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The rest of the interviews went similarly to Lauren’s, but she spent much of the time zoned out and thinking about her own problems. For one thing, she still had the uncomfortable feeling of Mr. Lopez’s finger in her ass. It was disgusting, but she couldn’t seem to escape the phantom feeling. She wanted to shower. And Mr. Lopez! How unfair was it that she had to address him with respect! He had just molested her on stage in front of a crowd of people. As far as she was concerned, he was an animal—a disgusting animal. In her moment of anger, she folded her hands over her landing strip. He might have moved her hands before, but he hadn’t told her she had to leave herself exposed, so she could at least comfort herself with that act of rebellion, no matter how minor.
As she watched, Mr. Lopez made Emma bend over in front of the judges, too, but he didn’t put his finger into her ass. Lauren zoned out into her own thoughts again, trying to control her anger and frustration. It didn’t matter what Mr. Lopez was “as far as she was concerned” she reminded herself because her concerns didn’t matter. He was a man, and that was all that mattered. It entitled him to her respect and obedience. It didn’t entitle him to molest her, though. No sexual contact—that was in her contract! She was going to give him a piece of her mind after the contest was over, she thought.
And that reminded her of the new trouble that she faced. She was sure she wasn’t going to win. What was she going to tell Don? He had been clear: win or get punished worse than the spanking, paddling, and strapping she had gotten the other day. It wasn’t fair though! She had tried as hard as she could, and she was still going to be punished.
But, she thought, maybe coming here was just an opportunity to avoid the punishment she’d earned for failing to write a proper length apology letter; in that sense, the pain she had to look forward to now could have been avoided if she had just listened to her instructions before. How hard was it to write a 1000-word letter? She couldn’t even get that right.
Sarah was busy telling the judges that she’d be willing to hook them up with prescription drugs. Not to win the contest but if she had a permanent gig here because while this was a special place where the performers had to cater to men—as opposed to the wider world (Ha, Lauren thought, if only that was true for me!)—if she knew she had to face the music when she came back here, it would behoove her to be accommodating in the wider world, too. The woman was insane, Lauren decided.
She spent the rest of the interviews contemplating her coming punishment and wondering what, if anything, she could do to avoid it. A few times, she felt tears coming on as she thought about her prospect, but she forced them down. Finally, the interviews were done and the contestants were made to stay on stage while the scores were tabulated. After a few moments, Lauren was called forward with Emma and Sarah.
“Okay, fellas, girls. These were our top three performers tonight. Good job to all the girls and congratulations to you three for making the cut. You ready to hear the winner?”
The crowd cheered, and Lauren allowed herself to feel hopeful. Mr. Lopez continued. “Okay, in second place, and earning a free entry into the next amateur contest . . . Emma!” The crowd cheered, and Emma beamed, raised her hands in the air, and jumped in a circle—which must have been difficult in her heels but made her breasts bounce alluringly for the men.
“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Mr. Lopez announced and the crowd hushed. “The winner of this month’s amateur contest at The Landing Strip . . . she’ll be taking home a cool $2000 . . . we’ll be happy to have her back anytime . . . Sarah!”
Lauren parked her car. The tears she’d been struggling with since she realized she was going to lose the contest finally came on, unstoppable now. It was so unfair!
She’d been in a daze after Sarah was announced the winner. A little bit of shock, she supposed, even though she’d already been convinced she was going to lose. The worst part was, she’d gone and gotten completely dressed in her street clothes before Mr. Lopez came to collect her for the agreed upon video shoot. He’d stood there and watched her strip down again, then escorted her to the videographer, apparently under the belief that she was trying to skip out on their deal. When he’d placed his hand on the small of her back to guide her along, the memory of him fingering her caused her to clench her cheeks noticeably enough that he had chuckled. She couldn’t work up the courage to tell him off as she had planned.
The video session had been a nightmare by itself. It had been her standing between Emma and Amber with their arms around each other wearing nothing but a pair of the impossibly high heels that they’d had to dance and wait tables in. The videographer had started with the camera zoomed in just on their feet and then zoomed out while panning up until he had them in view from head to toe. At that point, Lauren was supposed to say, “You’ll only see my landing strip at The Landing Strip!”
The videographer kept making them reshoot, complaining that Lauren’s smile looked fake. Well it was, dammit! She sure as hell wasn’t happy to be there. And then the other women started getting annoyed at her; they just wanted to go home like her, and they saw her as the impediment to that.
Once they finally got that right, the videographer had decided they needed another take with Lauren instead saying, “You’ll only see my pussy at The Landing Strip!” She’d stumbled over “pussy” a couple of times—God, she hated that word—and the whole process had taken at least as long as the first iteration.
The absolute worst part of her night had come after that when she had gone to cash out. Miss Brown had kept a detailed spreadsheet for each dancer. Lauren’s read at the end: $300 in tips earned dancing, $358 in tips earned waitressing, $515 worth of outfits purchased, a $162 bar tab for the rounds she had purchased, and $25 charged to her for the private dance she had given. Worse, she was required to tip out the guy who had gathered up her clothes after each dance, the DJ, and the bartenders: 5% of her dancing tips to the clothes-gatherer and 10% to the DJ, and 10% of her waitressing tips to the bartenders. Lauren was good at math. She didn’t need the total—she owed the club $125. On the plus side, she mused, she had earned about $47 an hour, and much of that was time spent sitting in the changing room.
“Sir, I . . . I just don’t have it,” she had protested to Mr. Lopez.
“That’s okay,” he had replied. “Ten percent interest per day, rounded up to the nearest dollar, until you pay it off.” He had leaned in to whisper in her ear. “And if you don’t pay it in a week, we know where you live. You’ll come work it off.”
She had gulped, not doubting the threat for a second; even if he meant it as a joke, the merest suggestion was enough to make it a requirement for her. Great—she’d just moved into a new month and had a fresh balance of allowance, and she already had a big chunk of it gone.
Finally, though, she was home, and desperately wanting to go to bed. She managed to stifle her crying and walked up the stairs, hoping desperately that Don was already asleep. She opened the door.
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