It was the end of her first day on the job when Bridget got the message. Mr. Strickland, who had hired her only yesterday, wanted to see her at his headquarters right away. When one of the backstage doormen handed her the note, she was excited about the prospect, but she noticed the other dancers suddenly became very preoccupied with their costume and makeup routines. When she asked questions, answers were terse, and none would make eye contact. She was certain she saw some of the girls redden.
"What is this about?" she asked the driver on the way to Strickland's mansion. She was furious with herself for being so nervous. She could not remove the quaver from her voice. The driver wouldn't speak.
When they arrived, the driver opened her door and motioned her to follow him. The mansion grounds were dazzling: wild jungle in the Las Vegas desert. The walkway was hidden in shadows although the summer sun was still high. The long walk to the mansion was accompanied by squawks and screeches from unseen and undoubtedly rare creatures, mixed with the Victorian sound of Bridget's high-heeled shoes clopping like horse hooves on cobblestone. At one point, a heavily armed guard passed: he had a LION on a leash! Bridget clutched her small purse desperately.
By the time they reached the huge golden doors, Bridget was near panic, and still angry at herself for being so jumpy. It did not help that she was exhausted after her first day on the stage. Those headdresses were heavier than they looked, and many muscles would be sore for days. She was not ready for this, whatever it was going to be.
The driver led Bridget through a stunning hallway, lined with statues, paintings and tapestries. He stopped at a set of open double doors and motioned her to enter. He closed the doors behind her. Inside were two huge bodyguards, each standing stock still. They faced the opposite end of the room where a huge, shiny mahogany desk sat before a gray marble wall. The high-backed chair turned around and Mr. Strickland was revealed. Bridget's heart almost leapt from her body.
Mr. Strickland rose from his chair and slowly walked around the desk. His eyes bored a hole through her. She could not maintain eye contact.
"You were late for your shift," he said without preface. "Why."
Bridget jumped as if electrocuted and goose bumps swept over her. She felt her face and the exposed skin of her upper chest burst into flames. Her thighs, unprotected by her mini-skirt, went cold. To make things worse, she felt her nipples rise and strain against her thin T-shirt. Why would they do that?!!
"I ... I'm sorry," she said, "I don't ... know the city yet. I ..."
"This was your FIRST DAY, Miss Bridget," he interrupted. "I hired you to do a job. It is not a difficult one. I need ALL girls on stage for ALL shows."
"Y ... Yes sir!" she stuttered, "I ... I got LOST. I ..."
"There are no excuses for missing a show, young lady. None."
He made a motion to the bodyguards. They left without a word, leaving Bridget alone with Mr. Strickland. She tried to catch their eyes, to silently plead with them to stay with her, but they were gone before she could even think.
Mr. Strickland walked right up to her, looking down into her face. He was three times her size. She could smell his faint cologne, as well as ... HIM. She felt her knees would buckle.
"I hired you because I LIKE you, Bridget," he began. "You're young, you're blonde, you have a beautiful face, large breasts. Those are a dime a dozen, but YOU had an energy and enthusiasm I liked when you auditioned yesterday. I hired you on the spot, although you have no experience or history in this town. I have done you a great favor. You will NOT disappoint me."
He had stopped speaking. It had to be her turn. "Nuh ... No sir ..." she whimpered, her lower lip shaking uncontrollably.
"Now, now. No need to be afraid," he said with no revealing emotions. "This will be over soon."
Bridget's eyes flew open as he began unbuckling his belt. "Oh, God! I'm going to be raped!" she thought, her stomach sinking into her rectum, a swimming feeling of unreality washing over her. But as Mr. Strickland folded the belt, a supple leather item seemingly meant for a horse, she saw it was less a belt than a ... PADDLE.
"Miss Bridget, you will drape yourself over the arm of the couch, lift your skirt and drop your panties." It was an order.
Now the dam broke. Bridget began sobbing, yet she could not make herself hide her face. She could not make herself do ANYTHING.
"You have your instructions," Mr. Strickland said. "Do you need my bodyguards to help you?"
