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The Blonde Girl by Argus

The Blonde Girl 

The Blonde Girl

Chapter One


I never was one of those girls who felt the need to grow up faster. I don't mean I acted like a little girl, of course. I just mean I was in no hurry to embrace adulthood, with all of the responsibilities it involved.

So when I graduated from high school I was not one of those people who eagerly applied at college to begin more years of education so I could get it done quickly and get out into the job market. I was more interested in having some fun while I was young.

Instead of getting a job so I could go to college in the fall I headed off to Europe to backpack, hitch and bus ride my way around. I spent the summer and early fall that way, meeting new people, seeing a lot of amazing places, and partying.

It was really great to be able to do whatever I wanted without people looking over my shoulder. And I don't just mean my parents either. My friends weren't there, and so they couldn't judge me if I decided to do something, well, slutty, nor if I decided to dress kind of risqué. And since I moved around all the time I didn't even have to worry about the judgment of the new friends I met.

It was while I was in Spain that I heard about a job available for the winter – not in Italy, but in the Caribbean, which was fine with me since I was definitely not looking forward to cold weather. Since I was from California and had a Spanish nanny, I spoke Spanish, and I was a great swimmer.

The job was for a 'water events coach' at a beach attached to an exclusive resort in the Dominican Republic. Can you say 'party all winter'? I'm sure you can! It involved occasional life-guarding, but mostly teaching wind surfing, which I did, as well as body-boarding and surfboarding.

Hey, I'm from LA. I've been doing all that stuff since I was nine!

The ocean around LA is not fit for swimming in the winter, though, so the idea of playing in the water over that time while getting paid definitely appealed to me. I sent off an email application, thinking nothing of it, because you know you never actually expect to get a job.

And then I got back an acceptance! That was weird! I was actually a bit suspicious, because who accepted you based on an application, without even an interview? But then I figured, well, they weren't going to fly around the world interviewing junior staff, and they could always just fire you if it turned out you lied.

So I took the cheapest flight I could find to the Dominican Republic, and then got on a helicopter to get out to the resort, which was kind of isolated. It was a big helicopter with seats for about thirty people, most of them occupied by new visitors.

 Most of them seemed to be filled with fairly young people, that is, people in their twenties and thirties, which was good, and clearly people with money, given their clothes, watches and jewelry.

That hopefully meant tips.

The resort was just like the pictures in the web site. It was on a narrow peninsula that jutted out from the south edge of the island. That let it have a long, low hotel building that looked out on the ocean and beaches on both sides! On one side were a string of little bungalows in lines which jutted out over the ocean, reachable only by boardwalks or boats.

The main building had a massive pool with islands in the middle, waterfalls and water slides along the edges, and a lot of other neat things to do, like swing across by rope and drop into the deep water.

I had seen on their web site that there were also tunnels to swim into the building to emerge in the pool there – which existed for days when it might be rainy or chilly, I guess.

Most of the water activity was on the west side of the building, where I could see lots of people on sailboards in the water, as well as some people closer to the beach on surfboards. There was also supposed to be snorkeling and diving. I wasn't much on diving but I was intending to learn.

It looked like it was going to be a fun place! And I hadn't even had to pay anything!

We landed at the helipad, and then were all processed through a low building, and given metal wristbands which had implanted chips. The chips would unlock the door to your room, the man said, as well as allow you to pay for any extras you wanted.

Mine was different, he said, since I was to be staff. It would allow me to enter locked employee areas. All of the bands would track both staff and visitors for security reasons, the man said, so it was important not to take them off.

I was suitably impressed by the high tech. But I was cynical enough to recognize it would also allow management to track me if I was goofing off.

An open sided little bus drove us to the main building along a tiny 'road' which was mostly occupied by golf carts driven by staff, some of which were carrying visitors from place to place. I was dropped off at a side entrance to the main building, and then the bus drove off.

Luckily, I hadn't brought a ton of stuff. I had one big duffel-bag which I hefted over my shoulder, and a suitcase with wheels and an extendable handle I pulled along behind me. I walked through the door and found myself at a counter occupied by a round faced, balding Hispanic guy.

“Buenos Dios,” I said in Spanish. “I'm a new employee. I'm supposed to report to Senor Rodrigues.”

He looked me up and down in an appreciative way which was frankly rude, but called someone on the phone, then pointed me down the hall. I didn't have to turn my head to know he was watching my ass walking away either.

I gave a kind of mental shrug. I'd learned in Europe that in some countries, the kind of political correctness observed in most of the US just wasn't on. In particular, that was true of countries along the Mediterranean, like France, Italy, Greece and Spain.

In those countries there seemed to often be very little social need for men to hide it when they appreciated a woman's looks, even if she was less than half their age. So I'd kind of gotten used to it. The DM was Spanish, so I figured it would be sort of like Spain, only even more so. I mean, it was a third world country, so I figured unrestrained machismo would be the rule.

Why, I wondered idly, did they call it Latin American when they were mostly Spanish - Hispanics? Nobody spoke Latin. Why not call it Spanish America?

I found an office with Mr. Rodrigues in it. He was tall and slim and looked me up and down approvingly as he smiled and shook my hand (for too long) and guided me into a chair. Then he talked about the many water sports at the resort – the Silver Springs – and the high quality of their accommodation and services.

“Our guests are wealthy people, Sierra,” he said, smiling ingratiatingly. “They pay a high fee to have their wishes catered to, to be spoiled and pampered and – tolerated.”

He raised his eyebrows here as if I should understand his meaning.

“You mean they're spoiled brats?” I asked.

He looked pained.

“We don't refer to our guests in unflattering terms... however accurate those terms might be,” he said, after a brief pause.


“You, in particular must develop a how you say, thick skin.”

“Why me in particular?” I asked, frowning.

He pursed his lips and then smiled. “You are, I am sure, aware that you are a most beautiful young lady, Sierra. A young and beautiful girl sometimes... annoys women who are less young and beautiful, and inspires them to say things which might be seen as … unflattering.”

“Uh huh.”

Did he think I was born yesterday?

“If that should happen we expect you to simply smile and ignore the uhm, petty annoyance. The same goes for men, of course, although their behavior would likely be of a different sort.”

“What sort?” I asked doubtfully.

“Overly familiar, perhaps. Simply maintain your professional demeanor and if necessary inform them it is against club policy for employees to date the guests.”


“But be friendly,” he said, tapping his fingers on the desk and staring sternly at me. “Be flattering, of both men and women. Praise their efforts, encourage them by telling them that after more lessons they will, of course, improve. Above all, never say anything insulting or demeaning to a guest.”

He scowled at that. “There is no excuse in our eyes for doing so, no matter the provocation. If you find a guest is acting inappropriate you may report them to your supervisor. And he or she will diplomatically request they amend their behavior.”

“Do you get a lot of uh, nasty clients?” I asked, frowning.

“No, no! But you are an exceptionally beautiful girl.”

“Oh please,” I said.

I was willing to agree that I was pretty attractive. I mean, I'm tall and lithe and well-built, with nice legs, a nice, athletic body, and all the usual curves. Since I spent so much time moving around my ass and legs are very toned, and I have somewhat bigger than usual breasts – which are very round and firm.

Yay, me!

But I am hardly unique in any of that. Well, the breasts are a little uncommon, and I have very nice long (dyed) blonde hair, and a reasonably pretty face. I have perfect teeth, a slender nose, high cheekbones, and very blue eyes.

Men are generally happy to see me. I'll admit that. They are also usually very... helpful whenever I need assistance with anything. But men are, let's face it, pretty slutty. And they'll generally be nice to any young, attractive woman.

Okay, and the boobs help.

“Many of our guests are from South America,” he said. “There are not so many blonde women in South America, and they have a er, a mythos, you see.”

“A what?” I frowned in confusion.

“A reputation, you know, from Hollywood.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I guess.”

“And you have fair skin, which is much admired in South America.”

I looked down at my tanned skin with a frown. I suppose my skin was a little on the light side. Though compared to South Americans I would be much lighter. I didn't understand what he was getting at, though.

“You should expect that some of our male guests, especially after consuming alcohol and in the heat, you know, might try very hard to seduce you,” he said.

I couldn't help giggling.

“Well, I expect that of all men wherever I go, Senior,” I said with a grin.

“Well then you should have no difficulties,” he said.

He then introduced me to a tall, solidly built, middle aged woman named Manuela Lopez who would be my supervisor. She gave me a suspicious look, more of a scowl, really, then led me to my room.

The staff rooms were in the basement, and were not exactly luxurious, at least mine wasn't. It was big enough for a single bed, a small table, a chair, and a closet, and that was it.

“No cooking in the room,” she said in heavily accented English. “And no men in the room.”

“Uh huh,” I said.

Down the hall was a small staff kitchen, and also a staff bathroom with stalls for both toilets and showers and a row of sinks and mirrors. It was clean, but that was about all you could say about it. She brought me back to her office, and without much warning, pulled out a measuring tape and slipped it around my hips.

“Uhm, what are you doing?” I asked.

“For swimsuit,” she said.

“I have bathing suits.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “For club swimsuit. You do not wear whatever you like here.”

Which I supposed made sense.

“I'm thirty-four C, Twenty-three, Thirty-four,” I said.

She ignored me and measured my hips, and then my chest, which involved pulling the tape firmly – a little too firmly -  across the center of my breasts. Then she opened a metal cabinet and fished inside. I could see piles of black clothing wrapped in plastic, swimsuits, it turned out.

She gave me three of them. They were black and one piece, had thin gray stripes going down the sides, and the club's logo across the upper chest. They were high-necked, with another small gray line circling the top, around the neckline.

I carried them, folded up, back to my little room, locked the door, and then stripped to put one on. It was form fitting, of course. Swimsuits tend to be, especially one-piece swimsuits. But this suit was form fitting to an uncomfortable degree!

I'd never seen one quite like these. Instead of the usual bra sewn into the top it had a thicker elasticized material on the inside which got firmer the more it stretched. So it would hold my breasts in place while I moved okay, but it was really squeezing them up and out.

And the material didn't, as it usually did, flatten my breasts by simply pressing against it. Instead it sort of wrapped itself around my breasts in a way which was uncomfortably revealing – even if the suit material was black.

I mean it was basically like cling-wrap, if thicker!

The suit was also very high cut on the hips and had a Brazil cut bottom. I'd worn bottoms like that in Europe but was kind of surprised that the resort would have their staff swimsuits like that. The angle of the suit cut upwards to the waist before it actually curved around my sides.

I tried a second suit and discovered that it was the same size, and cut just as high, but instead of going up to the neck it was low cut in front, showing a lot of cleavage. Again, it wasn't really out of line and I had bikinis which showed as much, but it surprised me in a staff swimsuit. The third one was also high cut on the hips, high on the neck, but basically had no sides, so showed some pretty impressive side-boob.

Given what Rodrigues had said about these South American men being perverts I was wondering why they were dressing their staff in such sexy swimsuits.

“These are pretty revealing,” I said to Lopez.

She sniffed, looking at my chest.

“They have sexy resort, yes?” she said in English. “Is supposed to be all sexy for young guests, yes? So have sexy staff.”

Which made sense, I supposed.

We went outside and got into a golf cart, and she drove me to the pool, introducing me to the lifeguards there, then to the beach, where she handed me off to a guy named Santiago Garcia. He was in his late twenties, lithe and well-muscled, with a bushy mustache, and eyes which deeply admired my chest.

“Sierra,” he said. “Is beautiful name.”

“Show her what to do,” Lopez said in Spanish. “And not about sucking your cock. I'm sure she already knows that.”

“One can never know enough about important skills,” Garcia said with a smirk.

I was taken aback at her crudity, but didn't say anything as she scowled at me then got back in her golf cart.

“What's her problem?” I asked as she drove off.

“Not enough sex? Who knows. Come. I will show you to your duties.”

My 'duties' involved greeting guests who came down looking to take out surfboards, body boards, or sailboards, ask them how much experience they'd had, and offer instructions if they needed them. Oh, and if anyone was looking like they were drowning I should go get them.

In addition, there were comfortable outdoor chairs placed along the beach, in groups of two or four, always under a large umbrella which was made of artificially grass so it was meant to look very tropical. There was a shack right next to the one with the surfboards, body boards and sailboards, and it gave out towels and suntan lotion, as well as drinks and snacks.

“You know how to wind surf?”

“Of course,” I said.

“You know how to teach someone how to wind surf?”

I blinked. “Well, they need to learn balance first.”

“I will teach you how to wind surf,” he said.

“But – .

“And then you will know how to teach someone else.”

I shrugged. It made sense.

He started by bringing out one of the boards and the sail, and pointing out the parts and naming them. Then he showed how the sail worked, and was used to catch the window and steer the board. Then he pulled the board into waist deep water and we both got on.

Now two on a sailboard is pretty close quarters. It's basically a surfboard with a sail in the middle. There's no way of having two people on it while maintaining much distance between them. Santiago, however, maintained zero distance between us, and that started to get uncomfortable pretty quickly.

Naturally, as the instructor, he stood behind me, demonstrating how he held the sail, and where my hands should be by putting his arms around me and guiding my hands to the bar. And given windsurfing in the ocean meant a lot of moving up and down, well, let's just say it was a new experience with a guy's crotch pushed in against my half-bare bottom!

I had chosen the low-cut swimsuit because I thought it was less revealing than the side boob one, or the one that was like cling wrap across my breasts. Garcia was pressed against me, looking down at me over my shoulder with a big grin – constantly looking into my cleavage in other words.

While he taught me how to teach how to wind surf he also kept telling me how beautiful I was, and what a great body I had, and how I was sure to be very popular with the guests and make big tips. I don't think my potential popularity with the guests was what was turning him on, though.

And he definitely was turned on! I could feel his erection pressing in between my buttocks repeatedly.

It felt, actually, like a very nice, very big and thick erection!

But it left me annoyed for a number of reasons. I mean, I barely knew this guy, for one thing, and wasn't overly attracted to him. And while he wasn't the first strange guy to grind himself into my ass that usually happened in discos where I could move away from them.

Also, I didn't want to get in trouble for getting into a fight with another staff member an hour after starting work. And complaining to Lopez didn't sound like a very good idea either. She obviously was one of those women Rodriguez had talked about who didn't like pretty blonde girls.

Now going through Europe had exposed me, so to speak, to a lot of men who behaved in a way Americans would have called really rude and high pressure, and I'd learned to deal with them, even to accept them. But this was kind of pushing it, no pun intended!

He certainly knew he had an erection, after all. And while that might not be entirely his fault he sure didn't seem to be trying very hard to keep it away from me! It was kind of embarrassing and kind of gross, although not as gross as I would have found it before my tour of Europe.

Where I'd had close acquaintance with a number of cocks!

“Santiago,” I finally said.

“Yes, beautiful Sierra.”

“Is that a banana in your pants or are you happy to see me?” I demanded over my shoulder.

He grinned broadly.

“I am most happy to see you, beautiful girl!”

“Well try and keep your happiness away from my ass, will you?”

“Is a very small sailboard,” he said, “And a very big banana.”

I snorted, partly in amusement. Hey, he was smooth, I had to give him that, and not the least bit embarrassed.

“Maybe you can stick a pin into it and make it smaller.”

“Alas, that is not the way to deflate bananas,” he said. “Would you like me to show you how?”

“I think Senora Lopez told you not to try and give me lessons in that.”

She is a dried up old lesbian,” he said. “She just wants you for herself.”

I blinked, startled. But now that he said it, well, she was kind of mannish...

“Well I don't need any lessons,” I said firmly.

“Excellent! Perhaps you could demonstrate...?”


“You wound my heart, dear Sierra,” he moaned.

“Keep your banana away from my ass or I'll wound it too.”

“Is small board!”

I sighed.