Roadside Diner

Fester hated this place with every fiber of his being. That rundown backroom of the greasy spoon where he now sat, leaning against a plastic table, felt like pure hell to him. It had all happened too fast: a few clicks in the weird app “DreamShift,” one thoughtless activation of the test mode driven by horny impulses, a flash — and now he was here. Two months already.

— Hey, Cindy, what’re you doing just sittin’ there?! — came a mocking voice from across the room.

It was Joe — always cocky, always smug, the ever-annoying cook of this dump on the abandoned Highway 27. In his hand was a greasy towel and some suspicious-looking sausage on a fork.

— Ain’t no customers anyway, — Cindy muttered lazily without even lifting her head from her hand. The voice that slipped from her plump, crimson lips was a little hoarse, but carried such defiant indifference that Joe only smirked.

Fester — or rather, now Cindy — stared wearily into the distance, as if through the wall of this cheap diner, trying to somehow see herself before all this, to see the Fester she used to be not so long ago.

— Come on, shake that sweet ass, Cindy, or Mike’s gonna scream again, — Joe grinned, twirling the fork in his hand like a reminder of who's boss around here.

Cindy slowly lifted her head from her hand. A wave of irritation and humiliation flared under her skin, making her nose wrinkle in annoyance. She stood up slowly, jaw clenched, feeling the tight skirt hug her hips and ride up slightly, forcing her to constantly tug at the hem. Her mind boiled with rage and shame. What the hell had Fester been thinking that stupid night when he hit “Activate”? Now he was Cindy — a young, sassy waitress in a middle-of-nowhere diner.

As if there had never been an honors diploma, a college degree, plans for a career, the certainty that he, Fester, would make something of himself. Now all he had was a corner in a cheap supply closet, a couple of greasy-smelling uniforms, and the duty to smile at anyone who wanted a double-meat burger.

Cindy sighed heavily, feeling the bra dig into her underboob, reminding her of its presence with every breath, every movement. Then, with disgust, she tugged her skirt back down, feeling the tight edge stretch over her rounded hips, and prepared to take a lazy step forward.

And right then, almost as if on cue, Mike burst into the room — balding, red-faced, the kind of manager even Joe and the old-timer customers were afraid of. His eyes locked onto Cindy instantly.

— What is this, a damn resort?! — he roared so loud that even the half-asleep trucker at the counter jumped. — You’re standing there like some hooker on the stroll instead of working! Maybe I should toss you a few extra tips to motivate you?!

Cindy instinctively shrank under the verbal assault. Mike wasn’t just yelling — he was humiliating her, making a spectacle of her like she really was some cheap piece on the street. Cindy’s face burned, her cheeks flaring red with shame. Everything inside her boiled, but her body didn’t listen — it froze in a submissive slump.

— Well?! What are you standing there for?! — Mike stepped closer, eyeing her from the bottom up, lingering especially long on her chest, where the tight plaid shirt stretched across her tits. — There’s a customer sittin’ over there, by the way! And you didn’t even notice! Go on, give him a smile. What the hell do you think you’re here for?

— I... — Cindy swallowed nervously, feeling her voice tremble.

— You’re here to bat your lashes and keep ‘em entertained! — he barked so loud it made her flinch. — Now get over there! And don’t forget, you’ve got a tongue for more than just yappin’! Flirt, for fuck’s sake! Entertain! Or get the hell out!

For a second, the world narrowed into a tunnel: her, the short skirt, her flushed face, and the trucker sipping coffee while watching the whole thing with interest.

“Flirt...”

The word seared her throat like acid. But there was no choice. Only shame. Only obedience.

Cindy, swallowing down the humiliation, took a slow, swaying step toward the trucker’s table, feeling like every piece of her clothing was burning her alive. The short skirt clung to her thighs, the shirt rubbed against her nipples, making them stiffen under the fabric in hateful defiance.

— Good evening, sir... — she purred with a crooked smile, trying to fake at least a hint of friendliness. — What would you like... to order, or maybe I can help you with... something else?

The man grinned, leaning in.

— You’re not bad, sweetheart, — he rumbled, his eyes shamelessly sliding down her body. — If the coffee’s as hot as you are, I might stick around a while.

Cindy dropped her gaze, drowning in a wave of disgust and shame.