“I don’t know I want to do this,” Hannah said, as her mother maneuvered the twenty-year-old sedan towards the Wilshire Boulevard tower of gleaming glass. 

Without looking away from the downtown LA traffic, Jane responded, “Honey, if you want to keep your aid money and scholarship, you know you need a work-study. Millions of girls do this. And I worked so hard to find this fancy agency to make sure you’re in good hands—do you want to throw all that away?”

The guilt trip stung, but Hannah’s anxiety was doing the talking. “But Mom, you didn’t do this in college!”

“Times were different back then,” Jane answered while changing lanes. “My grandparents could get married out of high school and buy a house. Sometimes, the system we live in makes life harder for working people. If you want to change that, if you want to make things better for people in this country, then you need a fancy degree to get you on the road to being a lawyer. Don’t you want to bring that change to the world? Or have you given up on your dreams? The dreams for which I sacrificed so much?”

Though still shaking, Hannah caved to her mother’s pressure. After all, everything her mother said was perfectly true, and there was no alternative. And this was supposed to be one of the best agencies in the greater LA area, which presumably meant it was one of the best in the entire country.

“Alright,” Hannah said. “You’re right Mom. I’m sorry; I’m just nervous.”

Jane, having pulled the sedan along the sidewalk, leaned over and hugged her daughter. “It’s okay sweetie. I remember being eighteen. It’s a tough time. Everything seems like the end of the world. But this is just part of the ladder you have to climb. Remember how hard you worked to get into Berkeley? And to get this scholarship? You’re going to do fine.”

Hannah returned the hug, then pulled away, adjusting her tank top. “Thanks Mom. You’re totally right. How do I look?”

Jane studied her daughter, clad in tight yoga shorts and a tight-fitting tank top, but wearing layers of makeup completely incompatible with actual serious exercise. The sporting look had been Hannah’s idea, and Jane had to agree it was perfect for the thin, athletic frame of her baby girl.

“Fine, darling, but just let me redo your lipstick,” Jane said and reached into the backseat to grab the makeup kit, much fancier than anything she or Hannah normally wore. Grabbing the lipstick, Jane made two gentle strokes over Hannah’s lips. Then, without asking, she slightly changed the part of her daughter’s hair to keep her eyes in the best view. “Your eyes are the best part—don’t let your hair get in the way,” Jane said, trying to reassure her daughter.

Despite Jane’s intentions, Hannah shuddered at that comment. It only highlighted her mother’s naïveté. Hannah felt certain that whatever the agency liked (or disliked) about her, it would be lower on her body than her eyes.

“Thanks, Mom,” Hannah said, and with a last hug, stepped out of the car. 

Through the open window, Jane called out “Call me when you’re done sweetie! I know you can do this!”

Hannah blew a kiss at her mother and turned around. She tried to ignore the knowing smiles the men on the sidewalk were flashing her. As if they knew why she was here… and they probably did, given that someone her age, dressed like she was, would only be here to see an agent. 

Striding confidently, Hannah went through the revolving door and walked up to the receptionist.

“I’m here for—”

The receptionist took one look and interrupted her. “Thompson & Arnold? Twentieth floor.” With vague disgust on her face, she waved Hannah onwards.

Hannah assuaged her anger by reminding herself that the receptionist probably hadn’t been to college, and was just jealous that Hannah was in a position to need a good agent to fund her studies. As long as she believed that, Hannah could avoid the other possible reason for the receptionist’s brusqueness—that the woman at the desk was approaching thirty and hated the crop of eighteen-year-olds stealing her opportunities to get ahead in the cutthroat market for female creators.

Mercifully, the ornate elevator was empty when Hannah marched in, allowing her to gather her thoughts and check her looks one last time in the reflection of the polished gold in which the floor buttons were set. 

The doors opened, and Hannah stifled a gasp. She had known this was a fancy agency, but the reception room awaiting her was lavishly decorated. It looked like the Ritz, or at least what Hannah had always imagined the Ritz would look like.  The fact that the reception room was outside the elevator doors also meant that the office must take up the entire twentieth floor. How big was this agency?

Feeling decidedly underdressed for the architecture, Hannah strode toward the oak table at the other end of the room. A middle-aged woman wearing an expensive-looking dress stood up and walked around the desk, extending her hand. “Hello,  Hannah. My name is Louisa Perez, and on behalf of Thompson & Arnold, I want to welcome you. We are so excited to have you as a client and are honored you chose us to be your companions on this journey.”

Hannah shook Louisa’s hand. “How did you know who I was?”

Louisa laughed, ever so slightly. Her manners were remarkably impeccable for a receptionist. Just like the reception room in which she worked, Hannah thought.

“My dear, you submitted a headshot with your application,” Louisa said, smiling to show perfect Hollywood teeth. “Here at T&A we always put our clients first, and we believe that starts with the first impression you get. It’s very important that you feel welcome here from the moment you walk in for the first time.”

Hannah nodded. It was a nice gesture, but, having grown up in Los Angeles, Hannah knew the performative niceness that saturated the entertainment industry and anything remotely connected to it. Even so, this was better than the utter disregard which, if her friends who had graduated the previous year were to be believed, the lesser agencies treated their clients. “They look at you as cattle,” one had texted Hannah when asked if she had had a good experience at the rather downmarket agents she had used.

“Now,” Louisa said breezily, “May I take your bag? And can I get you anything to drink?”

Hannah handed over her purse, a small and cheap number, without complaint. She had heard that most agencies checked personal belongings when a client came in for an evaluation. “Some water please,” Hannah said.

Louisa then rattled off a surprisingly long list of possible brands and extras. Not wanting to show how unsophisticated she was with water (to Hannah, water was just water, no brand better than the tap), Hannah, trying to seem prim, asked for Evian. That was a fancy brand, wasn’t it?

A small glass, presumably into which the expensive water had been decanted, was in Hannah’s hands with remarkable speed. Then, Louisa directed Hannah to wait in one of the well-upholstered chairs on the other side of the reception room. The seats adjoined a large window, looking out onto the vista of Los Angeles, with mountains in the distance. 

Hannah sat down. To her surprise, only one other person was waiting; she would have thought that T&A would have dozens of girls coming in. Then again, the time specified had been so specific (2:37 in the afternoon, sharp) that maybe they kept apart potential clients to avoid them running into one another. Hannah thought she had heard that some casting calls for big movies did that to lessen the awkwardness of the waiting room. 

The only other occupant of the room was, Hannah realized after a moment, male, albeit one very effeminately made up. He was wearing fishnets, short shorts, and a crop top, and was very pretty. Prettier than me, Hannah thought. Then she suppressed it. She wasn’t in competition with him. Or at least she didn’t think she was.

“Hi,” Hannah said, “I’m Hannah Norris. Are you here for a first interview?”

The boy looked up from checking the paint on his nails. Softly, his voice pitched higher than Hannah’s, he answered, “Hi babe, I’m Nick Ferrell. And yes, my first time. I’m off to Harvard in the fall—going to study engineering.”

Hannah suppressed the surprise she felt. After all, the fact that Nico had dressed like a slutty femboy didn’t mean he was an idiot. Hannah had been valedictorian at her high school and had a string of academic awards to her name, but was sitting here dressed like a slutty gym bunny. She was in no position to judge the affectations Nico had put on to afford college. 

“Berkeley and political science for me,” Hannah said. “And then hopefully law school.”

Without much enthusiasm, Nico said, “You go girl!” 

It was almost as if he knew that was the line a gay best friend would say in that situation, Hannah thought. With a pit in her stomach, she realized that Nico might not even be gay. After all, virtually all lesbian girls still went to an agent. Why not boys? True, his features were effeminate and screamed gay, but a poor straight boy was just as likely to cultivate feminine features to succeed in the market as a poor butch lesbian. 

Her reverie was disrupted by a tap on the shoulder. Hannah pulled away by instinct before trying to recover her composure. 

Louisa smiled, trying to project real emotion through her fake-looking face. She’d clearly had work done, though it was very good quality. How old is she? Hannah wondered. It was a question with a weighted meaning in a place like T&A, where sexual market value was quantified by almost scientific methods.

“Relax, Hannah,” Louisa said softly. “You’ll do great. Mr. Brooks  is ready to see you—he’s a wonderful junior associate and so passionate about empowering our clients to live their dreams.”

Hannah nodded, her mouth suddenly too dry to speak, and stood up. 

Gently, her hand barely touching Hannah’s clothing, Louisa guided the teenager to a set of stately doors. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Hannah saw that another woman about Louisa’s age was manning the front desk. What kind of firm was so tightly wound as to so seamlessly cover reception for the thirty seconds it would take for Louisa to direct Hannah? A rich one, of course, Hannah thought. Mom hadn’t been lying about how fancy this place was.

On the other side of the doors, a young man only a few years older than Hannah was waiting in a tailored Armani suit. Behind him was an Asian woman, also young, dressed in a stunning form-fitting dress, and wearing what looked like a Tiffany’s collar, gleaming around her neck. 

The man extended his hand, managing to, his age notwithstanding, seem paternal. “Hannah, hi,” he said, in a smooth baritone, somewhat incongruous with his frame. He stood only a couple inches taller than Hannah’s five-foot-four. “So glad you could make it. I’m Marty Brooks, a junior associate here, and this is my PA, Cherie.” 

The woman behind Brooks nodded, not speaking. 

“We’ll take her from here,” Brooks continued, flashing brilliant teeth at Louisa. “Thanks Louisa, you’re a doll.”

To Hannah’s surprise, Louisa blushed and giggled. “Thank you Mr Brooks,” she said, playing with a strand of her hair before leaning in to stroke the suited man’s arm. “I am always glad to be of service.”

Brooks lightly swatted the receptionist on the rear. It was casual, but, combined with Cherie’s silence, established the hierarchy here. Brooks was a suit; the women were decoration. Hannah was not surprised (what else could she possibly expect?), but it was different to see it in person than to intellectualize it.

Louisa slipped away wordlessly, though Hannah noticed Brooks’s eyes glancing languidly at Louisa’s bottom. 

“Alright Hannah, my office is just this way,” Brooks said. “I understand you’re going to Berkeley? I’m a Stanford man myself, but I won’t hold it against you!” He laughed and Hannah forced a giggle to play along.

He led, his hand draped gently on her shoulder, Hannah down a few corridors, past rows of offices, before his phone rang. Glancing at his watch, Brooks raised an eyebrow. “Hannah, doll, I’m sorry but I’ve got to take this—my second most important client… after you!” He laughed again. “Cherie will take you to my office and I’ll be there in a moment.”

He pulled out a headset and clipped it to his ear. While he started to chat to whomever was calling him, Cherie walked behind Hannah and pulled both the teen’s arms behind her back, with surprising force. 

The Asian girl leaned in and whispered in Hannah’s ear, “Let’s move, bitch.” With one hand pinning Hannah’s arms in place, Cherie then made a crude attempt at groping Hannah.

Hannah complied. The PA’s display of dominance didn’t phase her. This was a top agency in LA; of course, the PAs wanted to be talent, and consequently, of course the PAs hated every pretty young woman who walked in the door. It was a sign of weakness, not strength, to treat Hannah like this. 

Letting herself be frogmarched, Hannah was led past a maze of corridors into a very nice-looking office, larger than Hannah’s bedroom. There was a desk, a green screen, walls full of photos, and a large window. If this was a junior associate’s office, Hannah thought, what did a senior partner’s office look like?

Cherie directed her to a chair, one of two in front of the desk, and said “Sit and don’t make trouble, you slut.” After shoving Hannah into the chair, groping along the way, Cherie went and knelt in front of the door, waiting for her boss to return.

Hannah settled into the chair. For some reason, she had been vaguely expecting a couch. A chair felt less sleazy, more professional. It was a reassuring bit of furniture, in this context.

After a few minutes, the door opened and Brooks walked in, putting his headset in his pocket. “Sorry Hannah,” he said, walking past Cherie as if she weren’t there. “Curse of the biz, I’m afraid. Everyone’s always calling their agents needing to vent. But that’s what I’m here for—looking out for my clients and occasionally serving as a cut-rate therapist.” He laughed, and again, Hannah giggled to play along.

While Brooks was talking, Cherie had knelt next to him, and pulled out a laptop from under the desk. It was only then that Hannah realized that the room had no desk or chair for a PA. 

Brooks picked a tablet off the desk. “Hannah, I am so excited to have you here at T&A. Your application was fantastic—the academics were brilliant—valedictorian baby, amazing extracurriculars, impressive array of skills. Your winning essay for the Learned Hand Prize on criminal justice reform was amazing!”

He had read her work? Why did he care?

Before she could think better of it, Hannah blurted out, “I’m surprised you care about my academics. I’d have thought you only care about…”

She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. 

Brooks laughed again. “Only care about looks? Hannah, baby, you live in Los Angeles. You should know how cheap good looks are. The mid-girls in your average Valley high school are tens in Peoria. Looks are easy to get; it’s just a matter of effort, unless you were born very unlucky.  If looks were all that mattered, T&A would be out of business, because pretty eighteen-year-olds are so common that our ten percent wouldn't be worth a thing. The agencies that take clients based on looks alone, they don’t get this kind of office.” He gestured around. “No, Hannah, we here at T&A are the best in town, and we only take on the best in town. That means something that can’t be achieved with a workout regimen and good skincare: true intelligence. That’s where the real boost in SMV comes in. It takes brains to be good at this stuff, to understand how to present to each market, to move on your feet. A pretty airhead is a dead end. So yes, we spend more time looking at your résumé than your photos and videos.”

When Brooks had said “pretty airhead”, he had distinctly leaned over and kicked, albeit softly and playfully, Cherie. The PA didn’t show any reaction, but Hannah felt a sense of victory. Cherie had had her moment of power, but she was, in the end, just a PA, whereas Hannah was a client. A PA cost money, whereas a client made money, and Hannah was sure that, at an agency like T&A, hierarchy was dependent entirely on matters of money. 

Testing her hypothesis, Hannah smiled at Brooks, giggled, and said flirtatiously, “That’s wonderful to hear. It means so very much to me that you liked my essay. It’s so… intimate to have a man read one’s words.” After tilting her head demurely, Hannah, without changing her gaze said, in a sharp tone, “Cherie, be a dear and get me some Evian please.”

Cherie looked mutinous, but Brooks snapped his fingers and said, “Yes, get me one too, and hurry it. Glad to see you have great taste in water, Hannah. That kind of stuff matters, the little details.”

Cherie slinked away and Hannah mentally cheered her little victory. The PA could playact and call Hannah names, but in the end, it was Hannah who was on top. 

Brooks picked up a tablet and seemed to be looking through it. By this time, Cherie had returned with two glasses of water, serving Brooks first and then Hannah. “Thanks dear,” Hannah said. When Cherie turned around, Hannah slapped her ass. Now they were even. 

“Alright,” Brooks said, putting the tablet down. “Let’s discuss what we do here. At T&A, we are all about empowering our clients, giving them the agency, no pun intended, to pursue their dreams and lives. We’re here to support and lift the voices of our clients, and we’re especially proud when we can do that with those who came from an underprivileged background like you. Don’t get me wrong—you’re not a diversity hire. We go by SMV merit, and you are in the top league. That said, we are really proud of our work in diversity, equality, justice, and inclusion, and we do try to make sure that our efforts create a more equitable society. Part of that is, of course, helping you get through college and law school with financial security and freedom from the market pressures that keep working-class people out of elite institutions. Part of it, though, is also giving you the confidence and self-esteem to get up and express yourself. This is so important as a way to help combat the patriarchy and misogyny that tells women they have to be demure and rewards men like me for speaking our minds. By helping you succeed as a creator, we are giving you the tools that will take you from the courtroom to the boardroom, able to express yourself without shyness, fear, or reticence.”

Brooks paused, and, despite the spiel about empowering women’s voices, neither Hannah nor Cherie dared to speak.

“You know, Hannah, this isn’t something I’d bring up with our average client but you actually might be interested to know that our firm is proud of our work in some key public interest litigation from around thirty years ago. Have you ever heard of a Supreme Court case called Joyce, et al. v. Kronski?”

Hannah hadn’t expected to have a constitutional law discussion with her agent, but she was delighted to be talking about case law rather than… well, the other stuff.

“Yes,” she said eagerly. “Part of the series of key women’s rights cases that expanded the reach of the Equal Protection and Due Process clauses holding that discrimination against sex work is ultimately sex discrimination, which the Court had a year earlier—I think it was in Lonsdale v. University of California Board of Regents— reclassified as subject to strict scrutiny. I think Joyce was a creator and esbee suing Kronski, who was the Secretary of Education, over being denied need-based financial aid because she fulfilled the work requirement that had been added by the Education Responsibility Act of 2035, the one that abolished and forgave the old student loan system, by, well, creating and being an esbee. By a 7-2 majority, the Court—the two women justices were the dissenters, ironically enough—held that excluding disproportionately female occupations from being recognized as qualifying work required for the receipt of federal student aid constituted impermissible sex discrimination, in this case under the Due Process Clause of the Fifth Amendment, although it applied equally to the states via the Fourteenth Amendment’s equal protection clause. Was T&A involved in that case?”

Hannah didn’t mention that she had personally always preferred Justice Sharpton’s excoriating dissent to the majority opinion. That kind of view probably wasn’t popular at T&A. 

Brooks seemed impressed by Hannah’s extemporaneous case briefing. “Glad to see you’re already prepared for law school—yes, Joyce and several other of the plaintiffs were our clients and we funded the case, along with various other agencies and of course the major platforms as well as a few particularly wealthy esdees. We also funded a number of amicus briefs, a few of which ended up being cited. Now, we were already a major agency and made plenty of money without that law change. This was long before my time, of course, but I have a passion for this firm’s history. Essentially, we could always make money with our clients whether or not they could afford college, but we, as passionate believers in the rights of women, and equally importantly, as people who stand by our clients no matter what, spent an enormous amount of money on the case as a way of giving back to the community. Joyce ended up attending the University of Oklahoma, then med school at Michigan. She’s a doctor somewhere, last time I looked her up, though she must be close to retirement. The point is, we here at T&A will always have your back, even if it means going to the Supreme Court, and as surprising as it might be, we consider ourselves a cut above our so-called competitors because we care about more than just money.”

Hannah inwardly wondered if T&A had been this wealthy before the Joyce decision. She suspected that Brooks was grossly understating the financial interest the firm had in winning that case. Out loud, she said, “That’s so wonderful to hear, but of course, from the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you had my back, Mr. Brooks.”

Hannah sensed that first naming her agent, despite his casual tone, would be out of line. He was far above her in the hierarchy here.

“Of course you did, darling. So, now that law school class is over for the day…” Brooks paused to laugh before continuing, “We can actually get down to our agenda for today and the next few weeks as we do your intake and launch you on this incredible journey. I imagine you’re pretty nervous about that; it’s perfectly normal. To be in your position, you probably have had to spend every minute studying, and we know from your application you haven’t been out partying with boys—well, at least not partying late or perhaps at least not partying with straight boys… anyway, we know you haven’t given much thought to the commercial aspects of this. That’s okay. We chose you because you have potential, not because we think you’ll just show up and be in the top 0.1% overnight. If you could do that, you wouldn’t need an agent! So our goal today is to figure out our angle for promoting you, get you set up as far as profiles and things are concerned, and give you a roadmap for where you’re going to need to be as far as income. 

“On that point, we sometimes see girls who think that all they need to do is hit the threshold of diligence and income where the Feds and their university don’t feel guilty about handing out free money. That’s wrong for two reasons. First, the Feds get jumpy about people who stop at the minimum. You have to remember that the institutional memories in Washington are long, and there’s still swathes of the Education Department that dislikes that, instead of loans, the government now just provides aid. They try to comfort themselves by making sure that people who get that aid are really working and showing the government that they will work hard enough to generate the income tax receipts to justify diverting taxpayer money to benefit the privileged minority of eighteen-year-olds who go to college instead of straight into work. Second, and this is probably more important, you want a solid financial cushion. When you have money, you can actually stop worrying about things going wrong and focus on your studies. And our goal here is to maximize your income through a minimum of time, so that you can go off and become the leading lawyer you dream of being. Does all that sound good?”

“Yes,” Hannah said. It actually did sound good, mainly because the unpleasant part was so thoroughly hidden by the corporate double talk.

“Great,” Brooks said, “So, I’m going to send you off to our marketing and photography boys, who will doll you up—although frankly, I don’t know how you can get prettier, and work up some copy for all your profiles. Then, you’re going to have some seminars on what to expect and to give you a basic groundwork in this industry. There will be a lot of info, and this is where your brains come in. Then, after a few more steps, you’ll end up back here, and we’ll review everything, sign a few dozen forms—I’m sorry but legal demands it—and have you on your way.”

Brooks paused and sipped at his Evian. He looked seriously at Hannah. “Hannah, I’ve been calling you a client since I’ve seen you, but the truth is you’re not quite there yet. We selected you and paid you the fee for an exclusive deal with us, but that’s just a temporary thing stopping you going behind our backs to one of our so-called competitors. Now, the reason I call you a client is that as far as I’m concerned, you’re in. And I speak for the firm here—when T&A brings a girl, or a boy, in, we have made up our mind. We have experience and we know who sells. But, we’re only 50% of this little shebang. You have to fully commit, and that’s the missing piece. Now, I am sure you came in here in perfect good faith, and are committed, but… well, a girl with a zero body count and high SMV is by nature sheltered. You don’t really know what is expected of you. And so the experience today is to give you a pretty clear and unsanitized view of the process so that you can make a decision with your informed consent. This line of work happens to be the easiest way to fulfill the federal work requirements, especially since out of equity all the universities now reserve the traditional work-study jobs for straight male students, but there are others. A determined girl can work forty hours a week to make the minimum required by the Feds, while just about avoiding failing, although the four hours a week you’d work as a creator and esbee leave a lot more time for sleep! So, there’s no stigma, no judgment if you choose not to do this. At any time, you can leave. But, if you really want to do this, then you have to make it through today. Think of today like sorority rush—which, incidentally, we’ll want you to do—sororities produce some of the best content. Yeah, there’s some hazing but ultimately it’s because we want you in our house.”

Hannah nodded, feeling suddenly nervous. “I understand, sir,” she said.

Brooks smiled and tapped a few buttons on a tablet. A few seconds later, there was a knock at the door. It was Louisa, again. “You called for me, sir?” she said to Brooks.

“I certainly did, you Latina vixen,” Brooks said. There was no real energy in his degrading language. He sounded distinctively bored. Just following a formula. Probably, thought Hannah, a man as utterly surrounded by sex as Brooks would eventually grow tired of the expected office sexual harassment and reduce it to a matter of pleasantries. 

Brooks continued, “Take my new favorite client to our boys in marketing and those photography wizards—she’s going to be a star, let me tell you. Hell, she almost has me breaking my sacred vow as a Crimson fan never to cheer for Berkeley.” Brooks laughed again.

Hannah took this as her cue to stand up, after blowing Brooks a kiss. Brooks waved at her and said, “Remember Hannah, what I said. Everything that happens today is just making sure you want to do this. We all love you here.”

Hannah nodded, feeling suddenly very nervous about what was coming next. She walked through the door Louisa was holding open, and a second later heard it gently close behind her.

Louisa walked up to Hannah and squeezed the teenager’s throat. “Alright you slut, nice time is over. Now, you do what you’re told and make Mr. Brooks proud. Otherwise, you end up on the streets, because whatever he told you, there’s no way a woman can get through college except by doing this. Do I make myself clear?”

Hannah sputtered her assent with the little air she could muster. “Good,” Louisa said. “Now, marketing will be giving you a different wardrobe today, so I need you to take off all your clothes right now.”

Hannah froze. She wasn’t stupid enough to talk back to Louisa, but she also hadn’t been expecting to strip in a public corridor. Nor, for that matter, had she expected the complete turn in Louisa’s attitude to her.

It’s all for show, Hannah tried to remind herself. It’s just testing you. It’s all acting. As fake as everything else in LA. 

Louisa cleared her throat. “I know back there he gave you the spiel about how the firm is totally committed to you. You seem like a smart girl. You know very well that the moment you stop being worth money, the firm will ditch you in the street. Now, a girl who can’t strip on cue is a girl whose SMV is worthless. Whereas a girl who can strip on cue, but is embarrassed to do so fits perfectly with what marketing tells us is really popular in the market. So, choose. Which do you want to be?”

It’s a test, Hannah thought. Just a test. Just like all the tests I worked so hard for, all so I could get into Berkeley. And this one doesn’t even require studying.

Hannah knew that for all the language about empowerment, consent, and respect, she had no choice. The only way to pay for college was to be a creator—she was not yet ready to think about being an esbee—and this was, though it did not feel like it, the least humiliating way to do so. So, she complied.

Rapidly, as if to stop herself from having second thoughts, she tore off her tank top and sports bra, dropping them on the floor. Then, adrenaline taking over, she kicked off her shoes, bent over to thrust her ass towards Louisa, and peeled down her shorts and panties in one fell swoop. After stepping out of those, she kicked off her socks too and then turned to face Louisa, arms akimbo, her breasts in full display. 

Louisa smiled, slightly. “Good. You looked cute in that outfit, but it was amateurish and cheap. The sporty look works on you, but we will outfit you better.”

That didn’t explain, Hannah thought, why she had to strip in the corridor rather than once she got to marketing. The forced nudity was clearly a test, to see if she was too shy to walk through an office full of people naked. It made its own kind of sense. If she was too shy to walk through a private office without a shred of clothing, how forthright could she be with potentially millions of internet strangers?

Hannah suspected that T&A was only as cruel as its balance sheet required. Sadism for its own sake didn’t pay. That scared her more than if Louisa was just cruel. A cruel person would only go as far as was needed to get his or her rocks off. A company would keep going and going without any regard until it maximized the asset–in this case, Hannah.

Louisa withdrew from a pocket a carefully folded sheet of paper, headed with the T&A logo. Handing it to Hannah, the older woman said, “Read this. You have thirty seconds. Memorize it and be ready to perform it immediately after. You will be judged on what flair you add to the lines.”

Hannah gingerly took the paper, conscious of her own nudity. As she read the short text, her heart sank. This was it. Nudity was awkward but could be explained away. But this… someone who said these things, who committed the speech-act inherent in uttering something so degrading, whether meant or not, had lost some element of dignity. 

That loss of dignity, of course, was precisely the thing for which wealthy men paid handsomely.

 The copy, if it could be called that, was so generic it read like (and perhaps was) a series of keywords designed to maximize search engine traffic. This epicene quality, however, did not change the fact that the content, as said by Hannah, would be a Rubicon. No one could say this into a camera to obtain money in the future without becoming—at least in Hannah’s innermost, borderline reactionary thoughts, a... a…

Hannah could not bring herself to finish that thought, even though it was hardly revelatory. She still harbored the hopeless sublimated desire to escape all this, to find some other way.

Go, golden bears, Hannah thought miserably as she handed back the piece of paper.

When Hannah saw what was in Louisa’s hand, the tremors in her legs grew in intensity.

Louisa smiled darkly, holding up the object in front of her face, communicating without words the utter ruin it foretold.

It was Hannah’s phone. And Louisa clearly meant to film Hannah with it. Which she would only do for one possible reason…

“Y-you’re not going to… to…,” Hannah stuttered. The question died in her mouth, because there could only be one answer.

Louisa laughed. It was a harsh, sadistic laugh, so removed from the friendly artificial chuckle she had given in the waiting room.

“Why do you think it makes a difference to send it directly to everyone on your list?” the older woman said in a tone of soft menace. “Think of the girls a year older than you. Everyone sees their nudes, their videos, their humiliations. It doesn’t matter how paywalled it is. It leaks out. In fact, the platforms want it that way. The more infamy a slut can acquire, the higher her SMV goes, and the higher our commission goes.”

Louisa paused, and for a moment, Hannah thought she saw a shred of sympathy in the woman’s eyes. 

“The reason we do this,” Louisa said, “is because a girl who won’t text all her friends and family her content is a girl who will not cut it as a creator. Because they will all see it, and if you can’t live with that, then you fundamentally will never make it in this industry. So make a choice. Now. You can leave—you can always leave. We believe in consent here at T&A. Or you can let us help you pay for college and launch a brilliant career. Decide.”

Consent. Of course T&A believed in it. Their corporate statement of values, which Hannah had tried reading before giving up a few sentences in, was a mishmash of every feminist buzzword in the books. All the agencies were avowedly feminist. Or at least, they called their own views feminist. Justice Sharpton’s closing line of her dissent in Joyce came to mind.  Hannah had memorized it. “The majority of this Court has decided to eviscerate women’s rights in the name of promoting them. It is an Orwellian development that has forged a path by which, before long, half the citizens of this Nation will be inexorably driven by the whip of poverty into effective servitude. With no respect for my colleagues, I dissent.”

But that was then. Now, all three of the Court’s female justices had been creators. So had virtually every circuit and district judge. 

Hannah knew what she had to do. “Countdown to recording, please. Is the angle good?”

Louisa grinned. “Honey, as long as the sex is in frame, people will watch it.”

With her fingers, Louisa counted down and then pointed at Hannah.

With a giggle, Hannah spread her legs and lifted her small breasts up. “Hi everyone! I’m Hannah Norris from Los Angeles, California, and I attended Ruth Bader Ginsburg High. To all my friends and family, I’m a hardworking student, but the truth is, I’m a dirty slut, a whore who just wants to be used.”

Then, Hannah slapped her face and inserted three fingers into her vagina.

“I am a dumb bitch who needs to be put in my place. All the time I was studying, I really just wanted a man to choke me and spit on me and then fuck me raw before giving me his wonderful cum.”

Hannah stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes, the way she vaguely thought girls were supposed to do when saying these sorts of things.

Then, in an improvised coup-de-théâtre, Hannah jumped, turning in the air, and landed back to the camera. Taking advantage of her flexible physique, toned in cross country, she bent down and reached through her legs so that, below her visible vagina and anus, her upside-down smiling face could be seen.

“I’m three holes to be used, and that’s all I’ll ever be. I’m Hannah Norris, and I’m a slut-bitch-cunt-whore!”

As Louisa stopped the recording, Hannah froze, the forced grin still on her face.

She had crossed the barrier. She had entered this building a straitlaced valedictorian who gave no thought to sex. Now, she was a whore. All further degradation would be a matter of degree, not of category. 

Hannah, looking up at her own genitals, presented in perfect view for everyone on her contacts list, felt the thought she had tried to avoid earlier wash over her.

Against every desire and instinct, by economic necessity, it had come to this.

She had become a whore.