By Anthony Vallance from Februs 9
He liked the look of her as soon as she came in, wide eyed and hesitant. She looked young, if she were over eighteen it had to be by a matter of months and not years. Smartly dressed in fashionably long black boots, short skirt and white blouse, she saw Nick sitting at the corner table and flashed him a shy smile.
‘Mr Moore?’ she asked hopefully, her dark eyes meeting his only for an instant before turning away.
‘And you must be Carole,’ he guessed, rising from his seat to offer her a place at the table.
‘I know I’m early’ she apologised, ‘but the bus came early and the traffic wasn’t as bad as…’
‘Don’t apologise,’ Nick laughed, ‘arriving early for a job interview never did anyone any harm.’
She allowed herself a smile, her lips parting to reveal straight white teeth. Her round face was perfect, when she smiled it seemed to light up her eyes, making her seem even more pretty. When she sat down, opposite Nick, she smoothed down her skirt in a gesture of modesty that was entirely natural to her.
‘Is the job still open then?’ she asked, a sigh of relief clear in her voice.
‘Yes, but only just,’ he admitted. Word of the excellent salary had gone round quickly and Nick had been inundated with calls, and there had been many potential applicants who had sounded perfect. Of the ten vacancies only one now remained unfilled, though he knew that Carole looked perfect for the part.
‘Thank God for that,’ she sighed, ‘I was sure you’d get someone else.’
‘No, I don’t work like that. If I’ve promised you an interview I’m not going to give the job to someone else while you’re still waiting.’
‘I really appreciate that, Mr Moore,’ she beamed.
The conversation was interrupted by a harsh metallic screech that filled the entire room. Nick waited for it to die down, glad to see that the builders had resumed work after yet another coffee break. ‘As you can hear,’ he explained to Carole, ‘there’s still a lot to finish before we open.’
She nodded. The dining area was almost totally finished, the tables and chairs set in secluded alcoves, the walls decorated with fin de siècle scenes of Paris. There was still an atmosphere of spit and sawdust, the inevitable result of all the redecorating, but already the underlying ambience was beginning to appear. ‘I think it looks really good,’ she said approvingly.
‘There’s still a lot to do, but I agree with you, it’s beginning to look the part. Which brings me neatly back to you.’
‘I’m very keen Mr Moore, you must realise that,’ she assured him earnestly. The top few buttons of her blouse were undone, giving a glimpse of smooth white skin without a hint of cleavage. One more button undone and it would have been coquettish, but there was something instinctively modest about her and he was certain that it wasn’t put on for his benefit. Some of the girls he’d interviewed had been practically naked, flaunting themselves shamelessly in the hope that he’d take an interest, to no avail. The restaurant he had in mind was sophisticated and classy, the last thing he wanted was a staff young and loud.
‘Tell me Carole, how many times have you been to Paris?’ he asked, formally marking the start of the interview.
‘Four times, two weekends and two longer holidays,’ she said.
‘And your French?’
‘I couldn’t be an interpreter but I do speak the language. I have my certificates at home if you want me to bring them in…’
He smiled and slid a leather bound menu across the table to her. ‘Read me the menu,’ he said, leaning back in his seat.
She opened it carefully and scanned through it. It was all in French of course, with no English translation; there was a separate menu for that. He listened closely as she began to read, fluently and with a pronunciation that was perfect. There was no doubt that she knew what she was reading as well, she was practically licking her lips as she went through the main courses.
‘Very good,’ he said, interrupting her in mid-sentence. ‘I am impressed. You sound like you enjoy your food as well.’
She smiled shyly. ‘Thank you, Mr Moore. I’ve got my figure to think about,’ she added, ‘but I do like my food.’
‘Good, I like that, there’s nothing worse than being served by someone who has no understanding of food.’
‘I only wish I could afford to eat at places like this,’ she sighed, handing back the menu.
He nodded. The prices in the menu were not cheap, there was no denying that, but then again La Tempête was not going to be just another French restaurant. ‘Tell me what you know about the job,’ he suggested.
She took a deep breath before beginning. ‘This is going to be a very special French restaurant, very different to all the others. You’ve got an excellent chef, even I’ve heard of him,’ she paused momentarily but there was no reassuring smile from Nick. ‘It won’t be the sort of place you come to on a whim. Every place has to be booked in advance, they’ll even be someone at the door to stop undesirables from barging in from the pub and that sort of thing.’
‘It’s not so much people from the pub that I’m worried about,’ he said, clarifying the point for her. ‘It’s just that I don’t won’t crowds of drunken hoorays turning up and spoiling the atmosphere. Do you know the kind of atmosphere I’m after?’
‘I think so,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Parisian sophistication, I think. You know, very elegant, smart. Am I right?’
‘Partly. The missing word in your description is decadent. Visiting La Tempête will be an experience in more than the culinary sense. Was that not explained to you?’
‘Yes, Mr Moore,’ she said quickly, her eyes widening with the fear that she had just messed up her chances of working there.
‘Part of that decadent ambience will be created by the girls who’ll work here. La serveuse will be a central character, she will embody the elegant and the decadent, both in the way she looks and in the way she acts. You do understand that, don’t you?’
For a moment he was certain that she was going to shake her head or burst into tears. ‘I think so, Mr Moore,’ she agreed softly, her voice barely a whisper of indecision.
‘As you know the salary I am offering is far higher than the norm, but that salary has to be earned. Of course you’ll have the added perk of enjoying some of the finest cuisine this side of the channel.’
‘Yes, I hadn’t thought of that,’ she agreed, her smile returning slowly. Her eyes were still full of uncertainty, as though she were struggling with herself and could not make a decision.
‘I like you Carole,’ he told her, smiling properly for the first time. You have excellent French and, even better, an appreciation of the finer things in life. If it were up to me then the job would be yours. However, there are the final formalities before I can make that offer.’
She looked at him eagerly, the chance of a job clearing the indecision. ‘What do I have to do?’
‘There’s the uniform to try on,’ he explained.
He laughed. ‘I thought you knew. There is indeed a special uniform for the waitresses, very French and very naughty. That’s what I meant about helping to create that special ambience.’
‘I hadn’t realised,’ she said, sounding crestfallen.
‘I hadn’t realised,’ she said, sounding crestfallen.
‘It’s a French maid’s outfit,’ he told her, deciding to be blunt rather than trying to break it gently. ‘Very enticing and sexy in a light-hearted way. If the uniform looks good on you then the job is practically yours. So far the other girls have loved it.’
She looked at him dubiously, the suspicion clouding her dark eyes. ‘I wasn’t really expecting this…’ she started to mumble. The screech of the electric drill drowned out the rest of her words but the look on her face told its own story.
‘May I suggest that you try it on and if you feel uncomfortable about it then we can talk about finding you some other job?’
She hesitated for a moment, weighing up the possibilities and then nodded reluctantly. ‘Okay, I’ll try it on but I have to say that I wasn’t really expecting anything like this.’
‘The staff changing room is currently the scene of all that banging and screeching I’m afraid. It’s the last part of the building to be finished unfortunately. However if you don’t mind changing in the kitchen today…?
She looked shocked. ‘The kitchen? But… Isn’t there some…’
Nick glared at her. ‘Are you always so difficult?’ he demanded, suddenly angered by her obvious distrust. None of the other girls had been so suspicious, even though the uniform was a surprise for most of them too.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, her pretty face flushing pink with embarrassment. ‘If it’s private I’ll change in the kitchen,’ she agreed.
Nick sighed. ‘If it wasn’t private I wouldn’t have asked you to change in there. Now, please be a good girl and go and try your uniform out. It’s there waiting for you, hanging behind the door. There’s no mirror I’m afraid but if you give me a shout when you’re ready I’ll tell you how you look.’
It was obvious that she was unhappy about the whole idea but she did as she was told. He watched her cross the length of the restaurant and enter the kitchen, noting the way her long black boots accentuated the shape of her legs, and the way the tight skirt clung to her well-shaped behind. She was tall and slim but with curves in all the right places, which was just what he was looking for.
Finding the right sort of girl had proved to be a far bigger problem than he had anticipated. There were lots of pretty girls of the right age around, but few of them had the intelligence, the elegance or the personality to carry off the roles he had assigned them. Luckily, once he had recruited the first four they had helped him find the others. Carole had been recommended by one of the other girls, and so far he was impressed by her looks and by her knowledge of French, however he was not so enamoured of her personality. If she were only a little more trusting, or perhaps a little more relaxed then he’d be certain.
His ruminations were interrupted by one of the builders, a burly monster of a man, striding purposely towards the kitchen. ‘Where do you think you’re off too?’ Nick demanded, rising quickly from his seat.
‘There’s something needs seeing to in there,’ the builder announced, his broad grin splitting his face in two.
‘Very funny,’ Nick sighed. ‘Now isn’t there some real work for you to be getting on with?’
The builder looked offended, the grin replaced by a sullen frown. ‘I was only having a laugh,’ he complained. ‘A feller’s got to have a laugh sometimes. Pretty bit of skirt like that appreciates a joke, I can tell.’
‘She might appreciate the joke, I certainly don’t. Now, if you don’t mind…’
The builder glared at Nick for a moment then turned on his heel and marched back the way he had come, muttering a litany of complaints as a salve to his injured pride. It was no surprise, the lure of pretty young women was certainly going to be one of the main attractions of the restaurant but it was also going to be one of the problems. A strict door policy sounded like financial suicide for a new restaurant, but it was the only way Nick could think of having some control over the clientele. It was a gamble and the thought always caused a shudder of fear to pass through him. His house, savings and a substantial loan from the bank were all riding on the success of La Tempête, which promised to be as stormy as its name.
‘I’m ready’ she cried from the kitchen, her voice lacking in any form of enthusiasm.
She looked gorgeous. The black satin and white frills complementing her dark good looks and soft white skin. It was a perfect fit, from the towering black high heels to the seamed stockings to the low cut of the uniform to the lace cap which banded her dark hair. When she moved the skirt swished slightly and he was treated to an enticing glimpse of flesh above the thick black stocking tops. The deep cleavage of her breasts was emphasised by the constricting tightness, and the apron tied at her waist served to draw attention to the roundness of her backside.
The effect was spoilt by the pensive expression on her face, her eyes flitting from side to side nervously, her lips pursed as though stifling her anger. She was standing straight, hands together in front of her, balanced finely on the high heels.
‘What is it, girl?’ he demanded, annoyed by her obvious discomfort. If it wasn’t enough worrying about the opening of the restaurant he had to contend with the antics of silly teenage girls.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Moore,’ she whispered, her face flaring red once again, ‘but I don’t think I can handle this.’
He exhaled heavily. ‘Handle what exactly?’ he asked, not bothering to hide his exasperation.
‘All of this,’ she explained, rubbing a hand down the smooth satin uniform. ‘I mean it’ll hurt, won’t it?’
He looked at her quizzically. ‘The shoes?’ he asked.
‘No, not that, I can handle the stilettos all right. No, I mean, you know… The punishment when I’m naughty.’
By now her face was bright red and her eyes were fixed at a point six inches in front of her toes. Her voice had become a strained whisper. ‘I don’t understand,’ Nick admitted, hardly daring to let his imagination get ahead of him.
‘The decadence thing… You said you wanted us to be all decadent and naughty…’ she tried to explain, but seemed to have trouble finding the right words. ‘With the high heels and everything I suppose we’ll always be spilling things and so on… It’ll hurt, won’t it, afterwards.’
‘You mean when you make mistakes, when you’re naughty as you put it,’ he looked to her for the nod of confirmation, ‘you expect to be punished. Physically.’
‘Like in those magazines,’ she added, helpfully.
He nodded sagely. Those magazines. She looked so young and naive, but obviously her education extended down to those magazines. He could follow her train of thought — maid’s uniform, decadence, naughtiness, correction. ‘Yes, I suppose it will hurt. But unless you try it how will you know?’
‘I know the other girls have accepted… Did they try it first?’
He suppressed the smile. ‘Yes. They were all punished by me, but only after they’d put the uniform on first. In your case I’m inclined to be extra strict, you’re being very difficult about this. You either want this job or you don’t.’
‘But I do,’ she insisted forcefully.
‘In that case I think you should be a good girl and bend over the counter there,’ he pointed to one of the worktops, smooth steel polished like a mirror.
She hesitated, he could see the arguments raging inside her. There was doubt there, and denial, but there was also excitement and a curiosity that could not be suppressed. Hesitantly she turned round, took the two steps to the appointed place and stopped. For a moment she stared at her reflection in the cold steel, allowing him the chance to appreciate how she looked from behind. Long straight legs, beautifully shaped by the shiny black heels, slim waist but a well-proportioned rear, long black hair held in place by the frilly lace cap.
When she bent over at the waist the skirt was raised high at the back, lifting clear of the stocking tops and displaying the black suspenders which pressed firmly into the flesh of her thighs. She pressed her face and chest against the worktop, wriggling slightly in an effort to get comfortable.
‘Lift your skirt completely,’ he ordered, enjoying the view. When the skirt was raised completely he saw the tiny black briefs were pulled up between the round globes of her bottom, the thin wisp of lace delineating the rear cleavage to her advantage. She looked good, there was no denying the enticing image her primly offered backside made.
‘How many?’ she asked, almost breathless with fear and anticipation.
‘Six, with my hand.’
She made no reply, instead she arched her back slightly, offering a rounder target. He stepped forward, hardly daring to believe what was happening. He touched her softly, running his fingertips over her backside, from one side to the next. She hardly dared to breathe, her eyes were half-closed and hands were clenched tightly.
The first smack was hard, landing flat on her left buttock, making a resounding slapping sound that seemed to fill the kitchen completely. She uttered a strangled gasp but did not cry or make any movement. His fingers were clearly imprinted on her white flesh, a red badge of pain that he swore was warm to the touch. He lifted his arm and brought it down again, on the same bottom-cheek and with the same force. She inched forward, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the worktop. Her skin marked easily, white flesh running to pink and then red at the site of impact. He touched her again, able to feel the distinct mark as well as see it.
The third stroke, and then the fourth. She cried out, but, biting her lips and gripping hard, she did not move out of position. There was determination in her eyes, but with it the misting over of pain and pleasure. Her left bottom-cheek was red, patterned from the top of the thigh and above. A fifth stroke, as hard and as painful as the first four. She seemed to draw her stomach down and raise her bottom higher, offering him her derriere for punishment as though it were his to do with as he wished. The wisp of lace between her thighs was drawn tightly into her flesh, a black band against white skin turning pink.
The last stroke was the hardest of all, the sound of it matched by a squeal of pain that she uttered despite her best efforts. His own hand Was buzzing, throbbing with pain and yet he knew it was only a pale echo of the sensations she was experiencing. When he touched, stroking her punished left buttock, he let his fingers slip lower, brushing against the sticky warmth of her sex.
‘Have we finished?’ she asked, hardly able to speak clearly. The contrast between the two sides of her rear end was plain to see, on the left a pattern of red finger marks and the shadow of his hand on her flesh, on the right the pure unblemished softness of her skin.
‘Not yet,’ he told her firmly. ‘There’s the other side to do as well.’
She sighed, her breath misting on the cold steel on which her face rested. He looked around quickly, searching for the right implement in a kitchen full of them. There were a dozen different wooden spoons, a number of small pans which looked ideal for tanning the hide of a silly girl. The spatula looked perfect, however, long, slightly curved, very strong and easy to handle.
‘Six strokes,’ he informed her.
‘With that?’ she cried, clearly alarmed by the wooden implement he had to hand.
‘Seven strokes for that,’ he decided. She fell silent, resigned to the fact of her punishment.
He was careful with the first stroke, bringing it down flat against the unmarked skin of her right buttock. The sound was impressive and the solid red mark it created looked good. Her eyes were wide, and he could tell that the spatula was indeed a more effective instrument of correction than his bare hand. The next few strokes fell in quick succession, each delivered firmly and with a resounding crack of sound. She was panting, breathing heavily, making little sobbing sounds as he administered her chastisement.
He stopped at number four and examined her closely, comparing each bottom-cheek, touching her intimately without a murmur of dissent from her lovely lips. She was undoubtedly aroused, when he touched a finger to her sex she seemed to melt, a sigh issuing from her lips as she closed her eyes to the pleasure. He resumed the punishment, smacking hard the final strokes, the last delivered squarely between her bottom-cheeks.
The punishment over, he stepped back for a moment. She seemed dazed, hardly able to move, as though she too were welded to the cold steel worktop. It gave him a chance to savour the image of her, bent beautifully over, her uniform up around her waist, long legs stretched tautly, bottom perfectly displayed in all its pink, punished glory.
‘You can stand up now,’ he told her, finally.
She seemed to wake suddenly. She pushed herself up and modestly brushed down her uniform, hiding from view the evidence of her punishment. Her chest was flushed pink, her white skin mottled by the evidence of her pleasure just as her bottom had been mottled by her chastisement.
‘Do you still want the job?’ he asked, his manner cool and professional, despite the raging desire that he felt.
‘Will it get any worse than that?’ she asked, swallowing hard.
‘Only if you’re really bad,’ he told her. ‘Don’t worry though, most nights of the week you’ll just be on display, looking pretty to keep our clients happy until the food arrives. However the uniform and the punishment is reserved for special nights, when only the most select of our clients are invited.’
‘You mean this,’ she clutched her uniform, ‘is for the special clients only? Other nights we wear something else?’
He smiled. ‘That’s right. Other nights you’ll wear a more respectable uniform, still pretty and sexy but not like this. On our special nights however you’ll have to be extra careful not to make a mistake and earn a spanking from our customers,’ he paused. The entire business plan had just been re-written, but he knew it made more sense. Act as a normal French restaurant for most nights but offer the privilege of punishing the girls on certain special occasions — and charge prices accordingly. ‘So,’ he finished, ‘what do you say?’
She reached down and rubbed her bottom surreptitiously, as though the stinging were too powerful to ignore. ‘What about if I make mistakes on the other nights?’ she asked.
‘I reserve the right to punish you when required, my girl,’ he told her.
She nodded at once. ‘Yes, Mr Moore. When do I start?’
He smiled. ‘You’ve already started,’ he laughed. ‘If I were you I’d change and get home for a good night of rest, you’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow.’
‘But the restaurant doesn’t open for…’‘It’s all right,’ he said, stopping her mid-sentence. ‘It’s just that I have nine other girls that I need to re-interview,’ he announced, smiling.