Collette goes to Las Vegas

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I’d never flown first class before, and it showed when I got there. I was still in my pale blue sundress and ivory sandals from that morning, and my hair was in desperate need of a brushing. I was glad I’d stashed a green cardigan with blue embroidered flowers in my carry-on. I slipped it on and felt slightly less conspicuous. Everyone else in first class was dressed to impress. The sky waitress stowed my bag and delivered champagne. I put my earbuds in, sat back, and worked on my mile-high buzz, so I could ignore my crushing anxiety.

The airport was huge, so I was concerned I’d miss my ride or something. Then, I saw him. It was like the movies: a good looking, middle-aged man in a perfect black suit with a driver’s hat held a sign with my name printed on it. “Ms. Hemming?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take your bags. I am Mr. Patron. Follow me, please.” He took the bags and led the way. He was silent for the walk. I knew the car he brought me to was a Bentley, but I didn’t know what sort. “The controls for the seats provide cooling or warming, and there’s a massage option if you are so inclined. The control panel is on your left.”

“Thank you, Mr. Patron.”

He started the car up and asked, “First time in town?”

“Yes.”

“Are you visiting Las Vegas for business or pleasure?”

I smiled. “A little of both, I hope.”

“Would you like some music, Ms. Hemming?”

“Sure.”

“Any preferences?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

A moment later, some classical piece heavy on violins filled the car. Mr. Patron air-conducted his imaginary orchestra with his fingers. I set the seat to cooling because it was September in Las Vegas. I imagined that even the nighttime weather was hot. We drove by the Hard Rock Café and a few other notable hotels. Finally, we drove into the city center property near the Aria and pulled up to the Mandarin Oriental.

He parked and got out at the drop off area. I took a deep breath as he opened my door. Here I was. Not backing out now. I steeled my spine and watched my bags get transferred by Mr. Patron to the bagman at the front of the hotel. Then, they disappeared, and I was worried, but I figured they had a system. The lobby was bathed in reds and golds and dark wood. It was oddly reminiscent of Dalia’s style, but Asian instead of European. I approached the concierge desk but was interrupted by a now-hatless Mr. Patron. “Ms. Hemming, you have been deceived.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am Mr. Charles Winthrop. Come with me, please.”

Well, that was weird.

We went through a few halls and then to the elevator situated away from the main bank of elevators. It delivered us to a well-appointed hallway. He slipped his key card into the door and it opened. “Have a seat.”

The suite made me even more uncomfortable than First Class. Everything was as posh as I could fathom. A retro bar to my right and sumptuous living room in front of me. I sat on the couch, which faced two corresponding armchairs, and beyond the living room was the Vegas skyline. As cities go, this one was pretty, in a stark, manmade way. Winthrop stepped behind the bar. “What would you like to drink? I gave my butler the night off, so that we might get to know one another without intrusion.”

I took that all in, let it roll around my mind for a flash, and remembered he asked what I wanted to drink. “Gin and Tonic, please.”

“On its way. How was your flight?”

“Nice, of course, I was in First Class, but you knew that. Why did you play driver with me?” I was curious and mildly annoyed, but I kept telling myself Dalia set this all up, so it can’t be bad, right?

“I wanted to know how you treat a servant.”

I let my irritation slip into my voice. “Did I pass?”

“I wasn’t testing you. I was gathering information. Here we are,” he said and handed me my cocktail.

I sipped it. To his credit, the man poured a hell of a G & T. It looked as though he was drinking the same.

“To your liking?”

I nodded. He sat in one of the chairs across from me. “So, is this what you do with all your trainees? Play games to find out if they’re jerks? Then what?”

“You have many questions, which is understandable,” he took a sip of his cocktail, “Take your clothes off.”

“Excuse me?”

“Take your clothes off.”

I laughed. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I believe you’ll find I have no sense of humor, Ms. Hemming.”

“I did not fly across the country to strip for some billionaire who plays stupid games. That’s not why you flew me out here, and Dalia did not sign me up for stripper classes.”

He sipped again and thought about my answer. “Good. Defiant, smart. Follows orders when a benefit is perceived, questions them when a benefit is unclear. Ms. Hemming, I will train you, provided you are up to the challenge. Beginning tomorrow, your alarm will go off at 4, you will eat no breakfast, you will go straight to the gym, you will ask for Drew. Take a shower afterward. You will then go to the day spa to get every bit of body hair below your lower eyelashes waxed off as needed, then get a 90-minute Swedish massage. You will return to the suite, order a fruit plate from Sebastian, and eat it. This is all to be completed by 10 am. Then, we will proceed with our training schedule, which will vary from moment to moment. No coffee, no colas, no cigarettes, no red meat. All of these things sour bodily fluids. You are to follow my instructions every day, and I will know if you do not comply. There are eyes everywhere. Where there are no eyes, there are monitored cameras. Compliance will be rewarded. Do you agree to these terms?”

“No breakfast?”

“Do you agree?”

I’d miss bacon, but I had to find out what this man knew. Dalia sent me all the way to Las Vegas from Florida for a reason. I relented, “Agreed.”

“Excellent,” he stood, “your belongings are in your room, that’s the door on your left. My side of the suite is t

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Written by cpells
Uploaded October 22, 2020
Notes Collette is sent to Las Vegas for submissive training.

She and Sabrina have fun in the lingerie dressing room, and Winthrop punishes Collette in the restaurant bathroom.
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