Doo Short For Gertrude

"C'mon in," the host took one look Doo and he knew she was staff. Her short red dress gave her away. No woman of class in the 1930's would wear something so short AND strapless. Only working girls, house cleaners, performers, cigarette sales girls. Gertrude, Doo, was the latter. She walked down a long carpeted hallway and took the first right as she was instructed. It was her first day on the job. In the door there were dozens of girls getting ready, show girls, waitresses, bus girls, and, yes, cigarette girls. They were making sure their seams were straight, their eyelashes were straight, their fingerwaves aligned.

One of the girls noticed Doo standing in awe at the doorway. She closed the door behind them and sat her at one of the lighted mirrors.

"Where's your makeup bag?" she asked.

"I don't have one," replied Gertrude. There was a momentary look of shock from several of the girls and they all got to work on Doo's hair and makeup.

"I'm Stephie," said the first girl. "Not Steph-a-nie, just Stephie." She chattered nonstop about club business and hair and makeup, plucking Gertrude's eyebrows painfully. "In this club," she said, "in this club, if you want to get anywhere, if you want to make the big bucks, you go to the back room."

"Well, why doesn't everyone go to the back room?" asked Gertrude.

"Silly Doo! You have to be invited to the back room. Here --let me get your hat," and they positioned it just so on Doo's head. Doo's eyes were smoky, her lips were painted, her hair was smoothed.

The club was three stories high. The first floor was dedicated to that long carpeted hallway and girls' dressing room, though, at 23 and unmarried Gertrude was practically a hag. She wondered if she belonged there. Once she'd gotten her hat and her cigarettes, Gertrude was fully transformed into Doo, who was pushed out of the dressing room by Stephie and Doo made the long walk down the hallway and up the stairs to the main entertainment room, trying hard not to trip in her highest of heels. They were a sparkly gold and, Doo thought, they suited the trim around the hem of her dress rather nicely. It took a full month's pay from her last job to pay for them, but this new job was her ticket to lower-middle class, and a glance at the glimmer of the upper class. Her shoes had to be a reflection of that.

She carefully placed one foot in front of the other, wavering a bit on her ankles, flexing all of her leg muscles to balance herself in those heels and balance that cigarette box around her neck. The crinoline of her petticoat scratched her thighs, in between her legs as she walked, in the most tender of places, and somehow this pain gave her a relief from the pinching in her toes. She viewed this hallway as a practice walk, for all the walking she would have to do this evening. She was already regretting those heels. How would she bend over? Innocently? Daringly? Should she be complex or airheaded?

She walked up the steps, slowly letting each hip slide deeply into its socket and sway with her movements. The tray did not move. Customers passed her on the left. She was in role now. A role that seemed to take on a life of its own. Cigarette girl. Cigarette girl. She was offering men not a chance to eat or break the law in drinking, not a chance to ignore what they want to ogle, but a chance to appear cool and suave. She was offering them something healthful even.

As soon as she walked in a man, sitting with two other men in leather chairs around a round table waved her over. The bartender watched her intently. She walked over to the man and stood in front of him, with her back to one of his companions, the other leaned aside to watch the inevitable show that was about to occur.

"Cigarettes?" Doo asked, standing on one leg, the other leg pointed out, topped by a golden heel.

"I'm afraid I can't see your selection from this chair. Would you mind bending over?" Doo bent over slowly, revealing to the man her ample cleavage and cigarette selection, and revealing more and more of the seams of her stockings to the two companions who leaned in and leaned further forward, seeing the crinoline, the garters, the lace edging of Doo's silk panties. The man made his selection and paid Doo in the stiff, boning lined and heart shaped neckline of her bodice.

"Hey Dollface!" called the bartender. Doo looked around. He was calling out to her and she walked over to him. "Back room," he said, pointing with his thumb to a doorway with sparkly purple curtains. In all her chatter, Stephie had told her no one ever turns down the back room. She walked over to the curtain, went through it, only to find another set of stairs. She went up this set just as she had the last: carefully and mindfully. It was her rehearsal for what she didn't know was to come.

When she entered the 'back room' she realized she was on the third floor. There was a smaller stage with dancers, topless. There were dancers on pedestals in cages around the room. There were waitresses in different outfits from the ones downstairs. The food looked finer. The whiskey behind the bar looked finer. The cufflinks on the men were certainly finer. There was a curtained off area from which exhausted men and women sauntered with messed hair and unevenly buttoned shirts. Doo imagined that was the real back room. This was a whole 'nother club. There were many men there, all smoking cigarettes. Eventually they would run out and there was only one other cigarette girl and she, was wearing a different uniform.

Doo was trying to figure out who the owner of the club was. Surely he would be here, with the topless dancers, the finest whiskey, and the best cigarette girls. Whas it the fat laughing man in the corner? Was it the salt and peppered haired man enjoying the dancers? Or was it the young man in the finest suit eyeing her ever since she walked in. When she passed the other cigarette girl she asked.

"That's Mistress Cleo," she said. "Mistress. Not just Cleo. She calls you. You don't just go to her." Doo looked at a woman in a long beaded gown sitting on a half circle couch with numerous accomplices. Mistress Cleo looked back and Doo looked away but it was too late. The Mistress was already walking towards her. The other sales girl scurried away. Doo was frozen, staring at the Mistress from the corner of her eye. The Mistress' neckline was low, nearly showing undercleavage. The dress was silver and gold, and tailored but flared at the knees. The Mistress Cleo was tall but muscular and with this muscularity had an air of superior control when she walked, kicking the flare of her heavy beaded dress with every step she took, giving her the appearance she was floating.

"I see we have the girl of the night?" drawled the Mistress, running her long red nailed fingertips along Doo's chin. Doo didn't know what that meant but she wanted, she was overwhelmed with the feeling of wanting to be a good girl for this Mistress Cleo lady. "Come with me," said the mistress decisively, and she led Doo into the back room of the back room. It was dark in there but Doo could make out loops in the wall and floor and an unusual contraption in the middle of the room. There was a chair in the corner. The contraption was most similar to one of her father's sawhorses, but was stained a lovely cherry, padded, and covered in leather which was affixed with brass studs. There were more loops in this contraption, this 'horse,' and they seemed strategically placed, but Doo didn't know what for. Doo suddenly knew and tried to run but the Mistress caught her arm. "Listen to me. You were chosen because we knew you would like this. Many people like this. Give it a shot." Mistress Cleo spoke in no uncertain terms. She used caring, comforting words, but they were delivered as if there were no way out, there was no saying, 'no' to her

So Doo allowed herself to be collared and fettered. Her dress was so short, and so hard to get into and out of, and the Mistress did have a bit of a thing for uniforms, that it stayed on. Doo was instructed to get on the horse as if she were riding it. Her arms wrapped around it and affixed to the base, her neck, clipped to the top, her ankles attached high on the horse so her rear was high in the air. The Mistress pulled out a flat instrument on a long stick. She waved it in front of Doo.

"You are now my possession. I will do with you as I please for as long as you are wearing that collar and those fetters. You will also do as I say." The Mistress dragged her crop across Doo's face, down her back. "It's simple, really." Doo could hear the gentle tap of the Mistress Cleo's leather soles across the wooden floor. Her senses were heightened in that dark room. She could almost feel the texture of the crop dragging down her leg, then up the other side. "This is my crop. I wish to use it upon you for our first activity." She pulled the flare of Doo's dress and petticoat over Doo's rear. "Oh my no. But these won't do." And she pulled Doo's panties down to her knees. Doo had never felt such a sense of coldness, you know, down there, such a sense of exposure. She had never been in such a physical position, and certainly not with her panties down.

Mistress Cleo ran the crop in circles around Doo's rear. Doo thought this felt kind of nice, that it wasn't so bad. Then came the solitary clap. It was hard and it was loud. Doo shrieked.

"No crying, cig-girl. Or there will be consequences." Mistress Cleo went over to the cigarette tray and grabbed a box of cigarettes. She pulled up the chair, which positioned her lap just in front of Doo's face. The Mistress lit a cigarette and gave one to Doo. Doo smoked it as best she could with her arms bound. The mistress lit another cigarette and took a drag, then she gave that one into Doo's lips. She didn't stop until Doo's mouth was full. Mistress Cleo went back to her crop and smacked Doo on the rear again, this time three times, seemingly to a clock rhythm. The Mistress caressed Doo's backside, feeling for the warm, inflamed spots. She imagined, in that darkness, that she had landed some lovely marks onto this Doo. Mistress Cleo enjoyed taking steps close to Doo, away from her, walking from one side to the other, all the while taking time to feel for the inflammation, feel for the redness.

After that first clap, Doo thought to herself, "No, there is no way I must endure this." But the Mistress was continually caressing her, slapping her hard, pushing her sensations deep into her flesh, then, with her embraces awakening her exterior skin. It was as if with her harshness, the Mistress was bringing out in Doo something new, something wild, something hidden in the back room of a back room, and with her gentleness the Mistress made whole with this newness a sensitivity that only her old naivety could accomplish. Yes, the Mistress was right. She would like this. At times the side of the crop wandered down in between her buttocks and down in between her labia. This was highly pleasurable for Doo because, as she soon learned, this was always followed by a slap against her sex.

Mistress Cleo dropped the crop on the floor. She began licking Doo's anus, moving her tongue down to her labia, and once her tongue was on her clitoris the Mistress inserted one finger, then two into Doo's sex, moving them in and out, and moving her tongue around Doo's clitoris in a circling motion. Doo writhed and moaned, she motioned her rear up and down. When Mistress Cleo felt the contractions start on her fingers she grabbed her martini class and Doo came, squirted into it. Mistress Cleo walked to the front of Doo.

"Drink this," said the Mistress, shoving the glass in Doo's face.

"What is it? What just happened?"

"You came. It's your cum." And the Mistress pulled up Doo's head by her hair and forced the liquid down her throat. "My men will be in to clean you up." Sure enough they were, shortly. They were quite gentlemanly. They even helped her with her hair. Doo was expected to work the rest of the night upstairs. Mistress Cleo ignored her. Doo could feel her come soaking through her silk panties. It was getting cold. She wondered who could see every time she bent over. She wondered who saw her go in the back room with the Mistress. She wondered if she'd ever work the back room again.