31st December
A Disgrace of sluts
New Year's Eve was special. The hotel hosted a select group of rich and rather scary men. All hands were on deck; which was twenty eight tarts, plus maids, receptionists, doormen, waiters and waitresses and extra kitchen staff. I had helped out before in a non-sexual role (or so Mum thought) and I had always found the night exciting.
Most of the men came alone in big limos which were soon parked nose to tail in both car parks. The chauffeurs stayed outside but were provided with nibbles of various sorts throughout the light. There were twenty four male guests. This included one of Mum's very old clients who had been seeing her forever and Granddad who looked every inch the Dapper Don. He brought Grandma who would let him have a bit of fun but not with any family members. There was essentially one girl per man and a few spares. Although each man paid a small fortune, no real profit was made as the staff costs were so high. Much goodwill was however generated. Most of the guests were regulars and frequently entertained other businessmen at the hotel. They also recommended us to foreign businessmen visiting London who wanted a bit of hospitality. Then there were the diplomats. Ultimately, it was the establishment's reputation that kept it in business.
Four men brought young women with them presumably because they thought it made them look good. These girls were clearly on the game and all were Eastern European. Still, that was not the house's concern and we did not expect claims on our public liability insurance or gate crashing by the police or immigration. Each guest had chosen a working girl beforehand; either from past experience or via the members only part of the hotel website. They did not have to avail themselves of the same girl all night however. The four extra girls, myself included were not needed to sit at table and served as waitresses initially.
We also had some younger family members working as waitresses and indeed I had done so the previous two years. Each wore a distinctive uniform and was only allowed to serve at table, where there was a strict no touch policy or work behind the scenes. Whilst it could be argued that the whole set up was so illegal anyway, why get upset about age of consent? Using underage girls is reputational suicide and is asking for trouble.
Or at least that was what I was told. Frequently. I would always nod sincerely. I blush easily but not when I lie.
The cocktail waitresses were there to be touched.
I was dressed in a plain waitress uniform that was tight and very short which drew attention to my long legs which were encased in grip top black stockings. I wore a very small thong which was visible when I bent at the waist to take orders. Touching was allowed, as long as it was done discreetly, but arse slapping was considered vulgar. If a gentleman wanted me to sit on his lap, I would quickly push my thong to one side and position myself so that my groin was completely under the table, my knees further apart than was really ladylike. Then he could interfere with me to his heart's content. Which several men did. My job was to sit as still as possible and stare into the man's eyes. After a minute I was to gently but firmly remove his fingers, reposition my thong and get back to work. I really rather enjoyed being man handled as most of the men chatted to me while they were molesting me and I was showered with compliments. After a while us girls served less drinks and spent more time entertaining the customers. Three burly waiters were summoned to help the thirsty. They were unlikely to be touched.
The main crew were escorts (no pun intended) to the single men. Uniform code was strict; LBDs and no underwear. Even Mum; who still has a great body. The only person excused was Nan who surveyed her empire with pride. Alex was looking gorgeous and decidedly feminine and had gone for a number with very plunging cleavage. Several ice cubes were dropped down between her tits and she giggled like a little girl. Her ensemble was finished off by a thick choker, her favourite blue Cleopatra wig and spiky heeled thigh boots which made her one of the tallest people in the room.
Not quite as tall as Dani though, whose silky blonde hair was arranged luxuriously on top of her head. She had no trouble gliding in six-inch heels. Dani always had to make a choice of which bit to show off most. All of her bits were amazing but all of them on display together was simply overwhelming. She had gone for legs that night, which were bare and sunbed tanned. The hem of her dress barely covered her bum cheeks. When she stood next to someone sitting down, they got a perfect view of her cute little pussy. The dress was high necked but gossamer thin which outlined her tits beautifully. The majestic orbs wiggled seductively and Dani intermittently turned her nipples on and off, driving the ambassador to a small African country wild.
I had been told that dinner involved much touching up under the table but I was engaged with the other waiting staff and we were rather efficient. I took the liberty of leaning against any man I was serving and Alex of course. I did not touch the foreign sluts.
After dinner I was busy clearing tables and chairs in preparation for dancing. I then had to rush to get changed. I was sweaty, so I managed a very quick shower, put my hair up, applied makeup and slipped into my own little black dress under which I wore a fresh pair of stockings; white this time. The dress was rather longer than Dani's but was so backless that the top of my crack was visible. My back and shoulders are considered by many men to be my best features. In recognition of my gawkiness I was allowed four-inch heels.
The dancing had already started to a live jazz band. All the working girls knew how to dance as did most of the men. The Eastern floozies mainly stayed out in the gazebo, smoking, drinking and scoring. Fortunately, most had brought their own gear.
As the evening progressed couples would slip away. Some returned quite quickly, some not. The maids were kept busy, both keeping the rooms clean and stopping unintended interruptions. I was dancing with a huge member of the Russian business community. He was not incredibly tall but he was incredibly wide. He asked me to simply call him Dima. He agreed to call me Chlo.
When our dance had finished he took me by the hand out to the gazebo. There he gestured to a vacuous looking blonde who had just done an enormous line of coke. She laid one out for him and one for me. I do not really like cocaine, even recreationally and certainly not when at work. That sort of applies to all drugs, legal and otherwise. It was expected that the working girls would have about four glasses of champagne and wine over the whole evening plus lots of water. Nan and Mum watched us like hawks. The Russian laughed at my British reserve and took the second line for himself.
I sipped gingerly at a glass of sparkling water. My paramour called over the head waiter who returned shortly after with a small bowl of fruit. The Russian handed it to me and set off, followed by me and the blonde.
