I was 22. I thought I was god’s gift –– I was pretty, and I knew it. I had a great body and I knew it. Men did all sorts of things just to get near me, and I knew it. I was lazy too –– who wanted to work –– I had never really bothered in school. One of those girls with an older guy for a boyfriend, with a car, money.
But did he get everything he wanted? No way. The most important thing for him was being seen to have me. I kept them on a tight rein. Then, when I was old enough, I left them, and my little home town for the big city –– time to get ahead.
Well, the story is old. I got less than I’d hoped for, and generally it cost me more. I actually had to work, and the work was harder than I thought, and although my legs, my tits, my short skirts, tight belts and cheeky grin got me some easy gigs, generally the world of work was too serious for me, and I was looking for something else –– something easier.
Inevitably, the easy way seemed to be the way that required me to be more obvious with my body –– that made it clearer that what I was really offering to the world was sex –– or at least, the allure of sex. Anyway, somehow I got a job as a hostess at a gentlemans club –– a real one, not any seedy strip joint –– one with Sirs and Lords as members.
Lots of the staff were men, very proper and old fashioned, but it was clear they liked to have a number of young and pretty girls around too, serving on them, and, as it became clear after a little while, there was a fairly high turnover of these pretty young girls –– and after only a little longer, it became clear that they got themselves hooked up with members –– some as mistresses, some as ‘domestics’.
It was all too clear how it worked. A girl who was up for it began to dress just a little more cutely than the uniform required –– had her skirt shortened a little –– wore higher heels, with ankle straps –– often little lacey chokers, generally hair tied back. Her attitude changed a little as well –– more smiling, blushing, giggles when racey comments were made, catching the eye of the man or men she was hoping would make her an offer. Then there would be a few ‘dates’ –– more or less like dates, depending on the girl and the man –– sometimes they even ended up as wives. More often it was an assignation at a hotel to see if they lived up to the promise of their smile.
Me, I was happy with the job, for now. I smiled enough, looked pretty enough, acted sexy just enough to keep everyone more than happy with me, without giving anyone the come-on, and without responding any more than the house rules required to any man that gave me to believe that he would like to get to know me better –– in one way or another. So when I did get asked out, I politely declined, talked of my (non-existent) boyfriend a few times, kept my nose clean.
Sometimes the higher level staff took advantage of a girl –– if she was looking as if she wasn’t going to be taken up by any member, but was still making herself obvious, they could threaten to fire her for ‘inappropriate behaviour’ –– the rule book was so tight that they could basically fire any of us at any time. So the poor girl was caught –– if she was fired, she had no access to members who might take her away and set her up with money, an apartment, a well paid job –– whatever –– so, if she wanted to stay, she had to fuck certain members of staff.
However, if the members found out she was ‘staff-meat’, then she had little chance of anything, so she had to keep very quiet, fuck and suck nicely, keep smiling and basically accept the first offer that was made –– even if it was little better than slavery.
It was a mug’s game, I thought, and so I stuck to the straight and narrow. Like I said, I had a high opinion of myself –– no way was I going to get mixed up in any of that stuff! But like I said before, I thought I was God’s gift –– so sure that I was better than the rest, and so, when after about 8 months, I got an offer, I was beginning to think it was time I found some sort of step up (and, to be honest, I was perhaps beginning to contemplate the possibility of that step up being what all the girls did, and becoming some rich man’s totty - some of the girls I had started with had really lucked out, and sent us postcards from gleaming white superyachts), and so I took it as it was presented to me –– as a recognition of how special I was.
One of the senior staff at the club approached me. Did I know she ran a very exclusive dining club herself –– only once a week? With a very select membership indeed –– no one allowed who wasn’t worth at least half a billion, and even then it was membership by invitation only, with a ‘blackball’ system, so that anyone who didn’t want the proposed member could veto without having to be public about it.
It was so exclusive that I had never even heard of it. I was impressed. And she wanted me to work there; “I know I can trust you, and you are one of the prettiest girls here –– a real favourite - and so discreet. I’ve been asked to see if I can recruit you particularly. Just allow me to arrange your night off. The pay is double what it is here. Can you be very, very discreet? Don’t answer without thinking about it! Your job here will be on the line if you let me down.“
I pretended to think about it. And then said yes - I was never going to say anything else: - I had been selected! I was on the up!
Little did I know I was on a slide that would take me right to the bottom.
Now was the time to leave.
Why didn’t I? Hard to say –– partly, because I was bored, partly because I liked idea of earning all that money so quickly, partly because I might meet a nice billionaire, partly because I somehow responded to M, didn’t want her to think I couldn’t cope.
But I realise now, it was mostly because of something I didn’t know about myself at the time, something I have found out, slowly, painfully, and terrifyingly pleasurably, since –– I am a helpless, submissive slut. All my illusions of control, power over others, certainty of my own superiority have crumbled, under the knowing and experienced campaign that M subjected me to. But I didn’t know this at the time, couldn’t know it, wouldn’t have accepted it if you had told me. And so, in foolish certainty of my own strength and ability to cope, I stayed.
The first night of my new job.
I turned up at the Hotel N-, where the club occupied a huge suite, all to itself, with its own kitchens, private rooms, magnificent dining room –– rather intimidating, although I refused to think it –– the club where I had my day job, although posh, was rather old and fusty –– but this was just top-of-the-trees grand.
The first shock was the other staff. Far from being pretty girls, the other two were very prim, dried-up older women, hard faced.
The second shock was the uniform –– while the other two were in long, black, old fashioned skirts and high necked blouses, I was given a gorgeous but frankly indecent fantasy maid’s get-up; a tight, laced bodice, in a dark green (presumably chosen to contrast with my red hair and pale skin), lifting and blatantly offering my breasts without quite covering the nipples –– a flimsy froth of soft white lace being the only concession to modesty here, my shoulders bare, apart from tiny lace straps.
An extra-short, tight-waisted skirt with flounces and lacy petticoats that stuck out more like a tutu than anything else, worn with nothing but a pretty, insubstantial G-string and white semi-opaque thigh-highs with garter ribbons; very pretty, very high-heeled strappy shoes with ankle straps, and lastly, a lace choker and ridiculous lacy cuffs with a finger yoke to keep them in place.
Once I was dressed, I was told to put my hair up, and followed one of them to be briefed by M –– my new boss.
I wasn’t sure what to think. On the one hand, I knew that I looked magnificent in the outfit –– fit to cause heart attacks –– but on the other, it went far beyond what I considered to be cool; looked at next to the dried up crones I was to work with, it was clear that I was being set up as the bimbo.
The fact that I felt gorgeous, and pretty, and sexy, and that the evident luxury dressmaking and fabrics that had gone into the outfit (and the fact that it had clearly been made to measure) were a real compliment, was carrying the day so far, but I was really propelled by curiosity –– I told myself I would just walk out when I had had enough of this. Walking into M’s office, though, I blushed –– not normal for me (then) — feeling unaccountably like a schoolgirl.
Her cool, appraising glance, betraying no sense of satisfaction or approval, cut me down to size.
“Jenna, there are some particular traditions at this club. There are always three serving girls –– always two old, severely dressed, and one young, pretty, dressed enticingly. The older two are referred to as maids; the young one is referred to as ‘the cunt’.
“That is you –– within this establishment, you will always be referred to as ‘the cunt’, or simply ‘cunt’ –– some of the younger gentleman may occasionally call you ‘pussy’, and you will answer to that too. Do you understand?”
I was shocked. It was so strange, the filthy word, in this establishment setting, with such well-bred people. And for it to apply to me! I couldn’t think of anything to say but; “Yes, but …”
“No buts. And while you work for me, just as at the other establishment, you call me Madam!”
“The cunt’s job is to serve drinks, and then later, in the lounge, to offer cigars and other small services. Any member may touch the cunt anywhere –– but not disturb her clothing, penetrate her orifices, or cause her pain. The cunt is not permitted to speak, with the exception of the words ‘yes, Sir’, accompanied by a pretty curtsey. Can you do a curtsey? Show me. Now!”
She was a different woman from my experience of her at the club –– here, on home ground, she was magnificent, forceful –– it was hard to see how to disobey her, such was the force of her personality. I found myself bobbing a ridiculous curtsey in the short, flared skirt.
“Pathetic! The cunt must curtsey in a pretty, submissive way, and lift the front hem of the skirt to reveal her panties, then wait to be dismissed before lowering. Do it now!”
And I did, for some reason desperate to show her how well I knew how to handle my body, submissively raising the stiff little skirt high in front, and bobbing my legs slowly, my eyes soft, showing her I knew what she wanted, waiting for her nod before I lowered. I found myself wondering if she was a lesbian –– did she want to see my puss? I hoped I had turned her on –– it was my power. I was still thinking as if I was in charge.
“Better, but practice. One last thing. A score is kept through the evening, of the cunt’s failings –– perfection is hard to achieve, but it is nevertheless required of the cunt, on pain of punishment. At the end of the evening –– which is officially 1 am –– the cunt is punished –– bent over a chair arm, panties lowered, spanked on the arse with a wooden ruler by one of the members. There is a bonus paid –– a tenner a swipe –– so it’s up to the cunt whether she aims for perfection or for cash.”
“Apart from that, things are generally as you would expect. Any questions?”
A long pause, while I tried to gather my thoughts –– I was completely out of my comfort zone, having to think hard, quickly –– after years of not bothering this was hard, and I couldn’t really make any headway. At last I sad;
“All this –– … I mean … well, it’s sex stuff, isn’t it? Is –– is there any more? I mean - do they –– will they want to…? I mean … I’m not … not up for …”
“If you are trying to ask whether the members are permitted sexual favours with the staff, then the answer is no, not in club hours. Occasionally a woman will be brought in by the membership committee for entertainment purposes –– I have nothing to do with this, and your duties on such evenings will not change. You are not permitted or encouraged, either, to enter into private arrangements with members –– this is grounds for dismissal.”
“If a member wishes to use you in ways outside the rules of the club, they will approach me, I will approach you, and if there is a mutual agreement, then an arrangement may be reached, but you have the right to refuse, and this is not expected of you as part of your normal duties.”
And then, while I was thinking that what I really ought to do was say that I couldn’t, wouldn’t, accept such bizarre conditions (how I wonder what my life would have been, if I had managed to leave, then), she played a master stroke;
“Perhaps, in time, you might make a useful recruit, but tonight we will try to make allowances.”
It was a weird sort of backhanded compliment –– it made me pleased, but at the same time it challenged me, and I can’t think of anything else she could have said that would have convinced me to give it a try.
“Off you go now, so the others can show you where everything is.”
And she dismissed me with the same nod as before, and somehow, I knew she expected me to curtsey to her, and somehow, I wanted to show her that I could do it better, so I did –– raised my skirt, to show my new boss the tiny little G-string, and carefully letting her see a need for approval in my face –– all an act, but the one that I knew she wanted.
She kept me there for a little longer than was reasonable, one knee bent, skirt up, thighs a little parted, until my need for approval became a little more real, and I began to feel my heart patter and my knees tremble.
But again she proved herself a master tactician, as she gave me a tight little smile, as if reluctantly forced from her by my perfection, and that gave me a little glow as I wiggled up the corridor, revelling in the high heels (the club made us wear fairly low shoes, and I do love heels, knowing what I can do with my hips with their help).
It was very odd, at first, having the two old maids call me ‘cunt’ –– which they did only when necessary –– without harshness, but also without hesitation or embarrassment.
The first thing they said, after I had begun some explanation of what M wanted, was: “The cunt is not permitted to speak. One punishment point to be entered”, and she covertly indicated the door.
I looked round, and there was M, smiling a different smile now, amused. I controlled myself, and it began;
“The cunt will look up on these shelves, and see that we have a goodly store of wine glasses of all sizes, coolers, decanters, and so on”
“If the cunt does it like that, she’ll get the ruler, we serve slow and steady, here.”
“Remember, the cunt’s No 1 priority, after serving the needs of members, is to be attractive cunt. Inelegance attracts lots of punishment points.”
I kept having to bite my tongue –– my automatic reaction was to object to being talked to like that, and then blushing, as I realised I was accepting something outrageous. It was insidious, and quite worrying, how much it got to me –– I kept telling myself it was just a word –– water off a duck’s back, but it got me, every time, and it was only my own determination now to prove that I was bigger than this (how little I knew!) that kept me from storming out.
Then they showed me the ‘cunt-station’.
Of course, all serving staff have a station –– a place they return to when they have no immediate duties. This was a little odd, though –– a funny piece of furniture, with two padded troughs and an elegant loop of wrought iron high over the top. They helped me get into it.
I had to reach up and grasp the hoop (which had the effect of nearly lifting my tits out of the bodice for a few seconds), then lift one leg at a time and ‘kneel’ into the troughs. Once I was in, it was fairly comfortable, for short periods anyway, but it made me feel most peculiar. The troughs were widely spaced, about 2’ off the floor, so that my thighs were indecently spread, and my sex felt decidedly vulnerable in the short skirt. Once I was in, the hoop was a little behind me, so that my arms were pulled back, lifting my breasts and ensuring that they too felt vulnerable.
Although I had the feeling I would like to protect myself with my hands, it was also clear that if I let go, I might easily loose my balance, and it would be hard to fall well.
The weirdest part, though, was that the station was set so that I had my back to the table –– how was I to know when my services were required? I almost asked, then bit my lip. Keeping quiet, too, was having an impact on me –– it was hard, and every time I kept silent when I wanted to speak was another little submission.
They explained. Whenever a member needed my services, and if I was in no position to notice, he would call me –– it was acceptable to do this over another members conversation –– of course, this meant that the evening would ring out with cries of; “More wine, cunt!” , “Here cunt, I need you”.
However, despite all this, it was soon evident that in terms of the normal job, the evening would be extremely easy –– there were normally only 7 or so members present, and everything was prepared and delivered by the hotel staff, with whom only one of the maids had contact.
Since I was not permitted to speak, there was little point in me having contact with others. So, really, what I was being paid for was to dress like a pornstar, act like a submissive, let myself get felt up, endure being called ‘cunt’ non-stop, and finally, get beaten with a wooden ruler.
Now was the time to leave.
But I didn’t. In fact, I found myself deciding to do the job as well as I possibly could - just to show M - for one night only, collect the money, and THEN leave.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions, someone said.
