Episode 4: Night Out

She helped me out of the limousine. We were on a dark side street in what had to be the red light district. No one was close by, but the lights and noise from the nearby thoroughfare were like a carnival. I fought my handcuffs and made a little frustrated, angry whining noise, but she took me by the pony tail and shook me once firmly, then held me face-first against the car while she unbuckled my gag and unlocked the cuffs. The first thing out of my mouth was "I'm not going to..." at which Cissy shook me again and said "Pet!" in the voice she used when the very next thing I said would get me punished. I stood there trembling and sniffling, rubbing my wrists, while she gave me instructions. "Pet, you are fond of using inappropriate terms to describe the role of a House girl, and it's time you learned the difference firsthand. All I expect of you tonight is to accomplish your task and get back to the House by yourself. If you can do that, you will not be punished, and you will have gained an important new perspective. I know that you think this will be difficult, but you will find that it isn't if you can simply discipline yourself and do as I've told you. A taxi home costs about twenty-five dollars. Once you have the money, get a cab and give the driver the card in your purse. There is nowhere else you can go even if you knew the city. And Pet..." she paused as she was getting back in the car, chillingly beautiful in her boots and furs. "Do NOT make me come find you."

The huge limo hissed away and I looked around, frightened by how alone I was and desperately trying to think of a way out of my situation. I looked in the little purse for the first time, not knowing what I was hoping for, and found hardly anything. Lipstick, a compact with powder in one side and mascara and eye shadow in the other but no mirror, a hairbrush, the card with the address of the House and a pack of long menthol cigarettes and a lighter. Not even a quarter for a phone call! For a minute I thought of just trying to hide and wait for morning, but just then a door slammed up the street, away from the lights, and a man's angry, drunken voice yelled something I couldn't catch. Terrified, I hurried toward the thoroughfare, trying to keep my balance on the slick pavement in my five-and-a-half-inch mules. I had trained in them at the House but this was the first time I had ever worn high heels on the street.

Halfway to the corner I stopped and looked at myself in a shop window, putting on lipstick and trying to keep my tears from messing up my mascara. The maids had given it an extra effort when they had made me up earlier. I took my hair down and gave it a few quick strokes. Then I got my first good look at my dress. My breath caught and I almost started crying again. It was hopelessly brief. I had popped a nipple out of the scooped neckline while brushing my hair, and it was already erect from the cool breeze. I pulled the stretchy little micro back up over my huge boobs, and the hem rode more than halfway up my ass. On the third try, by putting my purse under my arm and using both hands, I got both my nipples and my bottom covered. I hadn't taken three steps before I could tell by the chill that my cheeks were partly exposed again. At least the tight spandex kept my heavy breasts somewhat under control, but I was totally humiliated to think that people were going to be able to see my vagina if I wasn't really careful the way I moved. Maybe even if I WAS careful. I bit my lower lip, blinking back my tears, and then mentally kicked myself for messing up my lipstick. Back to the shop window and fixed it again. Dammit, Pet, stop sniffling! This was so confusing, so unfair. 'This isn't me, ' I kept thinking over and over and over. 'I don't look like this. I don't act like this. I'm not LIKE this!'

I hovered around the edge of the lights at the corner, wracking my brain for a way to get the money other than by doing what Cissy meant for me to do. I didn't think I was capable of it. Ever since I had been brought to the House and Cissy had explained to me what a House girl is, I had refused to even consider it. But what were my options? I had nothing to sell, nowhere to go, nobody I could talk to except at the House. For the first time, the House seemed like a refuge to me. Any man I talked to outside would probably try to jump me. I could be abducted, raped, God only knew what. Any woman on this street would see me as foreign competition. I had no ID, so the cops would assume I was a hooker and arrest me, THEN probably try to jump me. I was so frightened. All I wanted was to be back in my room. There, if I was good I wouldn't be punished and I was getting used to my training. The only people I had to please were Cissy and the Instructors. The other girls wouldn't bother me even if they were jealous. They were busy with their own training.

Finally I couldn't wait any longer. Someone was going to notice me anyway. There were crowds of men and a few women, cruising between the clubs, topless bars and peep shows, laughing and carousing. I gave my dress a last hopeless adjustment and started up the street to the right, staying close to the wall. I didn't get far before the catcalls and whistles started, and at that moment it came to me that I was making it worse by trying to hide. Mademoiselle Marienne, the Posture Instructor, had talked about it a million times. Her cold, intense tone came back to me.

"Carriage is a projection of self-image, young ladies. Show the world that you are weak and insignificant, and you will be treated disrespectfully. Show the world that you are special and impressive, and the world will beg to please you." I made myself try, and as my months of posture training took over I held my head higher, boobs thrust out and back arched. To my surprise, my dress fit better this way. I gave the hem a little twitch and it stayed down as long as I kept my chin up and my shoulders back. It even covered most of my butt. I started handling my heels better and took short, balanced steps, knees straight, a bit pigeon toed like a runway model. Right away the noise slacked off; the watchers buzzed among themselves instead of making rude noises. By the time I got to the end of the block, I was almost strutting. In the street lights I could see that my dress was a shiny emerald green, setting off my coppery red hair. For the first time in my life I got a real gut-level taste of being an attractive girl, a sexy girl that people WANTED. It was humiliating and shameful and wild and powerful.

But it wasn't getting me any closer to home. I ducked into the quietest bar I could see close by, a dingy little place with a curtain instead of a door. It was very dark inside and smelled like a dirty carpet soaked for years in beer. I tried not to make a big entrance and still keep my posture, but I got noticed anyway. The men in the booths buzzed. I headed straight for the refuge of the ladies' room, and touched up my makeup in the cracked mirror. I needed to pee, but couldn't make myself use the filthy toilet. I would just have to wait. Lipstick perfect again and so nervous I was getting hiccups, I ventured back out into the barroom.

There weren't many people inside and they were mostly in the shadowy booths. The bartender was a fat, bald man right out of a movie. I minced over to the bar, chose the stool second to the very end, and froze as I realized I had two problems. One, I had no money for a drink even if I knew what to order, and two, I could think of no way to get up on that bar stool, even with my long legs, without showing the entire establishment my pussy. I had to do something, do it right away, and do it gracefully. Heart pounding, I put my purse on the bar and made it up as I went along. It turned out to be a kind of slither, knees tight together, one hand on the stool and one hand keeping my boobs in my dress. It worked all right considering how bad it might have been, but when I was settled I realized I was sitting on the leather of the stool, not the fabric of my dress, and if I could have looked past my bosom I would have seen my cute little shaved pussy exposed to the whole world. I crossed my legs, quick.

With problem number two behind me, problem number one was looming. The barkeep was on his way. I had to stall him until I could think. Reflexively I picked up my purse and opened it, not looking his way, and he hesitated halfway down the bar. Once I had my purse open there was only one option. Never having smoked in my life, I started right then. The pack was full but already opened. A good thing because I would not have known how. I watched myself in the bar mirror, trying to look nonchalant and elegant as I lit my first cigarette, put my lighter away and blew smoke at the ceiling. It tasted awful but had an immediate calming effect. I marveled. Had Cissy, somehow, known I would have to do this?

He was on his way again and I didn't really have any better plan than before. It crossed my mind wildly that I should tell him the truth, that I didn't have any money at all and could use a drink anyway, but before he arrived a voice on the other side of me said, "Um... Hi." It was a serviceman, a sailor I guess, young and not terribly good looking, with an embarrassed but determined look. He had been sitting with a couple of similar guys when I came in but I had barely noticed in my rush for the washroom. Now he had obviously decided to say something to me, but when I turned to him, relieved to be rescued from the bartender, he seemed to get stuck. His buddies in the booth snickered.

"Hi," I said helpfully in my best contralto. What on earth was wrong with him? Then it hit me that he was frozen by my looks, confronted by an exceptionally beautiful girl. No, I corrected, confronted by an exceptionally sexy girl. I watched him try twice, and he could NOT take his eyes away from my cleavage. An incredibly devilish feeling swept me. He tried to tear his eyes away again. I arched my back just a little bit. He failed. I blew more smoke at the ceiling.