Party Animals

I gasped as their eyes turned to me. It had been a bit daunting being in a bikini but, up until now, no worse than leaving the changing room for a swimming pool. However now I found myself face to face with a group of hungry men staring at me with unconcealed lust, the self-consciousness hit me like a wave of lava.

"Table for four please." A brash young man barked at me as he barged his way in. I led the way to a corner table that made sense to me, aware that they were probably all staring at my ass the whole time. I took their drinks orders, passed them to Meagan who was behind the counter with the drinks and cakes before going back to the entrance to guide more people to their seats.

As more and more people began to fill the café, I expected to become more familiar with my state of undress, but the lingering looks and cut short conversations made me more self-conscious with every new customer seated. It wasn't until I overheard the phrase "... those nipples" in a passing conversation, I looked down and saw my nipples practically leaping off my bust, two unmistakable golden bulges imposing themselves on the cheap stretchy gold fabric.

Beneath my cool outer exterior I had a very self-contained panic attack. All the eyes on me began to burrow through what meagre scraps of fabric were protecting my dignity. I pictured my friends coming in and laughing at my humiliation, my husband shocked at seeing his proper and accomplished wife reduced to showing off her body for 12 hours, just to earn an amount of money that was less than half what he made in an 8 hour day, the rumour mill of my old life running into overdrive passing news of my fall from grace to every social circle I had ever even brushed up against.

"Can you fit in eight?" A customer asked from the doorway, cutting through my panic.

"Err... sure, I could push those two tables together." I replied, happy to have a purpose.

What followed was a strange revelation. After weeks of struggling and feeling not good enough at basic cleaning, I felt pride again as I was actually really good at waiting tables. I had a knack for keeping things orderly in my mind. The constant awareness of who needed seating, who was waiting for food and drink, who hadn't had attention in a while, it was a strain but I was able to hold it all in my mind as I operated. Once I got my eye in, I could be proud that I was running the whole café like a pro.

My nipples never stopped standing on end however.

By the end of the night, my boss had a satisfied look on her face as she locked up

"You're a natural, ever think of ditching the cleaning job and coming to work here?" She asked.

"Oh no, I couldn't." I replied, my breathing quickening at the thought of this afternoon becoming my life.

"Alright, we are hiring so if you change your mind you know where to find us. Although don't expect $200 every time, that was an emergency rate. Plus you'd usually be sharing the tips with another waitress so don't expect this much." She handed me a cheque that in the past I wouldn't have even made the effort to cash, but now it made my eyes bulge out of my skull.

I felt good all afternoon, wondering to myself if I should take her up on the offer, but as with a lot of facets of my new life, the decision was quickly taken out of my hand when the next day my cleaning boss gave me a letter of termination. He'd always wanted to get rid of me, but when I pulled a shift at the café he found his opening, calling it a violation of my non-compete clause. Worse still my last paycheque was decimated by every dubious trick in the book. Over half of my hours were classified as unauthorised overtime without pay, 'excess product use' and uniform costs were deducted, and barely any was left for me to live on. I knew this was illegal, but my former employer knew to pursue it would cost money up front that I didn't have.

Within the week, I had a golden bikini of my own, and a work schedule at the café.

...

"We have a private catering gig." Meagan explained, "good money and big tips, but in my experience more handsy and inappropriate. But the pay is good enough that it will give you some breathing room for those finals I know you have coming up."

"Do I have to go?" I asked petulantly.

~~~

Matilda cowered behind the door staring in shock at her husband standing in the hallway. She was already in her gold bikini, her tray of gazpacho in shot glasses rattling with her nerves.

'Fuck' she thought to herself. 'What's he doing here? And more importantly what am I going to do about it?'

Hey Matilda, why are you..." her boss began, looking only slightly less intimidating in a gold bikini of her own.

"Shhh." Matilda shushed, putting her hand over her boss's mouth and realising from her wide eyes she owed her a quick explanation. "Sorry, but that guy in the hallway is my... ex-husband."

Matilda felt bad for Barnaby's new reduced status, but she remembered how Mercedes had felt about her taking a holiday in the lives of the working class. She didn't want her co-workers to learn that she was married to a man who could buy her out of this life without a second thought.

"...and I'm guessing it would be a problem if he found out about your new job?" Her boss asked with a deep and genuine compassion, taking her answer from the deep and paralysing fear across Matilda's face. "How about we sneak you out of the back? We can handle things."

"No." Squeaked Matilda. "I need this paycheque. Could I just hide out until he leaves? This isn't his kind of party anyway."

"Help out in the kitchen until the party gets a bit busier, then I'll see where he is and assign you far away. People don't tend to look at our faces anyway." Her boss asserted, taking the tray of gazpacho out of her hands.

Matilda was so grateful, and she kept herself busy in the kitchen as best as possible, but she felt guilty the whole time. Gradually more and more people were filling up the party for the other waitresses to deal with, and it wasn't like someone wearing nothing but a bikini was safe and sanitary in a cooking environment.

Eventually Matilda's frustration got the better of her and she peered around the door. The party was starting to fill out, and Marcus was doing a great job getting drinks flowing and everyone in the mood to make bad decisions.

"Have we got another tray of entrées?" A petite woman in a gold bikini asked Matilda.

"Hang on, you're not one of us. Who are you and why are you wearing a gold bikini?"

~~~

How Gwen McDonald ended up at the party

~~~

"Can I go?" I asked petulantly.

"Ticket price is 3 figures, and I see how much you make." My boss replied. She wasn't forbidding me, she knew she couldn't, but it was clear she didn't want me there.

"Wanna bet?" I asked.

"No." She bluntly refused.

...

I never had a career plan so to speak, I just had a knack for getting what I needed as long as I was in the presence of those who had it. My official job role at Blackmore & Jones was administrative assistant, my actual job was a mix of fixer and con artist, with occasional afternoons making Excel spreadsheets that did my official job for me.

The trick I learned early on was in the rush of everyone trying to prove themselves, all those egos, the machismo of men, the feminine wiles or resentful machismo of their own in women, everyone took any opportunity to get ahead. That made people predictable, which made them putty in my hands. I was a petite, 24 year old girl with pixie cut pink hair, working in an underling position. Everyone thought they could stamp their authority on me and I made sure it never worked out.

I got the job off a bet, I happened to know the guy at the recruitment firm Blackmore & Jones uses and he rigged the selection process after I downed my pint quicker than him. I bet my boss that I could throw a balled up piece of paper in the bin from across the office and got moved to a desk surrounded by the most important people. Then it was a matter of listening and waiting for my opportunity to strike.

There were always two features of my bets: firstly I never made a bet I couldn't win, most of the time you could take people down with downing drinks or a feat of hand eye coordination, things I had relentlessly practised for some time. Secondly, my end of the bet, the consequences of losing, was always an act of sexual humiliation.

At first it was just an angle to make sure the bets happen. Everyone I bet with had more than me, so when they asked what my stake was I would always tell them something that stoked their desire to see me taken down a peg. Over time it became a calling card, an inevitability, something as integral to the bet as the complete confidence that I wouldn't have to do it.

If I had downed my drink slower, the recruitment manager would have gotten to watch me buy the next round topless. If I had missed the bin my boss would have won a freshly prepared photocopy of my tits.

Recently I had decided that I wanted to go to one of these charity galas. Everyone kept talking about the show of opulent wealth and I knew if I could get my foot in the door I could get myself a piece of that. People around the office are a bit put off betting against me, especially not for wads of cash, so I had to bide my time and find the right person to win either a ticket, or enough money to buy a ticket.

"Did you say you wanted a ticket to the TransLegal fundraiser?" A polished female voice emanated from behind the door of a private office. "Because I have one to gamble with."

Claire Blackmore, partner of the firm, was looking directly at me with a cheeky grin across her face.

"Come in, let's discuss terms." She beckoned, opening the door and letting me into her large, opulent office. I sat in a chair worth more than my annual salary and sat patiently as Claire composed herself. "Yesterday, during a heated discussion with my partner, he suggested he would rather you co-ran this place than me. I know it was mostly in jest but I still feel the need to take you down a peg. I know of your propensity to win bets, I would like to be the first in the office to triumph over you."

"So you think you can throw a piece of paper into a bin from further away than me?" I goaded, to which she barely reacted.

"I haven't had a look at your job description recently, but I doubt throwing a piece of paper into a bin is on there. No, I want to take you down at your job. If you remember from your induction, there is a series of training sessions and tests on Microsoft Excel. I'll let you pick a test, and if you can complete it faster than me, you get my ticket to the party." Claire explained.

"Alright, and if I win..." I began.

"You are not dictating terms here." Claire interrupted. "But I confess I have heard of your bets and your stakes and I am intrigued to continue the pattern I have noticed. If you lose, tomorrow you do your job without any clothes."

I chuckled but Claire quickly made it obvious that she was entirely serious. I tried to find the angle or trick but there wasn't one. She would know that I had completed the Excel training module already, even if she had also done it that would make us level pegging and she spent a lot less of her life on Excel than me. I took a deep breath and decided to call her on it.

...

'It can't be that easy', I thought to myself as I walked into Claire's office to inform her I had completed test number 3. Indeed she agreed I had won the bet without a fuss and handed over the ticket.

"Double or nothing?" She calmly asked, "I confess I was hoping you wouldn't pick pivot tables."

"You better make the stakes good if you want a do-over." I pushed.

"How about I acknowledge the ticket is yours, and if I win you simply do me a favour I was hoping to do myself at the party. If I lose, I will be the one going to work tomorrow without a stitch of clothing on me."

The infamous Claire Blackmore, walking naked into the office, and when everyone asks why, I get to tell them I beat her in a bet. The appeal was far too tempting to say no to, I agreed and chose one of the hardest tests on the course before heading back to my desk.

My mind was a blur, I focussed and poured my heart and soul into ensuring I would be the one embarrassing the partner tomorrow. I was halfway through question 2 when I received an email from Claire, subject line: "done!"

"How did you..." I began, Claire carelessly held up her hand and turned her screen around to show me her screen with the completed exercise.

"You are not in charge of this office, I am." She calmly stated. "But I noticed your talent at manipulation and figured I would play some old games, re-live the nostalgia of conning my way through life like you. I could have simply given you this ticket with my instructions but I hope you agree this was more fun."

I was in awe of Claire, chuckling to herself at the execution of a plan that could have gone so wrong for her.

"These parties are different things to different people, to those with 'enough' it is simply an opportunity to have fun, but to those who want more, they are an intricate game of social chess. I assume you would have been working some sort of angle, all I now ask is that you work those angles for us. Some will be there looking for a good law firm, as you lost the bet I expect one such partnership to come home with you. Good luck." She chirped.

"And what if I don't come back with a firm in tow?" I asked.

"Then we'd have to revert to your original forfeit, wouldn't we?" She giggled, directing me out of the room, satisfied at her afternoon hijinks.

~~~

Gwen had arrived at the party a casual 15 minutes fashionably late, it was still sparse but she was at least able to get the lay of the land. The host told her of all the fun activities he had laid out for guests and Gwen saw so many opportunities for party games that could end in bets. She had a brief conversation with Barnaby but when it became clear he was there looking for bigwigs to suck up to, Gwen moved on.

In the end Gwen decided to hang out by the billiards table, she had always wondered about practising billiards to get good enough to add it to her hustling rota, but for now it would have to do as something to spur on people's competitive urges. Gwen was at least grateful for the tacky but exciting bikini servers traversing the length and breadth of the party, certainly she saw a few potential marks who had been graciously pre-horned up for her.

It's why she was so shocked when after about half an hour on the billiards table, making some minor bets on fetching drinks and downing shots, that it was a woman in a scandalous and undoubtedly expensive red dress, immaculate hair and nails, and dazzling jewellery, that emerged from the ether to push the bets into overdrive.

"I had to come over here to see who had all these men bending over backwards to serve her." She announced.

"Just someone with some skill. Maybe you want to be next to get me a drink?" Gwen goaded, she could see this person was worth her attention.

"I'm still finishing my glass of wine, how about a tray of entrées?" She suggested.

"In case you haven't noticed, there's some women in skimpy bikinis bringing the food around..." Gwen began, looking to turn things deviant, not expecting the woman in red to beat her to it.

"... And don't you think one of them deserves a break?" She asked through a smirk, calling over one of the servers. "What's your drink for downing?"

"How about a pint of cider?" Gwen suggested.

"OK then. Bring us two pints of cider and two shots of tequila. Then hang around a moment, whichever of us downs our drink slowest will swap clothes with you and serve the guests for half an hour." The woman in red ordered.

"I don't know..." the server began.

"You won't get in trouble and there will even be a big tip in it for you." She reassured, sending the server off to pick up the drinks while Gwen and her talked terms in front of a growing crowd of men.

"Both drinks down the throat, they are done when both glasses are empty and upside down on the table and the drinker's mouth is open to demonstrate it's all gone down." Gwen stated.

"Of course, no interfering with the other drinker, no touching them or their glasses, or calling on anyone else to do similar." She stated.

"Seems fair." Gwen agreed, wondering what such an elegant lady was doing entering a drinking contest, and why she thought she could win it. The server returned and placed the drinks in front of the contestants. "Ready?"

"I still haven't finished my wine." The woman in red protested. Certainly she had been nursing from her large bulbous burgundy glass the whole time, but Gwen thought that had been about intimidation. "Let me finish, then the moment this wine glass touches the table, the contest begins, OK?"

Gwen smirked, she was nervous and delaying the inevitable. However Gwen's smirk faded when the woman in red finished her wine, turned the glass upside down, then placed it neatly over Gwen's shot glass.

"I haven't touched your glass, and you're not allowed to touch mine." The woman in red calmly reminded before beginning to drink her cider at a leisurely pace, leaving Gwen to stare in horror at the realisation that for the first time she was the one that had been tricked into losing the bet. She simply stood in stunned silence as the woman in red finished her drinks and drank in the applause of the crowd.

"Now then waitress. Here is $100 to compensate you for the effort of escorting this young lady to the bathroom where you will swap clothes. Then just have fun at the party, in half an hour we'll come find you to change back." The women in red explained, handing the server a handful of $20 bills and pointing them to the nearest toilet.

The toilets were not the kind found in venues, with cubicles and space for privacy, instead it was a standard household toilet with nowhere to hide, so Gwen agreed to dress back to back with the server, picking the golden bikini off the floor without daring to turn around to see the woman's naked body, or worse, to see if the server had turned around to see hers.

The bikini did not fit well and they had to drastically shorten the straps to keep the bikini tight over Gwen's petite frame. As well as this they realised they had different shoe sizes, so opted not to swap footwear, leaving Gwen in a gold bikini with 6 inch high heels, and the server in a formal dress and comfortable flats. Gwen was about to ask for a moment to compose herself when the server, without any fanfare, stepped out and began to mingle with the crowd.

There was a cheer from the billiards table as Gwen sheepishly returned in the cheap gold bikini. Strangely enough the woman in red was no longer there, which if anything was worse. No gloating, no taking in her victory, she had simply triumphed over Gwen and not given it another thought.

She took a shot glass out of a stranger's hands and downed it, then she picked up the tray and turned around to go fetch some entrées from the kitchen and was treated to another cheer. Unlike the other waitresses, Gwen didn't have the body adhesive necessary to keep the bikini bottoms from riding up, so those gathered by the billiards table were treated to Gwen's basically unobscured butt.

The shameful humiliation of her situation churned in her stomach and prickled at her skin. She kept her eyes on the floor so as not to drink on the lecherous glances she was certain she would be getting. Looking down she was able to see her stuff nipples poking at the fabric.

"Goddamn it, go down." Gwen ordered her nipples under her breath. "How could anyone do this job with stiff nipples?"

Then she bumped into Matilda, who had been doing this job with stiff nipples for over a month.