandos looked it over and sniffed.  "Pretty thin.  You 
runnin' from the cops?  Some kinds of trouble don' matter; 
some do."

    "N-no, sir, I swear!"  She hoped her prepared story would 
sound plausible enough.  "I've been a h-housewife since high 
school, b-but I'm divorced now and broke, with nowhere to turn...."   

    "Maybe.  There's some questions I need to ask that ain't on 
the application.  Had sex with men, right?"

    "Yes."

    He squinted at her, and there was an awkward pause that 
stretched out longer and longer until it finally dawned on 
her what he was waiting for.

    "Um...yes, sir."

    He nodded.  "With women?"

    "No, sir."

    "Animals?"

    "N-no, sir!"

    "Oral?"

    "Yes, sir....  But not often."

    ("Twice," she thought.  "And that was TOO often.  Of course, 
both times there was something I wanted out of it...and I got 
it.  Oh, god!  And now I want this job...desperately.")

    "Anal?"

    "No, sir."  ("Asshole!")

    He looked thoughtful.  "You say you could be ANYTHING we 
want you to be, yeah?"

    "Yes, sir.  I'd work real hard, Mr. Triandos.  I...."

    "Stand up.  Show me whatcha got."

    She stood up.  

    ("When that Rosie bitch told me the name of this place, I 
was afraid of what might happen, and then, when I first saw it, 
I just KNEW it would come to this.  From Dean-Designate to strip 
club slut....  God!  That pig is so loathesome!  I ought to spit 
in his ugly face...but I'm out of options.  I just CAN'T become 
a bag lady or a street hooker.  The 'Rat Hole' might not be much, 
but it's better than that.")
    
    She took off her clothes, mechanically.  It didn't take long.  
She kicked off her flip-flops, slithered out of the tube top and 
dropped her miniskirt -- and was naked.

    "Hmmmm.  Nice nips.  And it's good you're shaved.  Lotsa guys 
like that."  

    ("Shit!  That fucking Rosie Toler MADE me shave.  My nipples 
are so goddamn stiff!  What's the matter with me?  I've actually 
got to beg this cretin for a chance to-to...strut my stuff for 
strangers.")

    "Please, sir....  Just give me a chance to show you, Mr. 
Triandos." 

    "O-kay, you got a audition.  If the payin' customers like 
you, you got a job.  You'd be a part-time trainee; 37 hours a 
week.  We'd pay you less than minimum -- but you'd get to keep 
half of what you make doin' lap dances, hustlin' drinks, and 
turnin' tricks....  You'd live upstairs."  

    He pushed himself back from the desk.

    "Before you go out there, though, I gotta try you out...test 
your 'work ethic,' honey."  He chuckled.  "So get down here and 
suck me off.  Do what's called a 'bad girl blow job'...lotsa spit 
and enthusism.  Slurp it up.  Moan.  Make me believe you jus' LOVE 
doin' it.  Make it last for a while.  And, when I cum, you swallow 
it all, understand?"  

    She understood.

    She knelt in front of him, unzipped his pants, and nervously 
extracted his half-hard prick.  It smelled awful...musty and 
over-ripe...but it didn't taste TOO bad.  She followed his 
instructions, slurping and moaning in what she hoped was a 
good enough imitation of passion.  When it was over, when she 
had swallowed the last vile gulp of his cum, she sat back on 
her heels, feeling completely debased.

    "You ain't through yet, babe.  You gotta lick it clean, kiss 
it like you love it, and put it back.  And do it gentle...."

    She'd been wrong before.  She was just beginning to learn to 
depths of debasement.

    Triandos pressed a button on his intercom.  "Get Miranda in 
here."

    A moment later, the door opened and "Miranda" entered.  She 
might have been Rosie Toler's bigger, meaner, and less refined 
sister.  She looked like the same indeterminate racial mix and 
had the same café-au-lait skin...virtually all of which was on 
display, since she was naked, except for a red garter around 
her right thigh.

    She was scowling, but not at Triandos.

    "Miranda, this here's...uh...'Barbie Goldberg.'  She goes on 
next.  Get her squared away."  He fetched a red garter from his 
desk drawer and tossed it to Barbie.  "That's your costume."    

    And so, his "Human Relations" duties having been taken care 
of for the moment, he went back to his magazine.   
 
    (Naked?  I have to dance totally NAKED?)

    Miranda was saying something snarly, but Barbie couldn't make 
much sense out of it.  Her mind was spinning and her body starting 
to sweat as Miranda propelled her along the corridor.  "Put your 
garter on, bitch," the big dancer ordered.  (She did understand 
THAT.)  
 
    "No, yours goes on the LEFT leg."

    Just before they reached the curtains stage right, they passed 
another nude girl, her hair in pig-tails, heading in the opposite 
direction.  There was a moment of silence.  Then the PA crackled, 
"And now, please welcome our newest.  Bar-bie Gold-berg!"

    Barbie barely had time to recognize the tune that started up 
-- "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" -- when she was thrust roughly 
out onto the small stage.           
 
    There weren't many customers in the place that early in the 
day, but what there were, she despised.  Swarthy lower class 
types, barely above the homeless -- very "ethnic," with cheap, 
sweat-stained clothing, facial stubble, bad teeth, and coarse 
voices....  The emotional combination -- her loathing of her 
audience, her embarrassment at being on stage naked, and her 
fear of screwing up and losing even this crappy job -- had her 
practically paralyzed.  
 
    She took a couple of tentative steps toward the brass pole 
up front, then froze.  She was supposed to know some moves, ones 
Rosie had taught her, but her mind had blanked, and her body was 
zombified.

    The customers were pleased at first at the sight of fresh meat, 
but their patience ran out quickly, and they were becoming restive 
(abusive would be next) at Barbie's inaction, when Miranda suddenly 
swept onto the stage with a formidable switch in her hand -- and 
began using it on Barbie's butt.  The audience, usually rather 
blasé at this hour, responded with genuine enthusiasm, real 
applause -- and, by the end, more than a few dollar bills.  Miranda 
pranced Barbie around the stage for twenty minutes, winding up 
by forcing her to hump the brass pole until she orgasmed...twice.  

    And a new act was born that day on stage at The Rat Hole -- one 
that would be repeated often, by popular demand. 

    (And they shared the cheers and applause, though Miranda kept 
all the money.)

    Afterward, even Triandos looked as pleased as he was capable 
of.  "O-kay.  You two done pretty good.  Guess you're a team...so 
you can be room-mates, too."

    (He'd be looking in on them later -- through the CCTV in their 
room -- and, knowing Miranda, didn't expect he'd be disappointed.)
 
    "Miranda, you fill her in on her other duties, and make sure 
you keep her in line, now.  Okay, scat!" 

    Barbie spent the rest of the day primarily hustling drinks and 
performing as an apprentice lap dancer, with occasional turns on 
the stage (during which she got her ass and thighs thoroughly 
switched again).  In addition, she turned two tricks....

    In the small hours of the morning, when she was finally allowed 
to drag her weary carcass off to bed, she quickly learned that 
she'd be sleeping that night (and for the foreseeable future) with 
her face between Miranda's thighs.  Triandos had asked several 
questions earlier regarding her sexual experience.  Viewing the 
tape, he made a mental that one of her answers was no longer true.  

For starters.

		******************************  
    
    Four months passed.  It was mid-autumn, and the year was dying. 
Barbie was firmly in the grip of an apathetic inertia.  She hated 
what she was doing, feared her bosses, and loathed her clientele.  
But she couldn't see a way out.  So far, she'd managed to hide only 
$57 from her greedy co-workers, and she'd need a lot more getaway 
money than that.  Clothes, transportation, reliable ID, basic 
living expenses, a cash reserve -- all that would add up....  But 
she was finding it easier anymore to just be a "Rat Hole" girl...to 
wake up with the pungent taste of cunt in her mouth and go to bed 
with the lingering, musty taste of prick...and, in between, to 
prance and coo and hustle drinks and turn tricks....  Oh, god!  It 
was better than the alternatives, better than prison or the 
streets, she told herself.  She could still dream, though, and 
she dreamed of someday, somehow crashing out.  Those dreams, 
however, were now beginning to get a bit shop-worn, and sometimes 
she had difficulty convincing even herself that she'd ever get 
back to anything like the good life she'd once had.     
   
    And then, an implausible white knight appeared.  He was a 
short, plump, middle-aged, Buddha-esque Oriental, inscrutable, 
but with a polite, almost deferential manner.  He introduced 
himself as "Mr. Soong," and seemed content to pay lap dance 
prices just for conversation with her.  

    Barbie was captivated by the man.  Finally, someone civilized 
in that dump...mannerly and perceptive enough to appreciate her 
for her mind.  (He also seemed to be quite well-to-do...maybe even 
rich.  He owned some sort of import-export business.)

    She began to perk up, to increasingly resemble her old self -- 
that is, the woman she'd been as Barbara Lang -- cool, crisp, 
confident, articulate....

    They talked about everything -- literature, history, current 
events, political theory, taste and manners, music, theatre, 
architecture -- though, in fact, she did most of the talking 
while he listened, spell-bound.  (Seemingly, at least.  Though 
he wasn't married, Mr. Soong had the ability that most husbands 
eventually develop of appearing to be absorbed in listening to 
a woman babble, while actually thinking of other, more pleasant 
and/or more important things.) 

    She was devastated when, after barely a week, he told her that 
his business there was concluding and that he'd be heading home 
to the Far East.  But then he invited her to come with him.  He 
scoffed at her lack of a passport.  Laying a finger beside his 
nose, he reminded her that he was experienced in importing and 
exporting -- and in circumventing officialdom.  And he promised 
to give her a life filled with everything that she truly deserved.

    Yet another reversal of fortune!  This time, light at the end 
of a long, dark tunnel.  

    She accepted, of course.

		******************************

    "Well, whadaya think, Mr. Soong?" Otto Triandos asked, already 
sure of the answer.

    "You have surpassed yourself this time, Otto.  The woman is 
quite amazing....  So pretentious, so delusional.  A self-absorbed, 
would-be bluestocking...and so supercilious a snob that I sometimes 
fear her eyebrows will disappear into her hairline."

    Triandos, sensing that this last was some sort of joke, 
chuckled.  "Well, she's adaptable."

    Mr. Soong inclined his head.  "Not TOO adaptable, I hope.  She 
is perfect as she is.  I expect we can curb her adaptability to 
a sufficient extent to preserve her marketability."  He made a 
dismissive gesture.  "It should not be an insurmountable problem."

    Otto blinked.  Mr. Soong was a good guy, but talking with him 
for any length of time tended to give you a headache.  More out of 
courtesy than real curiosity, he asked, "So...where'll you send 
her?  Manila?  Bangkok?"

    "Hong Kong first, for 'processing.'  From there...."  Mr. Soong 
shrugged.  He handed Triandos a thick envelope.  "I have included 
a substantial bonus, Otto.  Well done."

    They shook hands.  Mr. Soong then resumed his mask of 
inscrutability and left to collect his latest export.

    Otto yawned and opened a magazine.


