The hour passed mercifully fast. The bar was working up to a fever pitch, so Lauren was kept busy hustling for drinks and food. The men were getting increasingly aggressive, too, so the gropes and slaps were becoming almost impossible to dodge. She tried to convince herself, with some success, that it was all a small price to pay for all the times she’d failed to give a man proper respect.
Despite her initial fears, Carl’s table seemed satisfied with their single round of drinks, although they did keep forcing her to sit on their laps when she stopped by to check on them. Surprisingly, they kept their hands relatively chaste when they did so, never sliding up past her upper thigh.
Still, she found it incredibly degrading. Whenever she walked up to check on the table, one of them would just slide his chair out and pat his lap and expect her to perch herself there while they talked for a few minutes. Certainly, none of them was the kind of guy she’d give any attention to if she had any choice in the matter. Plus, the time she spent with them was time she wasn’t earning tips from some of the other customers.
She sighed internally at the thought. She had to stop thinking along those lines. First of all, she needed to get over the idea that she had some kind of right to be choosy about men; they were her superiors, and she needed to treat them that way. Second of all, even though her ultimate goal was to win the contest, she needed to stop focusing on that; she was here to learn how to treat men properly—do that, she decided, and winning the contest would follow.
Amy took her by surprise when she came to relieve her. Lauren turned to the men at Carl’s table and said, “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure to serve you. And, again, I’m sorry for our earlier . . . unpleasantness.”
Carl barely acknowledged her with a grunt. She hurried to the cashier’s cage-- $75, her best yet!—and then back to the changing room. There, she sat on one of the benches and leaned over to rub her calves. As she did so, she thought about the recent changes to her life.
Just a few months ago, she had been a confident young woman, a high-performer at work on the fast-track, practically guaranteed to make vice president by the time she was thirty. She made a more than comfortable living in a job that came easy to her.
She was still all of that, she supposed, though perhaps less confident than before. And wasn’t that justified? She was good—very good—at what she had chosen to do and that justified her confidence. But take away those choices, force her to make her own desires secondary to serving and entertaining men, and she became barely adequate. She was struggling to make ends meet tonight, and she certainly hadn’t been 100% obedient and respectful as she should have been. This was hard for her; she almost wandered if she should volunteer to do it again, not as punishment, but just because it was a damn good way to teach her respect and test her obedience—sink or swim, as it were.
No, she told herself fiercely. She liked her job, and she wasn’t going to set herself down a path to losing it. But how was she going to continue on the path she had been on? She didn’t even have control over how she trimmed her own pubic hair—how did she expect to operate as a vice president when the newest intern could order her around?
A tap on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts. It was Mr. Lopez. “Let’s go. It’s time for the interviews.”
She’d forgotten about this part. She wasn’t looking forward to it. “Oh . . . should I . . . should I put some clothes on?”
Mr. Lopez scowled. “Of course not. You do the interview naked.”
She got up in dismay and filed out with the other performers and onto the stage.
“Girls, girls, girls!” The Motley Crue song was blaring as Mr. Lopez walked around getting the crowd riled up. Sarah had convinced Becky to dance provocatively with her, and a few of the other performers were dancing individually, but nobody had told Lauren that she had to dance and she was just too tired, so she stood with her hands crossed in front of her pubic area and waited. She noticed that the five men at the judges’ table were already taking notes, so she supposed she should put forth more effort, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do so.
She jokingly thought of the way she was standing as “Position 3”. It probably wouldn’t have been acceptable in Don’s presence, but she supposed she could get away with it in front of a bunch of rowdy drunks. It was silly—she was still standing here stark naked and on display, most of them had already gotten a close look at her anyway, and she was quite sure that any who hadn’t soon would—but it helped her maintain a little dignity, a minute sense of control.
As the music died down, Mr. Lopez was yelling something. It took Lauren a second to realize he was instructing all the contestants to get in a line across the stage. It took her longer to realize he was placing her at the far right extreme. As the performers lined up, Mr. Lopez took center stage and announced, “Okay, now’s the part when I interview each of the girls to give them one last chance to make an impression on the judges. Their final score will depend on the tips they earned while dancing, the tips they earned while waitressing, and the judges’ score here. Lauren is first up. C’mon up here, Lauren.”
Lauren gulped. She wasn’t looking forward to being put especially on display for the interview and hadn’t considered the possibility that she would be going first. She walked forward, smiling hesitantly, unsure of how to behave. When she stood next to Mr. Lopez, she crossed her hands in front of herself again but, without saying anything, he reached out and moved her hands to her sides, so she left them there.
Placing one hand on the small of her back, Mr. Lopez started the interview as though it was the most natural thing in the world to have a question-and-answer session with a naked woman in front of a crowd of cheering and hooting—and clothed—men. “So, what’s your name?”
“Um, L-lauren, sir.”
“And do you have a last name, L-lauren?” The crowd laughed at his making fun of her nervousness, but Lauren looked at him astonished. Was he serious? He wanted her to give out her full name?
But he didn’t look like he was interested in waiting. “It’s, um, Hill, sir.”
“And what do you do for a living when you’re not taking off your clothes, Lauren?”
His phrasing confused her. “Well, I don’t . . . I don’t do this regularly, sir.”
“Yes, I know, dear.” The crowd joined his chuckling. “That’s why I’m asking what you do do regularly.”
“Oh . . . I’m . . . I’m a financial consultant, sir.”
“I see. And where do you work, Lauren?”
Full name and where she worked?!? He couldn’t be serious! She was almost guaranteed to get harassed if she gave all that information out. But he didn’t look like he was joking, and she couldn’t . . . she wasn’t allowed to lie to a man or refuse to answer his question. She felt tears coming up, but beat them back furiously, and pretended to wipe a bit of dust out of her eye. She’d be damned if she was going to cry in front of this crowd again. “I work for Schmooz Allen, sir.”
“Whoa!” Mr. Lopez looked shocked though he had to have known the answer already. “You fellas hear that? A financial consultant at a snazzy place like that? There’s no way she’s here just for the prize money. She musta just wanted to take her clothes off and dance for you fellas. Is that it, Lauren? Did you need the prize money, or did you just want to strip for these men?”
Lauren gulped. She certainly couldn’t tell the full reason that she was here. If she had to pick between the two options Mr. Lopez had given her, she thought the second one lined up better with her real motivation. “Yes, sir. I just wanted to . . . to dance naked . . . to show my body off to these gentlemen and serve them all day and night, sir.”
The crowd hooted in appreciation, and Lauren felt some of her confidence returning. She straightened her back and stood more proudly. She could do this. She could still win.
“Ah, yes . . . showing off that body.” He started walking in a circle around her, making her feel even more nervous and inspected. She pressed her hands flat against her thighs to hold them in place. “And let’s see what we have to work with here.” He reached out and nonchalantly cupped her left breast. “You’re not much in this department. But that’s okay, that’s okay. What size bra do you wear?”
Despite the fact that she had been dancing naked in front of these men all day, the question seemed especially personal and made her even more uncomfortable. Still, not answering wasn’t an option. “Um, 34B, sir.”
He reached out and brushed his fingers up through Lauren’s pubic hair. She jumped, startled, and the crowd laughed. “I like this. Do you always keep it this way, or did you do it in honor of the club?”
“My pub- my pub-” She stammered, the question having taken her by surprise, then grit her teeth and said it. “My pussy, sir? I . . . I always keep it this way, I guess.”
“Yeah, a nice landing strip.” He brushed it again gently. “So . . . how many guys you let fuck you?”
Her jaw dropped, and the crowd laughed. This was certainly far more personal information than she wanted to give out . . . but again, she found herself constrained by her contract—he was a man, so she couldn’t refuse to answer, and she couldn’t lie.
“Four, sir,” she answered quietly. There’d been her high school boyfriend from senior year of high school until the end of freshman year of college, another college boyfriend, and two guys since graduating.
“Four?!” Mr. Lopez repeated her answer for all to hear and sounded surprised. The crowd joined him, yelling “Prude!” and “Bore!”. Mr. Lopez quieted them with a raised hand.
“Okay,” he said, putting a hand under her chin. “But surely you’ve sucked some cocks in your day. How many different cocks have you sucked?”
This was almost too far. How could she even be expected to know that number? A blowjob was just . . . it wasn’t the same thing. Sometimes it could even happen at the end of a first date if things went really well. She honestly didn’t know the answer to the question and quietly said as much.
“You hear that, fellas?” Mr. Lopez shouted. “She’s sucked so many cocks, she’s lost track of the number!” The crowd roared at that, yelling “Cum-guzzler!” and “Slut!” and “Cock-sucker!” What did they want from her? If she didn’t have sex with enough men she was frigid, but if she was with too many, she was a slut? How was that fair?
“All right, all right.” Mr. Lopez raised a hand again. “She’s had enough, fellas.” The crowd quieted. It was only then that Lauren realized she had started crying freely. The realization embarrassed her and made her want to cry even more but she managed to restrain herself. Mr. Lopez handed her a tissue, and she dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. This was humiliating!
“Y’know,” Mr. Lopez started when she was once again under control. “I’ve saved your best part for last. Or should I say your best asset. Why don’t you turn around and show the judges that ass of yours.”
Lauren complied sullenly, feeling more than ever that she was just an object for their inspection.
“C’mon,” Mr. Lopez pushed on the top of her back. “Bend over and show these men your ass.”
She sighed heavily but bent over and put her hands on her knees.
“Now, gentlemen, will you,” he slapped her right cheek and took a firm handful of it, shaking it vigorously.
“look at this,” he followed suit with her left cheek.
“ass.” He spread her cheeks back and forth, ensuring that Lauren was fully on display. The crowd hooted its appreciation.
“Now what I’ve been wondering, Lauren,” he turned his attention to her, “pretty much since the moment I met you. Is if you’ve ever . . . been fucked . . . back here?”
She felt the penetration as he finished his question, and threw her hands back in startled response. She tried to straighten up, but Mr. Lopez leaned on her back. “Relax,” he hissed in her ear. “It’s just my finger.” The crowd absolutely roared with laughter at her reaction.
“Well?” Mr. Lopez continued more loudly. “Answer the question. Have you been fucked in your ass or not?” He drove home the question by sliding his finger in and out.
“N-no, sir.”
“What a waste. This is an ass made for fucking. Are you willing to let someone fuck you in this perfect little ass?”
Lauren found herself crying again, but did her best to hide it with her face away from the crowd. Did she have to put up with this? Didn’t his finger probing count as sex? But, no, even if it did—and she wasn’t sure Don would agree, and it was ultimately his opinion that mattered—she couldn’t sabotage all her work to win the contest by backing out now. She settled on just answering the question and decided that she should be happy that her contract at least allowed her to refuse that. “No, sir. I . . . I wouldn’t be comfortable with that.”
He finally pulled his finger out and slapped her hard on the ass. “That’s a damn shame. Now, how ‘bout you turn around and tell these gentlemen why you should win the contest.”
Feeling relief that Mr. Lopez had finally pulled out of her, Lauren took a moment to compose herself and then decided this was her last chance to make an impression. She straightened and turned, trying to look her sultriest by putting her left hand on her outthrust hip and pouting, “Because, sir, I’d do anything to win.”
That got a few cheers.
“Would you let them fuck you in the ass?” That got more—and completely deflated her.
“No, sir,” she said quietly, and the crowd laughed.
“That’s what I thought,” Mr. Lopez said with a slap to her ass. “Go ahead and fall back into the line. Emma, c’mon out here.”
Emma strode forward full of the confidence that Lauren had tried so unsuccessfully to fake. “I’ll save you some time,” she announced. “I’m Emma Ratner, I work for the city’s environmental protection agency, I’ve slept with three guys, I’ve given a blowjob to seven, and yes, I’ve had anal sex. After all,” she continued, putting her index finger up to her cheek and posing coyly, “I was a Catholic school girl trying to maintain my virginity.”
The crowd hooted at this and Lauren knew, with certainty, that she was not going to win the contest. Even if Emma wasn’t the ultimate winner, she had just guaranteed that she was going to beat Lauren.
The rest of the interviews went similarly to Lauren’s, but she spent much of the time zoned out and thinking about her own problems. For one thing, she still had the uncomfortable feeling of Mr. Lopez’s finger in her ass. It was disgusting, but she couldn’t seem to escape the phantom feeling. She wanted to shower. And Mr. Lopez! How unfair was it that she had to address him with respect! He had just molested her on stage in front of a crowd of people. As far as she was concerned, he was an animal—a disgusting animal. In her moment of anger, she folded her hands over her landing strip. He might have moved her hands before, but he hadn’t told her she had to leave herself exposed, so she could at least comfort herself with that act of rebellion, no matter how minor.
As she watched, Mr. Lopez made Emma bend over in front of the judges, too, but he didn’t put his finger into her ass. Lauren zoned out into her own thoughts again, trying to control her anger and frustration. It didn’t matter what Mr. Lopez was “as far as she was concerned” she reminded herself because her concerns didn’t matter. He was a man, and that was all that mattered. It entitled him to her respect and obedience. It didn’t entitle him to molest her, though. No sexual contact—that was in her contract! She was going to give him a piece of her mind after the contest was over, she thought.
And that reminded her of the new trouble that she faced. She was sure she wasn’t going to win. What was she going to tell Don? He had been clear: win or get punished worse than the spanking, paddling, and strapping she had gotten the other day. It wasn’t fair though! She had tried as hard as she could, and she was still going to be punished.
But, she thought, maybe coming here was just an opportunity to avoid the punishment she’d earned for failing to write a proper length apology letter; in that sense, the pain she had to look forward to now could have been avoided if she had just listened to her instructions before. How hard was it to write a 1000-word letter? She couldn’t even get that right.
Sarah was busy telling the judges that she’d be willing to hook them up with prescription drugs. Not to win the contest but if she had a permanent gig here because while this was a special place where the performers had to cater to men—as opposed to the wider world (Ha, Lauren thought, if only that was true for me!)—if she knew she had to face the music when she came back here, it would behoove her to be accommodating in the wider world, too. The woman was insane, Lauren decided.
She spent the rest of the interviews contemplating her coming punishment and wondering what, if anything, she could do to avoid it. A few times, she felt tears coming on as she thought about her prospect, but she forced them down. Finally, the interviews were done and the contestants were made to stay on stage while the scores were tabulated. After a few moments, Lauren was called forward with Emma and Sarah.
“Okay, fellas, girls. These were our top three performers tonight. Good job to all the girls and congratulations to you three for making the cut. You ready to hear the winner?”
The crowd cheered, and Lauren allowed herself to feel hopeful. Mr. Lopez continued. “Okay, in second place, and earning a free entry into the next amateur contest . . . Emma!” The crowd cheered, and Emma beamed, raised her hands in the air, and jumped in a circle—which must have been difficult in her heels but made her breasts bounce alluringly for the men.
“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Mr. Lopez announced and the crowd hushed. “The winner of this month’s amateur contest at The Landing Strip . . . she’ll be taking home a cool $2000 . . . we’ll be happy to have her back anytime . . . Sarah!”
Lauren parked her car. The tears she’d been struggling with since she realized she was going to lose the contest finally came on, unstoppable now. It was so unfair!
She’d been in a daze after Sarah was announced the winner. A little bit of shock, she supposed, even though she’d already been convinced she was going to lose. The worst part was, she’d gone and gotten completely dressed in her street clothes before Mr. Lopez came to collect her for the agreed upon video shoot. He’d stood there and watched her strip down again, then escorted her to the videographer, apparently under the belief that she was trying to skip out on their deal. When he’d placed his hand on the small of her back to guide her along, the memory of him fingering her caused her to clench her cheeks noticeably enough that he had chuckled. She couldn’t work up the courage to tell him off as she had planned.
The video session had been a nightmare by itself. It had been her standing between Emma and Amber with their arms around each other wearing nothing but a pair of the impossibly high heels that they’d had to dance and wait tables in. The videographer had started with the camera zoomed in just on their feet and then zoomed out while panning up until he had them in view from head to toe. At that point, Lauren was supposed to say, “You’ll only see my landing strip at The Landing Strip!”
The videographer kept making them reshoot, complaining that Lauren’s smile looked fake. Well it was, dammit! She sure as hell wasn’t happy to be there. And then the other women started getting annoyed at her; they just wanted to go home like her, and they saw her as the impediment to that.
Once they finally got that right, the videographer had decided they needed another take with Lauren instead saying, “You’ll only see my pussy at The Landing Strip!” She’d stumbled over “pussy” a couple of times—God, she hated that word—and the whole process had taken at least as long as the first iteration.
The absolute worst part of her night had come after that when she had gone to cash out. Miss Brown had kept a detailed spreadsheet for each dancer. Lauren’s read at the end: $300 in tips earned dancing, $358 in tips earned waitressing, $515 worth of outfits purchased, a $162 bar tab for the rounds she had purchased, and $25 charged to her for the private dance she had given. Worse, she was required to tip out the guy who had gathered up her clothes after each dance, the DJ, and the bartenders: 5% of her dancing tips to the clothes-gatherer and 10% to the DJ, and 10% of her waitressing tips to the bartenders. Lauren was good at math. She didn’t need the total—she owed the club $125. On the plus side, she mused, she had earned about $47 an hour, and much of that was time spent sitting in the changing room.
“Sir, I . . . I just don’t have it,” she had protested to Mr. Lopez.
“That’s okay,” he had replied. “Ten percent interest per day, rounded up to the nearest dollar, until you pay it off.” He had leaned in to whisper in her ear. “And if you don’t pay it in a week, we know where you live. You’ll come work it off.”
She had gulped, not doubting the threat for a second; even if he meant it as a joke, the merest suggestion was enough to make it a requirement for her. Great—she’d just moved into a new month and had a fresh balance of allowance, and she already had a big chunk of it gone.
Finally, though, she was home, and desperately wanting to go to bed. She managed to stifle her crying and walked up the stairs, hoping desperately that Don was already asleep. She opened the door.
Don was awake and reading. “Well, welcome home, Lauren,” he said energetically. Of course, it was probably easy for someone who hadn’t spent the last fourteen hours dancing and waiting on tables to be energetic. “Come here.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, walking over to stand in front of where he sat on the couch.
“So, how was it? Did you enjoy yourself?”
She hated the implication that there could have been anything enjoyable about her experience, and she was sure that Don knew she hated it. In her tired state, it was a struggle to maintain a respectful demeanor, but she knew it was especially important considering she was about to reveal that she hadn’t won the contest. “No, sir. I can’t . . . Having to be naked . . . Having to serve all those men . . . It was . . . it was the most humiliating experience of my life. Every second of it.”
Don frowned. “I see. Well, it was intended as a punishment and a lesson, and you do look well-chastened, so I suppose that’s good. Do you think it was sufficient punishment for not showing proper respect to men over the years?”
Lauren hesitated. This was, after all, the punishment Don had assigned her—along with that horrible spanking, paddling, and strapping session—to make amends, so by definition, it should have been sufficient. But she was 27—even if she was only responsible for the time since she had legally been an adult, that was over nine years of her treating men as equals or even being openly rude to them. Could one severe corporal punishment session and one day of even extreme humiliation really make up for that?
“I think, sir,” she answered slowly, “that it was a very good lesson to help teach me how to treat men and my proper role around them.”
Don frowned. “That’s not what I asked you, Lauren. I asked if you thought it was sufficient punishment.”
She gulped and answered quietly, “I . . . I don’t think I can possibly make up for years of bad behavior with a one night punishment, sir. It’s going to take me a long time to make amends.” She paused, then rushed to continue. “But I am happy that you’re here to guide me through it and ensure that I am moving in the right direction.”
Don pursed his lips for a moment. “Fair enough. Do you think it would help you to work there again?”
She had been afraid he would ask that. “I . . . I don’t want to go back, sir,” she answered softly.
“Lauren,” he sounded angry, “Stop evading the questions. It’s too late and I’m too tired for that crap. Do you think going back to the Landing Strip would help teach you to treat men properly?”
“Sir, I think . . . I think it was as much the waiting tables as anything else that served as a good lesson for me. I’ve never had to do work like that. I’ve always . . . I guess I’ve always thought I was above it, but it helped to teach me my proper role is serving men. I . . . I could get that at any restaurant. It wouldn’t have to be a . . . a gentlemen’s club, sir.”
Don was silent for a moment, just staring at her. Lauren was starting to get nervous when he finally spoke. “Lauren, let me make sure I have this straight. Are you sincerely claiming that you think working at the Olive Garden is going to be as helpful as working at the Landing Strip in teaching you—in forcing you to internalize—that men are your betters, entitled to your obedience and unquestioning respect?”
It sounded silly when he put it like that, but she didn’t think she could just back away now. She smiled sheepishly. “Well, I . . . maybe not exactly as good, sir, but I definitely think it would be helpful. I think a big part of my problem, sir, is never having had to do that kind of work growing up.”
“I’m going to take you at your word, Lauren, but let me tell you,” he leaned forward, “I think you’re lying. You don’t want me to think you’re lying too often.” Her sheepish smile disappeared. “So, I’m going to walk you through this. You and me, Lauren, we understand our roles, right? Between you and me, who is in charge?”
“You are, sir.”
“That’s right, Lauren. Things between us flow only in one direction. Would you ever tell me what to do? Ever even think to tell me what to do?”
“No, sir,” she shook her head emphatically.
“And let’s take a look at us right now. You’ve been on your feet all day, waiting tables and dancing on stage. I’ve been relaxing. You’re probably more tired than me, and you’d probably like to be sitting down. Yet, we’re having this conversation with you standing and me lounging on the couch. Why is that?”
She hadn’t really thought about that. She hadn’t even considered the idea that she would sit down during this conversation. It was so clearly not appropriate. “I . . . I guess it’s just a matter of respect, sir.”
“You guess. I see. Can you recall a time when this was ever reversed, when we were having a conversation and I was standing while you were sitting?”
She thought for a moment. “No, sir.”
“Okay, so we’ve established both that this setting is a demonstration of respect and that you do it for me automatically. Now, what if I told you to take off all your clothes and put your hands on top of your head—or, better yet, had you lay across my lap while we continued this conversation?”
She gulped. “That . . . that would be your right, sir.”
“I know it would be my right, Lauren. The question is, how would it affect our power differential? Would it change this conversation at all?”
“I . . . I would feel more vulnerable, sir. I would probably take more time to make sure I was replying appropriately. I would definitely be more aware of the fact that you were in charge.”
Don nodded with a smile as though she was finally getting it. Which, she supposed, she was. “So, requiring you to be naked during our interaction would reinforce our relative positions for you, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So do you see why having you work at The Landing Strip would be different—better—than having you work at The Olive Garden in terms of helping you accept the need for you to respect and obey men?”
“Yes, sir,” she practically whispered.
“Then I’ll ask you again, do you think going back to the Landing Strip would help teach you to treat men properly?”
“Yes, sir . . . but please,” she felt tears welling up in her eyes, “I don’t want to do it again.”
“Well, Lauren,” his voice hardened, “When it comes to making sure you learn to give men their proper respect, what you want is absolutely irrelevant. I haven’t decided when, but you are going to be going back to work at The Landing Strip. Do you understand me?”
She was staring at the ground and the tears were coming freely now. “Yes, sir,” she said sullenly.
He lounged back again and smiled. “Good. Now that that’s settled, how did you do in the contest?”
She managed to stifle her crying for a moment and wiped her face with her sleeve. “Sir, I . . . I came in third. But I swear, I tried my hardest. I really did, sir.”
His smile turned hard as quickly as it had appeared. “Third. I see.” He pointed to the manila envelope Lauren was carrying. “What’s that?”
Lauren was as surprised as she was relieved that she hadn’t immediately been pulled across Don’s knee. It took her a moment to realize what he was asking and a moment longer to realize she had no idea what was in the envelope. “I . . . I don’t know, sir.”
“Give it to me.”
She handed it to him. He took it and immediately slapped it back into her hand, startling her. “You know better than that, Lauren. When I tell you to do something, you don’t just do it. You acknowledge that you’re doing what I told you. Now let’s try that again. Give it to me, Lauren.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, handing him the envelope. Suddenly, her fear heightened. She had no idea what was in that envelope. Could it possibly make her situation worse than it already was?
Don laughed as he flipped through the papers from the envelope. “This is your score report, Lauren. I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t try to deceive me about the results, huh?”
She gulped. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, while I’m reading through this and deciding what we’re going to do about your third place finish, do you have anything else to tell me?”
Before she realized she was going to do it, Lauren found herself telling Don about her encounter with Carl. Very quickly, she was crying and staring at the floor. Crying at the frustration she’d felt when she thought she had been robbed. Crying as she remembered her embarrassment at realizing she’d falsely accused Carl of theft and at the greater remembered shame from her forced private dance. And crying with the anticipation of the punishment she was sure she had earned herself.
With that in mind, she tried to emphasize how she had already been punished by being forced to give Carl a private dance and how degrading he had been toward her during the dance. Don interrupted her at that point. “I know what you’re doing, Lauren, and you can forget about it. I don’t care what punishment you may have gotten at the club.”
He stood up, now, looking angry. Without thinking about it, Lauren found that she had slipped into Position 2. He circled behind her, but Lauren decided it would be more respectful to remain staring straight ahead.
He leaned in to talk directly into her ear and Lauren flinched. “Why did I send you to the Landing Strip, Lauren?”
“To . . . to punish me for behaving disrespectfully toward men, sir. And to help me learn my proper place in respect to them.”
“That’s right. And yet you decide to perpetuate your poor behavior while you’re there. This is absolutely unacceptable, Lauren, and you can be damned sure that I don’t care what punishment you might have gotten there. When you behave in an embarrassing manner in public, you are going to face the music in private.”
He circled back in front of her and looked at his watch. “It’s 4:30, so here’s what we’re going to do. Forget breakfast. You will have lunch on the table at 12:30. Between now and then, I am going to finish reading through your score report before I decide on your punishment for failing to win the contest. You are going to do some hard thinking about what your punishment should be for your disrespect toward Carl at a time when you were supposed to be focusing on improving your behavior. You will give me that suggestion after lunch. Do you understand, Lauren?”
She gulped. “Yes, sir.”
“Okay, then. Tell me what you’ll need to do between now and tomorrow.”
She hesitated, unsure of what he was asking of her. “You want me to . . . I don’t . . . ”
“You’ve demonstrated a poor ability to follow simple instructions, Lauren. The only way I can be sure you really understand what you’re supposed to do is to have you explain it back to me.”
She once again found herself tearing up by the end of Don’s statement. She wasn’t stupid. She knew the way she had behaved toward Carl was wrong, but it wasn’t something she had done intentionally. She’d just gotten angry—inappropriately so, but angry all the same.
She blinked away the tears and answered. “Sir, I’m . . . I’m going to take a shower and think about what my . . . my punishment should be for being rude to . . . the gentleman at the Landing Strip, and I’ll decide what that punishment will be before I go to sleep so that I can wake up at 11:30 and make lunch in time to have it on the table by 12:30 and report to you, sir.”
“Well,” Don stepped back into her field of vision. “I guess it’s a good thing I asked. First of all, you are not deciding what your punishment will be. Don’t be silly. You are deciding what to suggest for your punishment. And it had better be appropriate, Lauren. Second of all, you forgot something very important.”
Lauren struggled but she couldn’t think of anything she had missed. She was just too tired.
“Come on, Lauren. It’s something you do every day.”
She thought again. “But I . . . I already said I was going to take a shower, sir.”
“No, not that. Although maybe it’s something you do in the shower.”
She suddenly realized what he was hinting at, but she didn’t want to say it. She steeled herself. “Tomorrow morning, sir, I’ll . . . I’ll make sure my . . . pussy is properly trimmed.”
“That’s right, Lauren,” he patted her on the behind. “It would be a shame to have to add a good whipping to everything else you’ll be getting tomorrow. Now, let’s try it again. What do you have to do between now and lunch tomorrow?”
She took a deep breath. “Sir, I’m going to take a shower while I contemplate what my punishment should be . . . what I should suggest for my punishment for my rude behavior at the Landing Strip. I’ll decide on that suggestion before going to sleep. Then I’m going to wake up at 11:30 and ensure that my . . . my pussy is properly trimmed before making lunch and having it on the table at 12:30.”
“Good job, Lauren.” He patted her behind again. “Now get to it.”
Lauren let the hot water of the shower wash over her, and it felt so good—like it was washing this horrible day away. And the day was over, finally, she realized. Yes, she still had to face some sort of punishment when she woke up, but on Monday, she’d be back at work and as close to normal as she could get anymore. Today she might have been hustling around naked serving a bunch of rowdy men and dancing for them, but Monday she would go back to being a professional woman, respected by her colleagues, and even in charge of some men.
She leaned against the wall, frustrated with herself. Had she learned nothing today? She shouldn’t be happily anticipating being in charge of men again. If anything, it was so difficult to do within the strictures of her rules that she should be trying to avoid it. Serving men . . . that she should be looking forward to. Whether she liked it or not—and she wasn’t sure that she did—that was what had set herself up for when she had agreed to these rules. Resisting that . . . trying to maintain some unnatural position where she could be in a position superior to men . . . that was just going to make her life more difficult.
She straightened and looked down at her glistening body, musing about that this is pretty much how she’d been dressed all day, all while dancing on a stage in front of a bunch of hooting men or running to get their drinks. The only real difference, she thought as she leaned down to massage her calves was that at least now her feet were flat on the ground.
Deciding to save herself some time in the morning, Lauren grabbed her razor to run it over her legs and everywhere she wasn’t allowed to have hair in her pubic region. She was pretty sure that the latter was unnecessary because nothing had yet come back in post-waxing, but she didn’t want to take a chance of even a little stubble. She went a little too close on the left of the landing strip and accidentally trimmed some existing hair, forcing her to spend time evening it out on the right. This, she decided, was something she could do without; besides all the time it was taking her it was simply ridiculous that she had something so private dictated to her—not to mention how degrading it was to have to refer to a part of her body with that vulgar word.
She turned off the water and shook her head, forcing herself to focus on what was important at the moment—deciding what she should suggest for her punishment tomorrow. She had the uncomfortable feeling that it was going to have to involve a spanking, so she thought back on her past punishments to establish a frame of reference. The only thing similar she could think of was that horrendous spanking, paddling, and strapping Don had given her the previous week. That had been for nine years of not properly respecting men, however. This was for one stupid incident, although admittedly one in which the disrespect was especially bad, so it wouldn’t have to be anything nearly as severe as the other day, but it couldn’t be as simple as a ratio of one night versus nine years.
Twenty—no, fifteen. Fifteen with the strap, she decided, was what she would suggest to Don. That seemed more than fair to her. It was pretty severe, really, for one tiny indiscretion. Don couldn’t possibly fault her for that suggestion.
She shook her head one more time and made a snap decision. Don, Don, Don, she thought. That’s wrong. Even in my head, I should be thinking of him as ‘Mr. Arden’. She was going to add one suggestion to what Do—Mr. Arden—had required of her: she deserved to be punished for not thinking of him properly. She cringed at the idea of asking for even more punishment but hoped that maybe Do—Mr. Arden—would take it as a signal that she was taking his words to heart, doing her best to internalize the subservience that should come naturally to her.
Finally, she laid down to go to sleep and realized she had one last obstacle to a well-earned rest: as humiliating as it had been, dancing and waiting tables naked for a bunch of rowdy animals had left her horny. It was, of course, an inherently sexual experience, she reasoned. It didn’t matter that she’d hated every minute of it.
She got her vibrator and went to work, first thinking of her last boyfriend and, when that failed, imagining herself on stage. Naked. The bright lights putting her on display while blinding her to her audience. Forced to dance for them. To bend over and grab her high heels. To shake her ass. “Mr. Arden is going to make you go back,” she repeated over and over. “You don’t have a choice. You’re there for their entertainment. Show them some respect. Give them a good show. And you’re going to do it. You’re going to do as you’re told, or you’re going to spend hours with your nose against the wall before he pulls you over his lap and gives you a good. Hard. Spanking.” When it came, it was quick and intense, but it left tears in her eyes.
Finally, she could roll over and go to sleep.