This and the Full Monty can be read in any order and if you don't enjoy the first, then feel free to ignore the second.
It was 10:45 on a Thursday evening and I (Rachel) was lounging in the Ambassador Suite of the Ranleigh Hotel with half a dozen friends and acquaintances. Though whilst the other girls were all busy gossiping and quaffing prosecco, I had my head buried deep in a book: Geoffrey Jehle's 'Advanced Microeconomic Theory', riveting stuff!
It was advice drummed into me by my father: If you use all those spare half and quarter hours to study, then over the course of a year they'll add up to a distinct advantage over your rivals in business, or in my case the university examinations. Besides, I would have ample to time to drink all the alcohol that I needed before the night was over.
Like most of my classmates I was holding down a part-time job in addition to my studies; indeed two of the other girls with me this evening were also students. Unlike the majority however, I can't claim economic necessity; my parents pick-up the tab for it all: Tuition Fees, accommodation costs and even generous monthly allowances, for both my twin brother Dylan and myself. This job was just another of those homilies that I'd learnt at my father's knee:
'Look to utilise your God-given talents and get out to work at every opportunity, it'll make you more self-sufficient and stand you in good stead when you enter the world of business; even if it's not relevant experience that you gain, it shows potential employers that you're willing and able to meet the demands of a full time job.' That said, Daddy would be mortified if he knew that I was working; he was allowing Dylan and I those allowances specifically to ensure that we would 'concentrate on your studies without any distractions'.
The other variance between myself and my classmates was in my choice of employment, as unlike the majority I'd eschewed the joys of being a barmaid, burger-flipper or barista and instead found work as a party-hostess. Not a whore, a hooker, or even call girl, but a Hostess; an altogether more upmarket and far more expensive creature and as with all things in life, quality costs and you get what you pay for.
Aside from the re-numeration -- you don't need to study economics to work out that the pay is far better than that of a barmaid, burger-flipper or barista -- the working conditions are far superior too. There's a certain... physical threshold, which needs to be achieved, but no formal qualifications are required and any lack of experience can quickly be addressed on the job. I can think of three other girls just on my own course who are sufficiently attractive to make the grade, so I really can't understand why more of my fellow students aren't doing likewise.
My shifts are never at the weekend and I seldom work more than one night each week; I rarely begin before ten-thirty in the evening and I'm usually home in my own bed by three-thirty at the latest. It barely impinges on my studies or social life at all, indeed it's a positive benefit to the latter; those generous and entirely tax-free earnings enable my friends and I to afford tickets to any and every night-club, concert or sporting event that takes our fancy.
My employers provide a door to door taxi service, so no commuting costs or hassles; the firm they use for that give my friends and I a very special rate for limousine hire too, so another plus to the social life. The work's rarely too onerous, as the vast majority of our party guests tend to be middle-aged businessmen. Neither is it dangerous, if someone does get a little... carried away, there's always a Minder on hand to calm things down; people don't argue with Ewan. What's not to like?
So, back to my story: Thursday was just a typical gig, the sort I must've worked at least thirty times before, with more than half of those being in this very suite. The Ranleigh Hotel is close to the city's Exhibition Centre and a major player in whatever field this week's trade-show was in aid of was entertaining their favoured clients and suppliers. Those guests would have been wined, dined, possibly even been taken to a show and would shortly be joining us to round off their night.
Ewan's phone pinged at 10:55, he had a brief and muted conversation, then clapped his hands and announced: "Our guests are on their way, there are fifteen and they will be here in ten minutes; time to freshen-up and put on your game-faces ladies."
I packed my book away safely, then joined a queue for one of the bathrooms, where I checked my make-up and changed my panties; as usual I passed on any offers of happy pills or a line of coke and by 11:04 we'd all reconvened in the suite's main lounge. Two minutes later Ewan answered a knock at the door and ten seconds after that, I had an idea as to what industry this week's trade show related to and realised that tonight was not going to be a 'typical gig':
The Trade Show had to have some connection with Automotive Electronics, as that's my father's business and he was the third man who walked through the door. Daddy saw and recognised me in almost exactly the same moment and I suspect that my own expression was screaming precisely the same message as the look on Dad's face did: 'For Christ sake don't say anything!'
Drinks we're poured and distributed whilst we girls introduced ourselves to our guests. The kiss I bestowed on Daddy was rather less... promising than that which I granted the other men, but I don't think anyone noticed; similarly, Dad's hands where less... exploratory -- with all of the girls! - than those of the other men. Then, with our introductions completed, it was time for the gentlemen to choose their hostess.
Tonight followed a common format with the men Spoofing for who went first; the seven men who won a round, each then selected a girl in turn. I wasn't unduly concerned, as the only way that Daddy and I could be paired-up was if he were the seventh man to win a round; the odds of which were long. With I being the only girl still un-chosen and the odds of that were even longer; the lowest I've ever been picked is third and even that was only the once!
Don't get me wrong, I'm not claiming to be some undiscovered super-model, far from it, but I do hold a particular attraction for many of the middle-aged businessmen to whom we usually cater: Though I'm almost twenty, I can never go out for an evening around the pubs and clubs without at least two pieces of photographic identification; At best I appear to be around sixteen or seventeen and should I make the effort -- as I invariably do when working -- then I look even younger.
This evening was fairly typical: My long fair hair hair was in twin pony tails, very little make-up, a white blouse & short, grey, pleated skirt -- both just a little too small - white knee-length socks and low-heeled sensible shoes. That skirt along with the grey felt hat with its blue & yellow band and the matching tie which completed my outfit were the actual ones that I'd worn during my final year at school and of course my underwear was similarly plain, white and... virginal.
Every inch the fragile, innocent, ingenue a look which was further emphasised by the other girls towering over me in their slinky cocktail dresses and fuck-me heels. I'd even adopted 'Lolita' as my working name, though often the men would call me by a name of their own choosing; presumably one which held some particular significance for them? I never dared enquire as to what that was, though more than a few gave me a clue by also requesting that I address them as 'Uncle whatever' or even 'Daddy'.
My insouciance about the risk of being paired-off with Dad proved well founded, he won the very first round of Spoof; however, that nonchalance was shattered when Daddy promptly selected me anyway!
Having regained my composure, I meekly led Dad to one of the bedrooms with butterflies doing aerobatics in my stomach; I knew the upcoming conversation had to happen, but I'd assumed that it would be with a demand that I return home for the weekend, or at worst by his visiting to my apartment tomorrow. On the upside, the proximity of Daddy's business associates would at least ensure that his ire would have to be expressed in a moderate tone of voice.
Having closed the door behind us Daddy directed me to chair while he sat on the bed's edge a few feet away; initially he was silent, arms resting on his knees, head bowed and shaking slowly, Dad was not a happy bunny. When he finally spoke, it was to enquire if I was "in some sort of financial difficulty, with drugs, gambling... or something like that?"
I was quick to assure him that I wasn't; but rather, like everyone else, a little extra money didn't hurt. Dad also expressed concern about my being 'distracted' from my studies, but I gave him the same argument I mentioned earlier: I hadn't been picked-up until 10:15 that evening, so I wouldn't have been studying even if I'd stayed home; tomorrow was Friday so I'd no lectures or tutorials in the morning and could easily sleep-off my night's exertions and be refreshed for the afternoon.
Dad played the slut-shaming card, telling me how upset and disappointed my mother and with a gesture directed toward my old-school uniform, my one-time Headmistress too would be, should they learn of my fall from grace: "Hardly the behaviour expected of the Head Girl."
That rather annoyed me, so I was rather sharp in pointing out that this was hardly likely to happen: I certainly wasn't going to tell them and that if Daddy were to do so, that would immediately raise a question as to how exactly he'd discovered my secret?
