Mongers?
Colt’s expression softened. “Now, now, my dear. Let’s not start fibbing. Your real name is Pammy.”
She laughed, sweet and genuine, just like everything else about her. “God, Colt, I hate that name. No one is allowed to call me Pammy except Mom-Mom back in Maryland. And that includes you.”
Maryland? You’re from Maryland?
Colt grinned, diverted his attention back to the laptop, and skimmed more information from the background check. “No arrest record, good. We paid for a comprehensive drug test three weeks ago and those results came back negative, but you’ll be getting another one today. Drugs or any illegal paraphernalia on-site are prohibited, and I will fire you without hesitation if you’re caught with any. We maintain a zero-tolerance policy. We’ll notify the police as well. You’ll spend the night in jail and your fate beyond that will be up to Judge Meiring.”
Jail? That ain’t happenin’. I’d be so slayed. Both hands were at her sides now with fingertips raking her thighs. Why does he have to sound so damn authoritative? Her skin glistened with perspiration, and the knowledge she soaked through her panties made her more unsettled.
“I have enough trouble with city council and the sheriff’s office, and don’t want to lose my business license because an employee wants to shoot meth or get all coked up. We don’t tolerate that shit here at all.”
But Lindsay ceased listening for a moment and again imagined herself bent over the desk, being taught a painful lesson for breaking one of Colt’s many rules. Better yet, tied and spread-eagle. He was spanking her hard and swift, and without remorse. Fire! Fire! My ass is on fire! The visual triggered Lindsay’s darkest, most wanton desires. He administered a stern lesson with his strong, mammoth hand, right on her upturned bare bottom, just the way a disobedient brat deserved.
Oh, fuck. Lindsay couldn’t quell a noise in her throat, either, the type she made when she masturbated late at night and became so aroused she couldn’t control her vocal cords. Color whooshed up her neck as she slumped on the sofa. This is so embarrassing. I feel about two feet tall.
“If a customer tries to offer you any drugs, you must report it to management right away,” Pamela said, acting none the wiser. “No exceptions. Stop whatever you’re doing and report him or her ASAP.”
Come to think of it, Lindsay would welcome a spanking from Pamela too. Oh, my. To her surprise, her pussy contracted, and heat mushroomed out. Getting spanked by Pamela would be a novel experience, not near as rough as Colt. Gentle and loving, no doubt, and when the “punishment” ended, Lindsay had visions of falling asleep across her lap like a contented kitten.
Meow.
“There’s no point in trying to hide anything in your assigned room or elsewhere on the property, either, considering we execute several random sweeps a week.” Colt’s tone meant total business. “Full searches. Everything you own is subject to search. The police stop by and perform the same from time to time as well. They can do it whenever they want, day or night, and we always cooperate one hundred percent. We have nothing to hide from them.”
Pamela massaged Lindsay’s wrist. “It’s okay, honey. Listen to whatever the boss says, and you’ll be fine.” She cast a sarcastic leer his way. “He’s the one in charge.”
Oblivious to that playful jab, Lindsay bobbed her head. “No need to worry about me, sir.”
“Perfect. Only being eighteen, I don’t want you anywhere near alcohol. Underage drinking is against the law and grounds for immediate dismissal as well. No questions asked, no second chances given. We don’t break any laws here and don’t support our employees doing it either. Clients will want to bring alcohol to your room, but it must be for their own consumption. Not yours. Not until you’re twenty-one.”
“That won’t be a problem because I don’t drink. I never have.” How about you fuck me doggy style while I lick Pamela’s pussy? This sofa would be the perfect place. Why couldn’t this interview be over so Lindsay could graduate to the good stuff? Or, at the very least, you skeet inside Pamela and I lick it clean? Fuck us like we’re porno sluts, will you?
“Tours are one to three weeks long. You’ll receive one day off a week, yet it comes with provisions. I’ll explain more soon. Several girls would work three months straight if we permitted it, but time off is necessary for self-preservation, and we want you to have at least one week off every month. This job is taxing, both physically and emotionally, and we want you rested up and energized, not running on fumes. It improves the experience for our customers.”
Lindsay squared her posture. “I want to work for three weeks at a time.”
“You got a boyfriend? No kids, I assume?”
Glancing at her feet, she struggled to level her breathing. “No sir.”
“Are you going to be able to function being away from your parents, your family, your friends for three weeks at a time? We don’t allow social visits here.”
“Yes sir.” The burning tether of his stare locked her down, enslaved her. Why aren’t you showing any interest in meeeee? I’m DTF. She wanted to jerk her hair out and scream. Must I throw myself at you to finally snag some attention? Lindsay plucked a piece of lint from her cutoff shorts. If I have to, I will. “I need a new start in life.”
“This isn’t a fleeting fantasy, is it? You’re willing to sell your body for money? You won’t wake up tomorrow and hightail it home to mommy and daddy, will you? We need to be certain you’re not wasting our time.”
OMFG. Another bead of sweat trickled from Lindsay’s temple. This interview was far more difficult than she anticipated. But just showing up, smiling, flashing her breasts, and getting hired was a pipe dream. You watch way too much Pornhub. This is the real world.
“She needs some water.”
“No,” Lindsay said to Pamela, again shrugging the offer off. “No, I’m fine. Just fine.” Why am I lying? She was anything but fine. Her nostrils flared as she gathered the strength to tell Colt, “I need a new start. My life can’t continue its current path. It just can’t.” Her voice thickened with despair. “I’m sick and tired of dipping and selling corn dogs at Buns on the Run each year too.”
“Wait, what? Buns on the Run?” Colt slapped the table and doubled over in wild amusement. It sailed in so out of left field that Lindsay’s mouth dropped open, and she glared at him with her lashes flipped full-open. “Is that …” He gathered himself and reviewed her information, “… the name of the food truck you worked in? Oh, man.”
Wowwwww. “Yes sir. Yes, it is.”
Pamela regarded Colt with a fascinated grin. “Buns on the Run, eh? I haven’t seen you laugh like that in ages.”
“We’re open seven days a week and business hours are from ten in the morning until three at night, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, all major holidays included.” Just like that, Colt’s demanding temperament returned.
I’m gonna cream myself.
Again.
“We expect you to stay awake every night until closing time. If a customer shows up one minute before three, we accommodate them with no time restrictions. We close at three, but I’m often still here at four, five, even six or seven in the morning until our last customer leaves. We never push a paying client out the door. That would be bad for business.”
Pamela let her fingertips dance along Lindsay’s forearm. “Say if you’re feeling blah or coming off an extended party, perhaps a six- or eight-hour marathon and you’re worn out, management will make exceptions. I had a long party three weeks ago and Colt gave me the rest of the night off. I was exhausted and fell asleep before midnight.”
“Though we open at ten, you’re welcome to sleep in until noon each day,” he added. “But understand if a customer comes in and asks for you by name, we will wake you up, and you must prepare yourself in a hurry. Freshen up, shower, get ready, all that. A customer may also decide to schedule an appointment bright and early in the morning at ten o’clock. You need to be ready the moment he or she walks in. We’ll always inform you the day before.”
Lindsay’s sneakers bounced off the floor in a restless flurry. “Okay. Sounds fair enough.”
“And certain customers will make appointments outside our normal business hours as well,” Pamela said.
What’s the four-one-one here? To Lindsay, Pamela came across as a manager, too, given she explained everything so effortlessly with Colt. Their dual presentation had a shiny polish, like they’d done it many times before.
But she wasn’t the manager, Jim was. Pamela is a working girl. Lindsay couldn’t figure out why Pamela was sitting in during the interview, either, or why she was the first person to contact her after she applied via the website.
Something here didn’t equate.
And her legs. Lindsay kept sneaking peeks at them too. She couldn’t decide whether she was envious of how supple they were, or if she lusted after them. I guess it’s both.
“We also have customers who’ll want a six or seven o’clock appointment in the morning,” Pamela said. “They may have an afternoon flight out of Vegas and want to blow off some steam before returning home to their wife and kids. You’ll be required to be awake and ready for them too. Colt charges a premium for after-hours appointments since he or Jim must be here for them and it’s an inconvenience for the girl. Still, we take care of our customers. You’ll receive part of the premium too.”
Trying to process everything at once, Lindsay found it difficult to keep up. “Okay, sounds fair enough.” Why does Colt or Jim have to be present for after-hours parties? Maybe it’s a safety thing? “I have no issues with waking up early.” That’s a lie and you know it. It took Mom thirty minutes to drag you out of bed on school mornings because you’re the CEO of sleeping in late.
“The good news is,” Pamela said, “if you have an after-hours appointment, management won’t expect you to be available for work until three or four in the afternoon. Some brothels are open twenty-four hours, and their girls get roused awake at the worst imaginable times. Here, you can go back to bed and sleep in late.”
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