Stripping in a seedy club, Amanda dreams of saving enough money to pay for community college and maybe - just maybe - find her way into a stable, respectable life. So when a mysterious man shows up one night and offers her a chance to earn three thousand dollars in three days, how can she refuse. All she has to do is meet his mysterious employer and listen to a proposition. Soon Amanda finds herself in a spiraling mansion surrounded by other young women - all happy and content. They seem like they have the perfect life and Mandy is invited to join in. But she quickly learns that in this house, obedience is prized as much as beauty and breaking rules comes with strict consequences. Will she stay? Or will she go? What would you do?
Chapter One
The first time I saw Arthur, I knew he wasn’t a regular customer. And it might say something about how long I had been dancing that I could spot a face through the haze of cigarette smoke while spinning around on the dance pole.
All the regulars were there that night. Ronnie, wearing the only thing I’d ever seen him in - dirty secondhand coveralls with the name “Jim” on the pocket. He used to get mad before I got to know him when he tipped me and I’d say, “Thanks, Jim.” “It’s Ronnie,” he’d say, all hurt-like. “If I’m going to share my money with you the least you could do is get my name right.” That’s when I’d thumped his name patch playfully and tell him if he were interested in folks getting his name right maybe he needed to think about getting a patch with his own name on it. That went on for a couple of weeks until I made a mental note that “Jim” was “Ronnie.” Ronnie never was too swift.
Carl was there, too, his eyes swimming in his head from the booze he’d already been hitting even before he staggered here from the Wagon Wheel Estates - a trailer park down the street. Carl showed up about four nights a week, usually drunk, and stayed until about 2 a.m. or until his wife came and dragged him home - whichever came first. Carl’s wife, Rowena, was small and stringy like him. But by the time she came to fetch him, he was so shit-faced he could hardly fight back when she pulled him out the door. Of course, she always made it a point to blame me or Carrie - whoever was dancing - for his being there, as if our preferred customers guy who passed out by midnight and never had anything to tip.
Now Earl, he was the best kind of customer. Earl was a big teddy bear of a man who was such a loyal customer that Fred, who owned Gold Pieces, built the ramp just special for Earl so that he could get his wheelchair in without help. Earl had teared up when he saw it, and that night he’d stuffed what I’m sure was a nice chunk of his disability check into my garter belt when I’d shimmied down extra low so he could reach me like he liked to do. And he’d smiled up - like always - and said, “Mandy Star, you’re the best,” his bearded Grizzly Adams face just beaming.
Let’s face it. Gold Pieces was no high class club. Me and Carrie were the only two dancers Fred could afford, but he paid us a little more than minimum wage and let us keep the tips, which was a better deal than some of the local dancers got. And between the regulars and the Marines, he did OK.
Dancing wasn’t my first career choice, but the second time Jack gave me a black eye I figured I needed to get out before he knocked my teeth in so I took what housecleaning money I’d managed to hide from him and gave it to the lady at the bus counter.
“How far away will this take me?” I asked her.
She looked at my eye and then at the schedule and said, “Jacksonville, North Carolina.”
I gave her the money and by the next morning there I was, dropped off a few miles from Camp Lejeune. A week later, worried sick with just six bucks to my name I’d noticed hunched-over Fred walking into his cinder-block club and followed him.
When I asked him for work, he looked me up and down like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the prospect of this disheveled red-haired thing with her duffle bag, holey sneakers and black eye asking him for a job.
“What happened to your eye?” he asked.
“I fell,” I lied.
“Bullshit,” he said. “And I don’t hire liars.”
“OK,” I said quickly. “My boyfriend hit me.”
“Boyfriend.” Fred seemed to consider this for a moment. “Where is he?”
“Florida,” I said. “I left him.”
“You think he’ll follow you?” Fred started filling peanut jars on the counter as we talked and I got up and began to help.
“No,” I said. “By this time of day he’s probably too drunk to find his way to the door, let alone track me down.”
Fred grunted and then looked at me. “You look like shit but I got a feeling you’ll clean up nice.” He paused. “Can you dance?”
I told him I could, which wasn’t a lie. I’d been a cheerleader in high school and a lot of our routines were really just modified dance numbers, anyway.
“How do you feel about dancing in just your bra and panties. Or just your panties.?” He asked the question in such a casual way that it didn’t seem at all lecherous. “And don’t worry about getting groped. We have a hands-off rule here.”
I shrugged. The way I saw it, I’d been whoring for Jack since he’d asked me to move into his trailer on the beach - doing his laundry, fucking him whenever he wanted and giving him my paycheck. I couldn’t imagine how this could be much worse. Besides, as far as I was concerned at the time it was just temporary work until I could move on.
“I don’t have a problem with it,” I said.
Fred filled the last peanut bowl, crumpled the cellophane bag and threw it in the trash.
“I’ll need to see your tits,” he said.
I blushed red and hesitated.
“Don’t worry, he’s harmless.” A girl had walked in - a girl with short black hair, green cat’s eyes and the tail of a tattooed dragon curling from under the back of her cutoff shirt.
“Hi, I’m Carrie,” she said. “I dance here, too. I’ve been after Fred to hire somebody else so I can get a night off once in a while.” She lit a cigarette and leaned back against the counter.
“So let’s see what you’ve got,” she said.
I took a deep breath and pulled my shirt off. As I did I realized that my bra was probably as dingy as everything else and quickly removed it, suddenly more self-conscious over the dingy undergarment than I was over my bare breasts.
Just as my breasts were free, the wall unit air conditioner’s compressor kicked on, spraying a cool blast in my direction. My nipples instantly hardened.
“Nice,” said Carrie with a smile.
“You’re hired,” Fred said.
Part II
So began my job at Gold Pieces, which stretched into a much longer stint than I’d anticipated.
Carrie had a lot to do with that. She was a very cool girl - bisexual, pagan and didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought about her. Carrie was generous, too, and had given me a place to stay. So she’d put the moves on me but when I told her I only liked guys she backed off. We split expenses, chores kvetched about customers and generally had a great time. My life wasn’t perfect. I still had a lot of mixed feelings over what I was doing. And I still wanted to get out, get my own place, buy a car and go back to school. But that all took money - money that it would take me a long time to save. In the mean time, I was but it was safe and had a place to stay. It wasn’t a perfect life but it was all I had at the time. And that’s the way it was until the night Arthur showed up.
Like I said, I could tell this guy was no regular customer. He had both an expensive suit and an expensive haircut. He didn’t hoop and holler, even when Carrie and I - who were both working that night - did our “girlie dance,” a suggestive bump-and-grind in which we pretended to come close to kissing without actually doing it.
At the break, she and I walked around scooping up the wadded dirty one’s, fives and tens as the Fred and our waitress, Ethel (well, her name wasn’t really Ethel; it was Lois, but that’s what everyone called her because she was Fred’s common law wife) filled up their beer glasses. I made a mental note that the guy in the nice suit waved Ethel off and stuck to what he was having - water.
After our shift, Carrie had a date. Or should I say, Carrie had dates - a goth couple who’d come in at the last minute to see her dance. The guy had a long black hair tied back in a greasy ponytail and was wearing a black t-shirt and black jeans. The girl was wearing a black miniskirt, latex bustier, fishnet stockings with holes in them and combat boots.
“Don’t wait up,” Carrie shouted, looping an arm around each of their waits.
I grinned. That was Carrie for you.
In the restroom, I counted up my take for the evening - $160. Not bad. In the bottom of my duffel bag was the catalog for Onslow Community College. Just a few more months and I’d have enough for a down payment on a car and tuition and books. I tucked the catalog back in the bag. Just holding it had made me feel better; it was a reminder that I could be something beyond just a topless dancer. I changed into my jeans and a tank top and walked out to say goodnight to Fred and Ethel.
I almost bumped into Arthur when I came out of the bathroom.
“Excuse me,” I said, brushing past. I wasn’t used to customers hanging out around the ladies room.
“Mandy?” Hearing the stranger say my name caught me by surprise.
“How do you know my name?” I asked, turning but taking a step back as I did.
“This isn’t a big club and everyone here seems to know you,” he said. “It doesn’t take a sleuth to learn someone’s name in here, just minimal powers of observation.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and handed me a card.
“My name’s Arthur Longtree,” he said.
I looked at the card. The name was printed on the card under above the words, “Vice president, Crane Enterprises.” The paper of the card looked like stiff linen, the words sitting above the surface in embossed gold lettering.
“So,” I said, handing the card back to him and trying not to look impressed.
Arthur Longtree smiled but did not take the card. “So I represent someone who is looking for talent.”
“Talent.” I repeated the word with even more amusement than I’d intended to. “Well, if it’s talent you’re looking for Gold Pieces is full of it. Talented drinkers, talented smokers, talented losers…”
“Talented dancers,” Arthur interrupted. “Talented dancers who possess just the qualities my employer is looking for.”
I rolled my eyes. “Jesus Christ,” I said. “You’re from The Dollhouse, aren’t you? You guys just don’t know when to quit. Carrie and I both told that other guy you sent out here last week that we weren’t interested in dancing for you. I mean, Fred doesn’t pay us a ton of money but he’s a nice guy and if you think you can come in here and try to pull a..”
Arthur reached out and tapped the card, drawing my attention back to the gold lettering. “I assure you that I do not represent any such establishment,” he said. I noticed that he said the word “such establishment” like it was something bitter to be spit out of his mouth.
“Well, if you think so poorly of strip clubs what are you doing hanging out in one?” I snapped, figuring that he considered me skanky by association.
“I came in here to see you,” he said. “I’ve been watching you for about a week now. I know you shop at the corner market. I know where you rent movies. Last night after work you rented “Pretty Woman,” which I considered a particularly timely choice. I know you like Juicy Fruit gum and smoke Marlboro Ultra Lights. Of course, if you agree to my business proposition you’ll have to give up the cigarettes.
I stood there, looking stupid, I’m sure. And then the fear took over. “You’ve been watching me?” I said. I backed away and turned to look for Fred. That’s when Arthur Longtree grabbed my arm.
“You can call your boss and I’ll leave without another word or you can listen to my offer and make three thousand dollars in three days,” he said, his voice quick and quiet. With the money you’ve been saving that will be enough for that used Corolla you’ve been looking at and a year or so at the community college.” When I looked at him, he smiled in what could best be described as a sympathetic manner. “I’m not going to harm you.”
I looked back out towards the dining room and the stage I’d danced on for hundreds of hours. Fred was lurching between tables, sweeping up cigarette butts and spilled peanuts. Tomorrow, if nothing changed in my life, I’d be back in that room, shaking my ass low enough for Earl’s fumbling fat fingers to stick a five in my garter belt as Ronnie and Carl watched through glazed eyes. If it was a bad night - and those came about twice a week - some Marine would get tossed out for pinching my ass or grabbing my breasts, necessitating a need for me to carry my mace on the way home.
I looked at Arthur. He’d been out of place in that smoky room and here - in the hallway beside the out-of-order payphone - he still looked out of place, like a college professor or a character from a spy novel. I looked down at his card, his fancy business card the size and shape of the bus ticket that had brought me to Jacksonville. Could this card be a different type of ticket? A ticket out?
“All right,” I said. “I’ll listen to your sales pitch.”
“Wonderful,” he said, turning towards the exit as I followed behind him. “My car is right outside.”
“Car?” I said. “I don’t get into anyone’s car. It’s not ---”
I’d never seen a stretch limo before. By the looks of it, neither had Fred, who had come outside to escape the stale air and was now gawking at the long, white automobile as a driver got out to open the back door for me and Arthur Longtree.
“Mandy?” Fred asked.
“It’s OK,” I said as I climbed in. “He’s an old friend of mine.”
“You have a sense of humor, I see.” Arthur gave a wry smile as he sat down across from me. I looked around the inside of the limo, finding it had been much easier to maintain nonchalance over a business card.
“Wow,” I said.
“So where are we going?” I asked, feeling less afraid. Fred had seen me get in the limo and had likely made a mental note of the license plate. If Arthur Longtree was a kidnapper he wasn’t a very subtle one.
“We’re going to meet my employer,” he replied. “Drink?”
“Sure,” I said figuring I might as well.
Without asking what kind I wanted, Arthur poured me a small scotch, straight up. I downed it in one gulp, feeling the fire of it slide down my throat and radiate through my chest in an exquisitely agonizing burn.
“Nice,” I said as I reached into my purse for my cigarettes. Taking one from the pack I popped it into my mouth and was preparing to light it when it was snatched from between my lips.
“I told you, smoking isn’t allowed,” Arthur said.
“If you’re going to deal with me, my smoking habit is part of the package,” I said. And meant it. If some stuffed shirt through he was going to tell me I couldn’t smoke he could go fuck himself. I pulled out another cigarette and put it between my lips, holding it between two fingers just in case Arthur Longtree tried to grab it.
But he didn’t. He grabbed me instead. And the next thing I knew I was lying facedown across his lap, watching my unlit cigarette roll under the seat.
“What the hell --” I cried out and tried to get up, but Arthur Longtree was a lot stronger than he looked. On top of that he obviously had some skill undoing women’s clothing because before I knew I my pants were unzipped and being tugged down my legs.
In the back of my mind, I knew he was going to spank me. But it seemed so weird, so kinky that it didn’t register as real until about the third smack.
I called him a bastard, a kinky son-of-a-bitch. I demanded he stop the car and let me out. I told him I’d call the police and he’d be sorry if he didn’t stop this instant. But Arthur Longtree didn’t stop. Instead he just kept hitting me harder, blistering my ass worse than it had ever been blistered when I was a little kid. I don’t mean actually blistered, but that was what my dad had always said before he spanked us: “Now you’ve done it! Come here. I’m going to blister you for that!”
When threatening and name-calling didn’t work I began to apologize. When that didn’t work I just gave up and cried and cried and cried, unable to stop myself because I was scared and Arthur Longtree was hurting me…really hurting me.
Finally, he stopped and pulled me up into his lap in a comforting gesture that infuriated me. I screamed at him to let me go, pushing hard against his chest. But he only held me tighter, rubbing my hair and shushing me the way a parent would shush an chastised toddler.
“You hurt me!” I wailed. “You promised not to hurt me and you hurt me!”
“I promised not to harm you,” Arthur Longtree replied. “A spanking hurts but it doesn’t do any harm.”
That made me cry only harder. Suddenly I felt exhausted and looked up to see the ceiling of the limo swirling around me like a whirlpool sucking me further and further into oblivion.
“I guess you don’t consider drugging someone’s drink harmful either, huh?” I said. Or I think that’s what I said. I really can’t say. That’s all I remember.
