Page 5 of Savage Warrior

You haven’t seen anything of mine before.

I keep my mouth shut while she regards me critically.

“A bit skinny. They like more in the way of curves round here, but maybe we can tart you up a bit.” She hands me a lipstick. “Here. Put some on your nipples. Then maybe we can tie a ribbon on to give you a bit more sparkle.” She adorns my breasts with a narrow strip of black satin then stands back to consider the result. “Yes, that’ll do.” She beams with satisfaction. “No one will complain now.”

Five minutes later, my face is painted sufficiently and I’m teetering on narrow heels. She declares me suitably turned out.

“Follow me. You can take tables ten to fifteen. Any tips go in the pot, and if one of ’em buys you a drink, you tell ’em you’ll leave it behind the bar for later. Understood?”

“Yes,” I manage, cringing. I feel like a prize poodle, dolled up and presented for men to paw and lust over. “What if… what if someone touches me?”

“Then you smile, girl, and get him to hand over his cash before he gets a feel.”

“But what if I don’t …like him?”

“Like him?” She stares at me as though I sprouted an extra head. “Why on earth would you like any of ’em? You’re here to work, not fucking like people. Smile, keep ’em happy, an’ we’ll get along nicely.” She jerks her thumb at the door. “Tables ten to fifteen. Get a move on.”

I try to follow her ‘advice’. I truly do. I need the money, so I’ve no choice. I fetch and carry, taking orders, bringing drinks, emptying ashtrays and juggling plates, enduring the leers and so-called playful slaps as best I can. I wrap myself in a protective armour, try to ignore the gropes and pinches and intimate comments and just get on with my job.

“If you don’t want to work here, there’s plenty who do,” Zora snaps at me as I hustle past her on my way to the kitchens.

“I do want the work,” I begin, “it’s just that—”

“Well, tell your face that,” she replies. “It looks like a slapped arse. Which could easily be arranged,” she adds. “I’ve had three requests already, so if you fancy an hour or so in a private room, just say so.”

“No!” I fight down my revulsion. “No, I won’t be doing any of that.”

She glares at me and steps in close. “Let’s be clear, Magenta. I’ll decide what you’ll be doing, not you. If the price is right, your arse and pussy are on offer. Make no mistake. Now, get on with your job. And smile.”

I last another hour. The crunch comes when a particularly raucous group call me over to order yet more drinks and decide to have some fun. One of them grabs me and pulls me onto his lap so he can fondle my breasts. Naturally, I struggle to get free and manage to plant my elbow in his nose. He lets out a roar, attracting Zora’s attention. She hustles across to enquire as to what the problem might be.

“Little bitch hit me,” he mutters. He tries without much success to staunch the flow of blood from his left nostril. “Fucking vicious witch needs to learn her place.”

“Indeed so,” Zora croons. “I’m so sorry. She’ll be dealt with, I assure you.”

“I can fucking deal with her myself,” he hisses, unbuckling his belt.

“Please, feel free,” she declares. “The girl is new. She has a lot to learn.”

“Let go of me,” I shriek as the reality of my situation sinks in. I kick him in the shins, biting and scratching as though my life depends on it. Maybe it does. “You’re not touching me, any of you.”

The man laughs, despite my assault on his nose. “Call it career development, bitch.”

He grabs my hair, twists a hank of it around his fist, and flings me to the floor. He delivers a kick to my ribs, then tugs his belt free while I gasp for breath. In moments, the entire thing descends into a nightmare. While his friends chant and whoop and cheer him on, near delirious with the thrill of their game, he lays into me with the leather strap, raining blows down on my buttocks, my hips, the backs of my thighs.

I try to crawl away, but each time he hauls me back by my ankle and resumes bis attack. A larger crowd gathers, more men keen to join the fun, shouting their gleeful approval. It’s only as I start to pass out that Zora steps in.

“I think that’s enough, gentlemen,” she observes. “Thank you for your assistance.” She shoulders them aside and hauls me to my feet.

I can barely stand, but she hardly spares me a glance before she gives me a shove. “You, wait for me in the dressing room. Can I offer you a drink, sir? On the house, naturally.”

I stagger away, ridiculously grateful to be alive. For more than a few moments there I thought they meant to kill me. Perhaps they did. I shoulder my way through the assembled males who jeer and whistle at me as I make my escape. Mercifully, no one stops me, and I reach the dressing room without encountering further attacks. Once there, I rip off the excuse for a uniform and drag my own clothes back on as fast as my bruised body is able. I crash into Zora on my headlong dash out the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she demands, barring my way.

“I’m leaving.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re not due to finish for two hours yet.”

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