After becoming known as Jason Derulo's dancing whore backup dancer, Imogen "Immi" Heap found herself in high demand. Not by adoring fans, but as a showpiece for other performers. Over two decades of experience in the music industry came down to this: shaking her ass on stage, sweating into thongs and bras, her big fake tits bouncing around on her chest as she panted to keep up. Keeping up appearances came with her new career, a sordid path of surgeries and stripper lessons to maximize the value of her constant humiliations. The only part that never changed was her face. No matter how big her boobs, how fat her ass, how skanky her moves or sleazy her dress, her audience needed to recognize hers as the face of an overeager slut even when they ran across her old albums in bargain bins and on old web pages.
"Old tits for brains is at it again." "I bet she fucked her way here." "Can't even hold a note to save her life."
The comments and giggles of the other dancers backstage wore on her after a while, but she knew not to confront them about it. Instead she strutted over to the rapper who contracted her this time, got down on her knees, and simulated blowing him in front of a packed stadium. The numbers here boggled her mind. Back in her own touring days, Immi barely managed to fill a venue with 2-3 thousand people on her best day. Ten times that number watched and cheered as she puffed her cheek out with her tongue. Nothing she ever did in her whole life compared to this single night, her artist backlog paling next to the joy these people felt at her body and talents reduced to those of a fuck doll.
They grew louder when the rapper undid his belt and stuck it in for real.
Immi scowled and winced an eye at it stretching her soft pink lips. She had grown accustomed to dicks in her mouth, taking every shape and size to the back of her tonsils and deepthroating without gagging. That part of her faded after weeks of intensive mouthfuck training. It was the indignity that never lifted. Her class act before the nonstop sampling of her greatest work garnered polite, respectful praise from the few reviewers per year that bothered to attend her concerts. She used to weave notes with well-trained expertise, but to her new audience, she only knew how to be a big-boobed cum slut.
She shuddered in revulsion when the rapper's load burst over her tongue. Thick, and clumpy, it coated her vocal cords in time for when the rapper forced her off and shoved the microphone in her face. She knew what that and the music break meant. Landing on her huge cushion of an ass, the one part of her body not modified for her gigs, she belted out the worst, most degrading performance of her life.
“Mummmm wuh huh haaaayyyy.”
The cum gurgled in her throat. Once upon a time, she thought hearing that lyric sped up and autotuned like a hyper chipmunk for a rapper's backup singer was her greatest shame. This new low blew it out of the water. Mangling her most famous words with her own throat, just so this rapper could show off how thoroughly his jizz wrecked it, hit her harder than her dark nipples and messy pussy showing through her tight, white, thin tanktop and booty shorts.
Collecting herself as cum dribbled down her chin, she wasn't prepared when she stood in a bent over pose, butt jutting out, and took a swift smack to her backside. Then one backup dancer followed through. Then another. One by one then again, each joined in helping Immi put the ass in asset. If she had authority, she might have resisted, but she knew the conditions of her employ. If they wanted a target for the show, they got one. She held firm as her cheeks stung, turning number, redder.
"Mu-mum wuh huh h-haaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyy."
It came out clearer this time, having swallowed some of the jizz down her otherwise parched throat, but a lack of moisture in losing it through her soaked top and wet pussy had her choking the words out through gunk.
And this was only the first song. She had another two hours to go.
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Imogen Heap, Backup Skank - pt 2
(part 1)
After becoming known as Jason Derulo's
dancing whorebackup dancer, Imogen "Immi" Heap found herself in high demand. Not by adoring fans, but as a showpiece for other performers. Over two decades of experience in the music industry came down to this: shaking her ass on stage, sweating into thongs and bras, her big fake tits bouncing around on her chest as she panted to keep up. Keeping up appearances came with her new career, a sordid path of surgeries and stripper lessons to maximize the value of her constant humiliations. The only part that never changed was her face. No matter how big her boobs, how fat her ass, how skanky her moves or sleazy her dress, her audience needed to recognize hers as the face of an overeager slut even when they ran across her old albums in bargain bins and on old web pages."Old tits for brains is at it again."
"I bet she fucked her way here."
"Can't even hold a note to save her life."
The comments and giggles of the other dancers backstage wore on her after a while, but she knew not to confront them about it. Instead she strutted over to the rapper who contracted her this time, got down on her knees, and simulated blowing him in front of a packed stadium. The numbers here boggled her mind. Back in her own touring days, Immi barely managed to fill a venue with 2-3 thousand people on her best day. Ten times that number watched and cheered as she puffed her cheek out with her tongue. Nothing she ever did in her whole life compared to this single night, her artist backlog paling next to the joy these people felt at her body and talents reduced to those of a fuck doll.
They grew louder when the rapper undid his belt and stuck it in for real.
Immi scowled and winced an eye at it stretching her soft pink lips. She had grown accustomed to dicks in her mouth, taking every shape and size to the back of her tonsils and deepthroating without gagging. That part of her faded after weeks of intensive mouthfuck training. It was the indignity that never lifted. Her class act before the nonstop sampling of her greatest work garnered polite, respectful praise from the few reviewers per year that bothered to attend her concerts. She used to weave notes with well-trained expertise, but to her new audience, she only knew how to be a big-boobed cum slut.
She shuddered in revulsion when the rapper's load burst over her tongue. Thick, and clumpy, it coated her vocal cords in time for when the rapper forced her off and shoved the microphone in her face. She knew what that and the music break meant. Landing on her huge cushion of an ass, the one part of her body not modified for her gigs, she belted out the worst, most degrading performance of her life.
“Mummmm wuh huh haaaayyyy.”
The cum gurgled in her throat. Once upon a time, she thought hearing that lyric sped up and autotuned like a hyper chipmunk for a rapper's backup singer was her greatest shame. This new low blew it out of the water. Mangling her most famous words with her own throat, just so this rapper could show off how thoroughly his jizz wrecked it, hit her harder than her dark nipples and messy pussy showing through her tight, white, thin tanktop and booty shorts.
Collecting herself as cum dribbled down her chin, she wasn't prepared when she stood in a bent over pose, butt jutting out, and took a swift smack to her backside. Then one backup dancer followed through. Then another. One by one then again, each joined in helping Immi put the ass in asset. If she had authority, she might have resisted, but she knew the conditions of her employ. If they wanted a target for the show, they got one. She held firm as her cheeks stung, turning number, redder.
"Mu-mum wuh huh h-haaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyy."
It came out clearer this time, having swallowed some of the jizz down her otherwise parched throat, but a lack of moisture in losing it through her soaked top and wet pussy had her choking the words out through gunk.
And this was only the first song. She had another two hours to go.