The Billionaire’s Kitten

But right. The tips. I was here for the tips, and supposedly dressing sexy and acting flirty was gonna get me more. So taking a deep breath, still blocking my face with my hair, I hurried out of my jeans and tee, and stepped into the tube of cloth.

It was every bit as bad as anticipated. The purple stretched over my legs okay, went up over my thighs, but then the butt part was all wrong. Because my ass is huge, the fabric was strained so tight across my rump it was practically see through.

“Girl,” cackled the redhead from her corner, not even pretending to give me my privacy. “You gotta go commando, that thing’s not designed to be worn with panties.”

I colored, craning my head to look in back of me. But she was right because my granny panties were completely visible beneath the material.

“Oh thanks,” I mumbled, face flushing bright red. Oh god, oh god, how did new girls get through this? I had to change and this was going to be so embarrassing, my lady bits bare to the world.

But again, the thought of my financial problems made my chin set. Because tips were supposed to range in the four figures at this club on a good night, and damn, but did I need those four figures. I needed more than that right now, to be honest, tuition is so crazy these days, but anything would make a difference.

So biting my lip again, I looked down at the floor and struggled out of my granny panties, standing there buck naked, a pink flush rising over my creamy form.

Trust Loretta to comment. The redhead cawed again from her corner.

“That’s a lot you got going on there,” she chortled, waving her cigarette in the air.

My face flushed even as I ignored her. Her words brought up bad memories of gym in seventh grade when I’d first started developing. The other girls had been so mean, calling me Kitty the Whale instead of Kitty the Cat. Oh god, humiliation rushed over me again, but I forced myself to take a deep breath. Money, money, money, this was what I was here for, and this wasn’t the time to give up. So squaring my shoulders, I turned back to the dress and yanked it on again.

This time it seemed better. My Double Ds were covered so that they didn’t wobble crazily. And with fast fingers, I pulled the hem down so the dress didn’t bunch right where my pussy was, but it was no use. That just made the cleavage go downwards, in a hopeless tug of war.

Pulling discreetly this way and that, I tried to stretch the fabric as much as possible, pulling up my boobs while pulling down the hem. And finally, the fabric was arranged optimally. Everything was covered, but one wrong move, one bad bend, and bam! Something was gonna pop out.

I turned a watery smile to the redhead.

“This happen to everyone?” I asked shakily. “Does this happen to all the girls?”

“Naw,” retorted the woman, taking another deep drag. “You just got more than most. I’m surprised Morty hired you, management usually likes skinny chicks.”

My cheeks flamed and I stuttered lamely.

“Oh, um, well ….” The words trailed off. Why couldn’t I think of a good comeback? My tongue was tied, cheeks flaming, and I knew I’d be lying in bed later this week, replaying this scene with all sorts of witty retorts running through my head. The thing is that I was never slick in the here and now, mumbling and blushing instead.

But it didn’t matter because the redhead was on her own wavelength.

“Anyways,” she interrupted like she hadn’t just totally insulted me. “Maybe they’re looking to change the vibe around here. You know how the girls stay skinny,” she whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially. “It’s the diet pills and laxatives.”

My mouth dropped open, eyes wide. What? Chemicals? I was so stunned that the words came rushing out like a waterfall.

“The girls don’t eat well and exercise?” I asked, dumbfounded. “They don’t take care of themselves the right way?” So many of the waitresses around here looked like supermodels, I was sure they all had personal trainers and nutritionists.

Loretta cackled again.

“What planet are you from?” she laughed hoarsely, brandishing that cigarette. “You think these girls work out? Working out takes work, honey, these ladies ain’t working out unless there’s money to be made. Please,” she whispered conspiratorially, winking. “Here at the Hotel Milano, it’s all about the cash.”

With that my mouth snapped shut. Because that’s what I was here for too, after all. I was here to make a pretty penny serving drinks to fat cats who’d come to Vegas to spend big dollars. I was here to profit off men who were drunk off their ass, with nothing to recommend them but a bulging wallet. So swallowing, I nodded silently. But curiosity overcame me.