Life is Strange: Indecent Exposure | Chapter 1 "Oral Exam"

Hey, Captain Handsome, it's Victoria Chase here, sliding into your multiverse mic like I own the damn place. You know, the one where realities collide in the kinkiest ways possible? I love this podcast setup—it's like we're whispering secrets across dimensions, and you're the handsome gatekeeper who doesn't flinch at a little indecent exposure. First episode with me? Buckle up, because I'm about to spill how I turned my silver spoon life into a porn empire blueprint.

You remember that banter we had last time about the multiverse? How every choice forks into a new reality? Well, in mine, I didn't settle for trust funds and debutante balls. I revolutionized the adult industry by flipping the script on what "starlet" means. No more cookie-cutter starlets with fake moans and zero personality. I brought in the raw, the real—the girls who look like they stepped out of a high school fantasy but play like pros. Think empowerment wrapped in lace and leather, where every scene builds an empire. But enough foreplay with the big picture. Let me take you back to where it all ignited, solo-style, because this tale's mine to tell.

Picture this: I'm fresh into "Sweet Cherry High," this groundbreaking pornographic reality show that's equal parts scandal and strategy. It's designed for women like me—at least 18, total virgins, wide-eyed but ambitious as hell. We're not just popping cherries for clicks; we're crafting careers. The show's handlers pair us with mentors, throw us into escalating challenges, and let the fanbase vote with their wallets. It's like Survivor meets OnlyFans, but with more lube and less coconuts. I signed up because why the fuck not? My family's old money, but I wanted new power—the kind that makes men beg and women envy.

It starts innocently enough, or as innocent as mall-walking in a micro-skirt can be. My handler, Mark Jefferson—this slick photographer type with a jawline that could cut glass—texts me to strut through the local mall for some B-roll footage. "Gauge the distractions, Vic," he says. "See how many heads you turn. You're the queen today." I'm feeling invincible, hips swaying like I'm on a runway in Paris, not some fluorescent-lit consumer zoo. Heads snap my way—guys fumbling their phones, women shooting side-eye. I'm the distraction incarnate, a blonde bombshell in heels that click like dominance anthems. Power surges through me; I'm untouchable, the girl who grew up in mansions but now rules the gaze.

Then I spot Mark lurking at the top of the escalator, waving me over with that urgent nod. My stomach flips—not the good kind. "Vic, we've got a snag," he mutters, pulling me aside near the escalators. His voice is low, professional, but there's a glint in his eye that screams opportunity. Turns out, my big mouth's bitten me in the ass. I've been trash-talking the fanbase on socials—calling them losers, betas, the kind of rich-kid snark that comes from boarding schools and black AmEx cards. They loved the villain vibe at first, but now? They've voted. Donated. Pooled cash to force my "Oral Exam." First solo blowjob on camera, proof I'm ready to level up. And get this: the fanbase specified the mark—a random guy, Black, late 30s, slinging phone cases from a kiosk two levels down. "It's their fantasy," Mark says, shrugging. "Humble the mean girl. You in or out?"

Outrage hits me like a slap. Me? On my knees for some kiosk jockey? I'm Victoria fucking Chase—private jets, caviar dreams, not this. He's beneath me, literally and figuratively. No pedigree, no polish. But the contract's ironclad; bail now, and I'm blacklisted from the industry before I start. Fine. I'll do it. But I'll own it, make them regret pushing me.

We weave through the mall's chaos—pop music blaring, families munching pretzels, oblivious to the storm brewing. Mark's crew sets up subtle distractions: a fake spill here, a loud argument there, keeping eyes off us. The kiosk guy's name is Darius, broad-shouldered, easy smile, dreads tied back like he doesn't give a shit about the world. Late 30s, yeah, with that quiet confidence that screams he's seen more life than my trust fund ever will. "You the one?" he asks, glancing at Mark's nod. No judgment, just curiosity. I force a smirk, heart pounding. "Lucky you."

Mark points to the spot: under a service stairwell by the department store, semi-hidden but risky as hell. Foot traffic hums nearby—employees restocking shelves, shoppers chattering. One wrong glance, and we're busted. The air's thick with that mall scent: popcorn, cheap perfume, and now, the faint musk of anticipation. My crew blocks lines of sight, but the thrill? It's electric. I drop to my knees on the gritty tile, skirt riding up, feeling exposed already. Darius unzips, and there it is—his cock, thick, veined, already half-hard from the setup. The scent hits me first: clean sweat, a hint of soap, masculine and unapologetic. Nothing like the sterile fantasies I'd imagined. My mouth waters despite myself, but reluctance claws at me. This is humiliating. Me, the heiress, servicing a stranger in public like some discount whore.

I lean in hesitant, lips brushing the tip. Salty skin, warm against my tongue. I take him slow, just the head, swirling tentatively. God, the taste—earthy, a little bitter, like forbidden fruit I shouldn't want. My mind races: *This is beneath you, Vic. But fuck, the risk... anyone could round the corner.* Humiliation burns my cheeks, but it's laced with something darker, a spark low in my belly. I bob shallow, hands on his thighs for balance, feeling him thicken in my mouth. He's respectful, not thrusting, letting me set the pace. But my thoughts? A whirlwind. *Why does this feel like power? Like I'm stealing his control while giving mine away?*

Mark's voice cuts in from the shadows, phone in hand, streaming live to the fans. "They're loving this, Vic. Comments rolling in: 'Look at the rich bitch choke on real dick.' 'Bet she's never tasted anything but silver spoons.'" Degrading? Absolutely. But hearing it? My pussy clenches, wet heat building. It turns me on—their hate, my defiance. I moan around Darius's shaft, enthusiasm kicking in. I take him deeper, tongue pressing the underside, savoring the way he twitches. The atmosphere's a pressure cooker: distant laughter from the store, the hum of AC, our heavy breaths. Risk of getting caught amps everything—my nipples harden against my blouse, arousal slick between my thighs.

I pull back, strings of saliva connecting us, and play with the precum beading at his tip. It's clear, sticky, tasting sharper on my tongue as I lap it up, swirling like it's candy. *Fuck, this is filthy,* I think, *but it's mine now.* More comments flood Mark's feed: "Slut's getting into it. Lick that black cum, princess." Derogatory as hell, but it fuels me. I dive back in, sucking with purpose, hollowing my cheeks, one hand stroking the base. Darius groans low, fingers tangling gently in my hair. The humiliation morphs—I'm not just enduring; I'm reveling. My free hand slips under my skirt, circling my clit through damp panties, chasing the edge.

It escalates. I stand, stripping off my top and skirt right there, naked under the stairs like a secret ritual. My skin prickles in the cool air, virgin pussy exposed, lips swollen with need. Darius's eyes darken, appreciative, and he steps close, rubbing his slick cock against my folds. No penetration—just grinding, his heat teasing my entrance. I gasp, arching into it, the friction sending sparks up my spine. *So close to losing it all, but not yet.* The crowd noise swells; a family passes nearby, Mark's team diverting them with a "sample sale" distraction. Adrenaline surges, my body begging for more.

I grab his cock, positioning it right at my virgin slit, the head nudging my clit. Looking straight into the hidden camera, I purr, "Listen up, fanbase. You want this? Him taking my cherry right here? Pony up 100 grand in donations. Clock's ticking—make me a star, or watch me walk away untouched." It's a power play, my voice husky, challenging. Then, locking eyes with Darius—those deep, knowing eyes—I whisper, "Face-fuck me. Make it count."

He doesn't hesitate. Hands on my head, he thrusts deep, claiming my throat. I gag at first, tears pricking, but I relax into it, slurping greedily. The taste overwhelms—precum mixing with my spit, his scent enveloping me. He pumps steady, balls slapping my chin, and I finger myself furiously, chasing release. The degradation peaks: Mark relays, "They're calling you a cum-dump heiress. 'Bet daddy's ashamed now.'" It shatters me—I come hard, muffled cries around his dick, pussy clenching on nothing.

Darius tenses, pulling out just in time. Hot ropes of cum splash my face—cheeks, lips, dripping down my chin. One spurt lands in my open mouth, thick and salty; I swallow, savoring the conquest. He milks the last drops onto my tits, marking me. Breathless, I turn to the camera, cum-glazed and grinning like a boss. "Too bad, losers. Looks like you were too broke to see my virginity taken today." Wiping a streak from my lip, I lick it clean, then grab my discarded clothes—half-dressed, face a mess of evidence—and strut off to finish shopping. Employees gawk, but I own it, heels clicking triumphantly. Cum drying sticky on my skin, I buy lingerie like nothing happened, the ultimate fuck-you.

That blowjob? It flipped a switch. Kneeling there, tasting him, hearing their barbs—it unlocked something primal. Humiliation isn't defeat; it's fuel. I realized my mean streak isn't a flaw—it's my brand. Manipulate the fans with it: tease, taunt, make them pay for every inch of vulnerability. They crave the mean girl humbled, then rising fiercer. It's engagement gold—donations spike, views explode. Sweet Cherry High became my kingdom because of that moment. Without it, I'd be just another rich girl playing pretend.

Back to you, Captain Handsome—this episode's just the teaser. That oral exam? Most critical pivot in my adult industry pursuit. I saw the truth: fans devour the fall of the untouchable. Hook them with my journey, and they'll follow forever. But remember, a girl's most valuable asset is her virginity. Guard it like treasure. If you're gonna lose it, extract value—fame, clout, status. Make it a spectacle that launches you. Mine's still mine, at least a bit longer, but how it goes? It was legendary. But that was my brand. As for my besties, Courtney Wagner and Taylor Christensen, I knew I had to figure out their branding if the three of us were to take over the industry and turn it into our empire.

Stick around for the next episode; I'll explain the beginning of my master plan to usurp the King of Porn, Lex Holiday.