An idol's career is floundering. She needs to do something drastic, something at least a little bit scandalous, to return her to the limelight. It's a decision made for cynical business reasons, but she ends up earnestly enjoying the results.
Nobody was buying Amy's Goody-Goody Singer act anymore; her last gig was a county fair in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere and the corndog guy was getting more attention than she was. Her agency denied it, saying that her flannel-and-denim vibe was perfect the way it was, but she could see the writing on the wall. Something had to change. And she already knew what it was.
The agency really tried hard to keep Amy in the "Wholesome Hometown" niche. For them, staying in that lane was more about filling out their portfolio than making money, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Amy wasn't. Part of maintaining that wholesomeness meant maintaining a certain style and, when Amy's figure started changing, they fought against that, too. She had to wear binders under her shirts to go out and perform, eventually doubling up to make sure that nothing too scandalous was showing. Amy had to be wholesome and, to the agency, that meant not an inch of cleavage and nothing that so much as hinted at anything sexy.
As Amy's crowds dried up and gigs got canceled, she had to take drastic measures. Agency? Cut. Tour? Ended early. She posted a heartfelt apology on social media to her fans (what few of them were left) and disappeared from the public eye for almost a full year.
When she reappeared, Amy had become Amber.
Gone were the flannels. Gone were the blue jeans. Gone were the quaint fairground stages. Gone were the lyrics about finding a husband and settling down.
Amber was darky. Amber was edgy. Amber was "goth". Most of all, though, Amber was busty.
To the world, she had never sported more than a B cup. Now, she bounced on stage with tits that dared you to measure them, knowing that they defied such petty things as cup sizes. Not that she ever wore a bra on stage. With the harsh lights beaming down, her black tank tops were almost translucent, the outline of her areola visible under the thin fabric and the barbells through her nipples glinting. Instead of tractors and true love, now she sang about getting railed under a full moon by something not entirely human.
Amber felt no strong attachment toward the aesthetic she now adopted; she just needed a way to get new fans and bring attention to herself. And, boy, did she ever. Fans poured in. Overnight, thousands and thousands of followers subscribed to her social media, some already begging her to go on tour. A lot of them were just thirsting over her tits, entranced by how she embraced her sexual energy, but Amber didn't mind. The more she saw the comments, the more they engaged, the more she grew to like it. She leaned into it. Her boobs were still growing, after all, and she had hidden them for so long. Embracing her massive udders gave her a thrill she never would have expected.
Looking at Amber's work, it became increasingly impossible to believe that she was ever Amy, but it was better this way. Her fans gushed (sometimes literally) over her cleavage and her black lipstick and she was more popular than ever. Her only struggle now was figuring out a rhyme for "milkers."
