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Chapter 1 – Le Rosbif
England 2084.
It was a warm sunny day in April, and the clocks were chiming nineteen
It had been a twelve-hour long, long tiring day on her toes for Amanda: a long tiring day entirely literally on the top-tip-top-tip of her big toes.
Amanda Heavensent wore the uniform of the "Le Rosbif" roadside restaurant chain, a new favourite drop-in for the tired travelling salesgirls and truck drivers, who knew they could rest their bleary eyes on the exceptionally pretty girls that waited table whilst they, weary travellers, sat sipping the caffeine they needed to fuel them for the next two-fifty kilometres of highway.
With her idea for this chain of beef-n'-bread fast food outlets, now three-years since established, AnneMarie Zanori had made the blue-bordered "frame-of-fame" as 'Tempus' magazine's Entepreneur & Lawyer of the year. The article inside went on and on about the philosophy of the chain being different to its, as yet, better known rivals, omitting to say, perhaps out of political correctness, that the real difference of the Le Rosbif chain, was its waitresses, guaranteed-to-be stunningly pretty, and the uniforms the carefully selected lovely girls wore.
Many of the waitresses wore their uniform warily and wearily. Compulsorily completely naked beneath their short-sleeved elongated, crimson, figure-hugging tee-shirt-cum-dresses, with nothing else allowed to be worn, bare legged, and wearing heelless tiptoe shoes on which they were constantly ballerinered atop their ballet-shoes' steel-capped squared-off toes, the compelling sight of the young girls Le Rosbif employed was now being enjoyed by businesswomen along the whole highway-chain of the British mainland.
Many of the waitresses wore their uniform warily and wearily, but Amanda's outstanding attractiveness continued to show in her ready and genuine smile and the spellbinding eye contact she made with her customers, even when her customers' eyes had invariably just run the amazing length of Amanda's stunningly shapely legs, and stopped off at the full firmness of Amanda's stupendous mountainous 40DD bosom, rolling enticingly excitingly freely, because completely unrestrained and unencumbered, before meeting the bright twinkling pitch-dark-brown glory, of Amanda's shining orbs, sparkling with her pride at her beauty and her knowledge of her beauty, and her knowledge that her beauty was taking her customers breath away.
At table, taking customers' orders, Amanda's very pretty hand, with wholly impractical perfectly manicured fingernails, would rise to aside a wisp of dark-brown near-black negress' curled-within-curls-within-curls hair, on the softest complexioned face, near-black hair so much in compliment to Amanda's beautiful unfathomably-unfathomable, devastatingly-dark, bottomlessly-deep brown eyes, as she curtsied to her customers and musically prettily, with a natural loving giggle restrained, stylus and electronic notepad to the fore, asked with sincere attention and willing longing to please, what her customers wished to order.
Amanda was dynamite: TNT: a totally natural temptress, with the loveliest pert negress' constant come-on-then-kiss-me-it-is-what-I-was-created-for lips even in their repose, and glorious flawless coffee-brown flesh. She was used to being admired and knew she deserved to be admired. Sometimes Amanda would look up at you and her smiling eyes, pupils huge black wide, were deep pools of darkness into which you longed to dive down and drown, till she lowered her laser gaze, knowing she was burning your heart, and not wanting to sear you irremediably.
Nineteen-year-old Amanda would then turn and naturally wiggle to the kitchen, all-too aware that her barely covered derrière, nude beneath her barely concealing heaven-high hem, and her superb brown bare firm calves and strong brown thighs, were stirring staring which she would sometimes turn her head to smile back at her devastated customers to thank them for.
Sometimes a wolf-whistle would split the air as Amanda disappeared with an order, and a subconscious extra-wide snake would then wriggle her all-girl gait.
Amanda was proud of her beauty. Her fitness was eminently evident. Her legs showed she was in-shape and that shape was fully fulsome felinely feminine. Amanda's legs were the transport of a delight, and transports of delight, with wonderful strong thighs and stretched softly smoothly muscular calves from her tiptoed erectness. Amanda's slim upper arms showed only the hint of a hint of a hint of a hint of bicep, from her weightlifting to keep herself trim: just the hint of a hint of a hint of a hint, for Amanda was pure full carved, full curved, girl.
And sometimes she must wipe the tables or bend to table a loaded tray. And Le Rosbif's company policy that all waitresses must be hygienically shaved, embarrassed many of her fellow-waitresses less certain of their evident charms than Amanda, who anyway today wore a tiny woollen panty-cinch, a round-profiled strip of white wool, sopped crimson, dividing her love-lips: a cinch into which her menstrual blood was seeping, as her customers were peeping when she bent to flash heaven: straight-legged-bending-at-the-waist, so her tee-shirt-dress must ride up off her underneath nudeness, as: "no bending at the knee except in the courtesy of a curtsy" was also strict Le Rosbif company policy for its waitresses.
Amanda was a summer vacation student: a brilliantly-brained beauty studying theoretical mathematics and astrophysics at Cambridge University. Le Rosbif and its rigid rules were Amanda's way of paying her university fees, now that all girl students had to pay their own way; all state subsidies and loans for girls having been abolished by the new government as a money saving measure.
This was no ordinary waitressing. Working for Le Rosbif had its risks, as Amanda full well knew. Any girl who worked for Le Rosbif had to sign, and have double-witnessed, a contract. The contract was extremely onerous, but three month's pay at Le Rosbif would fund a whole year's college tuition, and what had a girl as naturally beautiful as Amanda to fear of some silly contractual sub-clauses: indeed sub-clauses of sub-clauses which there must be cause to question the legality of in any case?
So Amanda would have to show off her sensational body. What was so wrong with that in these post-feminist times for goodness sake? Amanda was very proud of her physical beauty. Amanda had everything to be proud of, and every right to be proud of it.
"I hope my services were satisfactory to you madam", whispered the dark-panda-patched-under-lower-eye-lidded, pale-from-the-pain–of-her-heavy-period, lovely Amanda, as she stood tiptoed at the pay-till having bobbed a sexy tight curtsy to her customer, with a dip of her stupendously lovely legs: Amanda a supreme girl undergoing the extreme of the monthly burning endorsement confirmatory of her red-hot, literally red, literally hot, paprika-hot femininity.
Her clear-eyed smile was devastating and unwavering even as her customer slid over the DVD she had decided to add to her bill.
Amanda knew full well what the DVD showed. It was the latest to be issued by Le Rosbif. Amanda knew what it showed, and yet her smile never wavered its gloriously sweet and winning sincerity and shyness, as she passed the DVD over the bar-mark reader.
"Please score me out of ten on the secret keypad madam" Amanda's honey-smile and girly-giggle mezzo-soprano voice invited irresistibly.
She, her customer had called in every day for the past ten, to ensure she was served by Amanda and could score her out of ten. And every day this customer had bought a DVD so that she now had the full set.
Amanda must have suspected lust and yet, though overwhelmingly lovingly charming to this regular customer, as was her pure nature, she had never once sought to be familiar with her, as for waitresses to be familiar with the customers was not allowed under Le Rosbif company policy.
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