Chapter 1

The offices here were disgustingly similar to those of every other employment agency Ginny Dennison had visited since Monday when she began in earnest to find a job. And not a particular job this time; she'd learned her bitter lesson about job-hunting long ago. This time she had promised herself to take anything offered to her, anything from file clerk to dishwasher.

She read down line after line of qualifying questions, and reluctantly checked "none" for each of the areas of previous experience desired. And why not -- there was no reason to think that this agency would be any different from the ten or twelve -- she'd lost count -- that had already turned her down. Oh, not in so many words, of course; agencies have a way of saying no without actually saying it. But that "we'll call you or drop you a card if anything comes up" is more than adequate.

This agency had advertised for cocktail waitresses, and though she had never had any experiences there either, it certainly did not seem too difficult, and Mr. Bondman had told her on the telephone when she answered the ad that sometimes they considered girls without experience as trainees. At less salary, of course, but at this point, salary was the least of Ginny's worries.

She knew she had to find work somewhere, or start climbing the walls. Fred had been gone now for over seven months, and for a bride of only three weeks, that sort of absence was hard to swallow. But Uncle Sam has a habit of putting his soldiers where he wants them most, and for a brand-new draftee, there wasn't much chance of getting any choice. Fred was in Iraq; at least she had that much to be thankful for. He could just as easily have been sent to some jungle outpost in Vietnam, and that would have unquestionably been more than she could have taken at once.

It wasn't really a matter of economics, just more a problem of trying to stay busy. Without a job, and nothing to do all day, the weeks seemed like months, and sometimes it seemed that Fred would never be coming back at all.

"Have you finished your application?" A short, stubby balding man stepped from the inner office, closing the door behind him. She guessed he was the one she'd talked with on the phone. In fact, he seemed to be the only person around.

"Yes, I've finished," replied Ginny, "but I'm afraid it won't be much help... I just don't have the right experience to get a job, it seems..."

He smiled benevolently, "Well, why don't you let me be the judge of that... You might be qualified for something you never thought of." He motioned toward the open door to the inner office. "Why don't you step inside, honey, and we'll talk it over." Something was odd about the faintest outline of a smirk on his face, but Ginny was in no mood to be choosy.

The inner office lacked the refinements someone had added to the reception area; at least the outer office was paneled and well-supplied with fairly comfortable vinyl and steel chairs. The private office showed evidence of not being painted since World War II; the pale green paint was peeling in layers, like dead flesh from a bad sunburn, and there were broken sections of it here and there on the faded, sun-bleached carpet. Marty Bondman's desk was old and battered, but without a trace of soul; and a large, upholstered wooden swivel chair stood behind it, where Bondman lowered his bulky, fleshy frame. "Now, let's take a look at your qualifications," he said, glancing over the penned notes on his brief application form.

"I called you earlier," began Ginny. "You said something about a trainee cocktail waitress position I might be qualified for... I don't have any experience... I guess you can see that." He glanced up from the paper with that same vague smirk and looked over her, as if making some mental appraisal.

"Haven't you ever had a job before?" he asked.

Ginny lowered her head, she'd been through this a dozen times already. "No... except for a part-time job when I was in high school. I worked for a department store back in Indiana, but that was three years ago. I got married right after high school, and Fred -- that's my husband -- Fred took care of all the money matters, so I didn't need to work."

Bondman suddenly seemed interested. "Married, you say? And where is Fred now... why do you suddenly need a job?"

"Oh, I don't have to go to work, I suppose," explained Ginny, "but Fred's with the Army in Iraq, and I just feel like I ought to be working or something. It gets so boring just sitting around all the time... and the car's busted, so I can't even get out much. Maybe with a job, the time would pass faster."

"How about typing and shorthand?" asked Mr. Bondman, "Did you take any commercial courses in high school?"

Ginny looked puzzled, "Commercial courses? You mean secretarial skills, that kind of thing?"

He nodded.

"No, I'm afraid home economics was the only elective I took."

Bondman made a couple of scribbled notations on her application card. "Can you type at all? Even a little hunt-and-peck?"

Ginny shook her head, "Sorry, That's my whole problem. I just don't have any skills."

Bondman checked off a series of blocks on the back of the card and put it aside and turned his gaze to Ginny. She grew increasingly uncomfortable under his intense stare, and she self-consciously tugged at the hem of her miniskirt, in a futile attempt to conceal even a little of her bare thigh from his probing eyes.

"You know, there is one job you just might be able to get," he grinned. "It's at a little bar out near Santa Monica, you'd have to wear a costume though, sort of like a go-go outfit."

Ginny thought for a moment. "Gee, I don't know. Fred would kill me if he knew I was parading around in some kind of a go-go outfit. How skimpy is it?"

Mr. Bondman laughed, "It's decent, if that's what you mean. But just barely. It's about the size of a bikini. Have you got the build for something like that?"

"I-I guess so," blushed Ginny, lowering her eyes to her lap. "Fred says I've got a nice figure. And I was a majorette in high school, if that means anything."

Marty Bondman pulled a sheaf of papers from his desk and glanced over them. "Yes," he said, "it appears that the position I mentioned is still open. However, they are very specific about applicants being... that is, having the right figure for the job. It says here I'm to be absolutely certain before I send anyone out."

Ginny looked straight at the floor, afraid to look him in the eye. "Well, I told you the best I could do, Mr. Bondman. I..."

"Telling me is not good enough," he interrupted, with a sly sparkle in his eyes. "I'm afraid you'll just have to show me. Please stand up."

Ginny's mouth dropped half-open. "Mr. Bondman! I couldn't do that... I mean, what kind of a girl do you think I am!"

"Don't worry, honey," he assured, "it's all part of my job. I have to look girls over all the time. You might as well get used to it. The only kind of jobs you'll be able to get are jobs where you show a little skin, you know what I mean? And employers just don't hire their girls sight unseen. Now be a good kid, and stand up so I can get a better look at you."

"Gosh, I don't know, Mr. Bondman... But I suppose it'll be all right, since you do it all the time." She stood up slowly and turned her profile to his eager eyes, her firm, young breasts swelling under her thin, cotton blouse.

With one hand, she brushed down her miniskirt, smoothing out the faint wrinkles until it unbrokenly hugged the rich, full curves of her hips and buttocks, clinging tightly to her smooth flesh. As his eyes coursed over her, she suddenly wished she had worn a longer skirt, or maybe a suit-dress with a jacket top.

Marty Bondman nodded approvingly, "It's okay from here, at least what I can see. But you're going to have to do better than that. I can't send you out of here without being sure, my professional reputation's at stake. Suppose you have a big scar on your back, or an ugly birthmark on your thigh or something. I mean, those things show up when you're wearing a bikini top and panties." He stood up, his hand on his chin pensively. "Yeah, you'll just have to show me some more. I've got too much at stake to take a chance."

Ginny stepped back defensively, "And just what do you mean by that? I can't show you any more without taking my clothes off, and I'm certainly not going to do that!"

Bondman's joviality suddenly vanished, "Now listen to me, Mrs. Dennison, you're the one who's looking for work, not me. I don't need a job; so either you follow instructions and cut out all this modesty crap, or you can just go somewhere else and I'll give this job to the next girl who walks through that door!" he shouted, aiming his hand toward the closed door to his outer office.

Ginny suddenly felt very humiliated, and a hint of a tear began to form in the corner of her eye. "I... I just can't do that, Mr. Bondman, I'm not that kind of a girl... I just can't... I mean, I understand what you're saying, but I just can't undress like some common tramp. I'm a married woman."

"I understand, Ginny... I understand, but you've got to accept my position, too. I can't risk blowing this account. It's one of my regulars, and they always pay on time. I tell you what..." He sat back down on his rickety chair. "I'll turn my back so you won't be embarrassed, and you just strip down to your panties. It'll all be over before you know it, and you can even keep your eyes closed so's you won't blush, how's that?"

She could feel the color filling her cheeks at even the thought of what he was suggesting. "I don't know... I just don't think I could do it."

But Bondman was persistent; he didn't intend to miss out on this at any cost. If it took him all day to persuade her to drop that skirt, he'd keep trying until he got a good look at that luscious young body of hers. Even under the blouse and skirt, he could tell she was really built...

"Okay, I'm turning my back," he said, "Now you go ahead and do as I told you. Let me know when you're ready."

"Well, maybe..." Ginny nervously fingered the buttons on her blouse, tossing his ultimatum back and forth in her confused mind. That job may be the only chance I get, she told herself, and I'd be an idiot to mess up my one and only chance...

Mindlessly, she unbuttoned the buttons one by one, until the thin blouse was open to her narrow waist. She felt a little chill as the air brushed over her bare belly; and despite herself, she could feel her tiny nipples begin to harden under the taut nylon of her bra. With both hands, she reached around in back and unfastened the single catch on her blue corduroy mini-skirt and tugged on the zipper until it came down. She let the skirt fall to her feet, then lifted it up on one foot and placed it on the chair beside her. The sheer gauze of her pantyhose allowed her white panties to show through clearly, and she was suddenly stricken with the urge to grab up her things and run. But she was determined to see this thing through, no matter how hard it was. "Okay, you can turn around now," she whispered, half-hoping he wouldn't hear.

Marty Bondman spun around quickly in his chair, and his eyes popped open wide with disbelief as he gazed on the trembling, blushing beauty standing before him. He took in the delicious spectacle slowly, from head to toe -- the smooth, unblemished flow of her neck where it curved down to the jutting, ripely formed melons of her breasts, swelling proudly under the sheerness of her nylon brassiere; the trim inward curve of her waist, her perfectly arching hips, and certainly not least, her long, well-proportioned legs, blossoming in the soft fullness of her thighs, then again in the supple gracefulness of her well-turned calves. "Wow! You're too much!" was all he could manage.

Ginny stared down at the carpet, her face flushed with color. "Please, Mr. Bondman... don't talk like that. I just want to get this over with as quickly as possible."

He didn't take his eyes off her for even an instant. "Sure, honey... It'll be all over before you know it. But you've got to show me more than that. How about those pantyhose? And that bra? I've got to know what kind of merchandise I'm sending out of here. Now, I'll turn my back again and..."

"You needn't bother," interrupted Ginny, suddenly impatient at his treating her like a child. She reached behind with both hands and unclasping the three catches on her bra, "I'll show you what you want." She blinked back the stinging tears of embarrassment in her burning eyes and loosened the snaps, letting her bra slide down over her bare arms. Her proud young breasts shivered in the open air, and she could feel her nipples harden instantly as Bondman's cold, appraising stare fell on them. They stood up firmly, without a trace of sagginess, her rigid, pink nipples thrusting straight ahead boldly, like two tiny eyes returning his eager gaze.

His eyes followed the twin, jutting bulges of her ripe breasts, then down along the smooth, unblemished expanse of her flat belly, past the puckered indentation of her navel...

"How about the pantyhose?" he asked, almost afraid to push his good luck any further.

She complied unhesitantly, catching the tight elastic waistband and peeling it down over the gentle swell of her trim, narrow hips. The top band of her panties caught in the gauzelike material, but she made no effort to separate the two garments. As one, she pulled them down over her soft white thighs and down past her knees, exposing the dark patch of down at the bottom of her belly. She pulled the hose away from her panties and began to pull the taut, pale blue fabric back up to cover her nakedness.

"Hold it... Just pull 'em both down. You might as well show me everything you've got, honey!" Bondman was leaning over his desk for a closer look, his eyes glazed with growing lust as he eyed the gorgeous young woman peeling down to bare flesh right before his eyes. He couldn't believe his good fortune; most of the girls balked at his proposition, and he just sent them on their job interviews anyway. But this one had a lot to learn. It was more than obvious she was new to the job hunting game; he would have known that even if the application hadn't said so.

"B-But you didn't say I had to take off everything, Mr. Bondman," protested Ginny, her voice cracking in her humiliation. Her cheeks were bright red in two patches that looked like someone had brushed her with two strokes of a paint brush.

"Now don't argue with me, Ginny," replied Bondman, loosening his collar and tie as perspiration rolled in beads down his stubby neck, "I know what's best for you, so just do what I say."

"Well... okay, I guess," she answered, gripping her panties with her thumbs and yanking them down with her pantyhose until she stepped free, leaving absolutely nothing to shield her youthful nakedness from his eager, probing eyes.

She was the most deliciously perfect specimen of womanhood he'd seen in a long time; not since that young surfer chick from San Diego he'd had the unforgettable pleasure of balling right here on this battered, torn sofa. He grinned widely as he anticipated his plans for this delectable young beauty. Her flesh was gorgeously tanned, save for the milky-white softness of her inner thighs, and the pink-capped mounds of her protruding, ripely bulging tits. He tried to imagine what that warm, moist inviting crevice between her long legs would be like... he knew it would be tight and hot -- it would just have to be... and those gracefully long stems would be so perfect entwined around his back as he furrowed wide that sweet warm slit of hers until she begged for mercy. But he could see she was no shop-worn barmaid, not some broad he could just climb on like so many of the others he regularly found jobs for. He knew this young filly was something special, and he'd have to plan his moves ever so carefully...

"Yes, I think you'll do nicely," he said forcing an air of strained seriousness to his voice, though his breathing had grown so fast he could scarcely speak without gasping. "Now just turn around for me -- slowly -- so I can get a good look."

Ginny obeyed, and with reddening face turned her naked backside to his greedy, probing gaze. Her buttock's cheeks were tightly clenched, and were nicely firm and high, and they tucked under tantalizingly at the tops of her creamy smooth thighs. Long and supple, her bare legs stretched in twin perfect lengths to the trim swell of her calves. Even her bare feet were tauntingly inviting -- dainty little-girl's feet with tiny, curled-under toes as she stood before him, quivering a little with embarrassment.

"Ummmmm... that's quite a nice little body you've got there, Ginny. You should go a long way with a figure like that."

She turned back to face him, making no attempt to cover her nudity, "I'm only interested in getting this job, Mr. Bondman. Nothing else."

He laughed nervously, "Sure, sure. I understand... But there is just one more thing, though."

"What, now," implored Ginny, stopped in mid-reach as she started to pick up her clothes, "I thought you said this was all."

"I did... I did," replied Bondman, reaching into his right-hand desk drawer, "But I need a couple of pictures for your new boss. I can do a better job of 'selling' him if I can show him what a beautiful girl you are. Just lie down there on that couch and I'll take a couple of quick professional shots with my Polaroid; and don't worry, I'll give 'em back to you and you can do whatever you want with them, as soon as I show them to Sidney."

Ginny hesitated, "I don't know about any pictures. What proof do I have that you'll give them back to me? I don't want any pictures of me like this just floating around."

"You can trust me, honey. Now just lie down there, and look sexy. You want the job, don't you? Why you could easily be knocking down two hundred a week in just a few months. Isn't that worth it?"

She decided not to argue, and sat down on the edge of the shoddy sofa, her knees clamped together and her arms folded demurely across her jutting breasts. She squirmed uncomfortably as he fumbled with the dials on the camera and inserted a flashbulb in the top.