The name of the place was the Sidewinder, but among the employees, it was referred to as the "SW Casino." SW stood for "Shrunken Woman," a totally appropriate acronym as far as I was concerned.
Beth Fitzgerald explained this to me as we walked to the dressing room. She was the shift supervisor and would be responsible for my on-the-job training. She was about thirty-five years old, slightly shorter than me, and had long black hair. I found out later she'd been one of the first employees to agree to be shrunk after the machine had arrived, and had warmly embraced the whole concept. She actually enjoyed being small, much to my surprise. I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to be that way of their own volition.
"Have you done any waitressing before?" she asked amiably, after we'd exchanged introductions.
"Some," I admitted. "In LA, mostly, before I got sick of the smog." Actually, I'd been a waitress lots of times on field assignments, but I didn't want to tell Beth that.
She laughed. "Now tell me the truth, is that really what brought you to Vegas?"
"No, ma'am," I answered, falling easily back on my cover story. "I chased after a man. Now I'm stuck here until I can find a better job."
"There's a lot of that going around," said Beth. "A lot more than you'd think. I have to warn you, though. This is going to be like nothing you've ever experienced before."
"I figured that," I replied. "Not every job requires you to be shrunk down to doll size." I tried not to shudder as I said this, because I still wasn't all that comfortable with the idea.
"It's unique, all right," Beth went on. "Some girls don't react to it well at all. Others just dive right in and really like it. For the first day, you'll be taken to 33 and work the rookie floor. After a couple of hours of that, we'll know if you're SW Casino material."
I nodded. It made good sense to have a special area set up for new employees. If I freaked out or something, I could be quickly relieved of duty and let go while still on probationary status. The casino would lose nothing except an hour or two of wages. "I get it," I told Beth, "but what do you mean by 33?"
"Sorry," she replied with a smile. "Learning SW-speak is part of the job. You'll pick most of it up on your own. Anyway, when I use a number like that, it's a percentage. 33 means 33%, or one-third your normal size. Hmm, looking at you I'd guess you're around five-nine, right? A 33 shot would leave you at one-eleven."
I nodded in confirmation, but something in my face must have revealed how nervous I was. Beth laughed once, then put her hand warmly on my shoulder. "Don't worry, Ashley. It doesn't hurt, it's just different, that's all. You look like a strong, independent kind of girl. You don't seem like the sort who'll wash out."
"I hope not," I said, smiling and trying to push aside my fears. "I really need this job." To Beth, being shrunk was a normal enough situation, so it couldn't be all that bad, I kept telling myself.
After that little exchange, Beth showed me my locker and then helped me find a uniform in my size. This was another thing that I was a little apprehensive about. I'm not that bad looking, and I keep myself in shape in case I have do to anything physical in my job, but I'm not the kind of girl who likes to go around strutting her stuff in skimpy outfits. As I held up the stretchy little leotard and its accoutrements, I tried to imagine myself wearing it, and couldn't. It was just so not me.
All right, here's a quick aside. About twenty years ago there was this movie about a female FBI agent who had to go undercover at a beauty contest. I think it was called "Miss Congeniality." I always liked that film because I have a lot in common with that character. My hair's a dirty blonde, not dark like Sandra Bullock's, and I'm not as messy as Gracie Hart was, but like her, I try to pretend I'm just one of the guys at work. In other words, I try to downplay my sexuality, and this thing I had to wear was going to do exactly the opposite. Hell, I was embarrassed just looking at it.
So, it was only with some trepidation I took off my clothes and started squeezing into the costume. To my surprise, the leotard was not Spandex but some kind of stretchy velour-like stuff, which proved extremely comfortable and (as I later discovered) didn't chafe at all. The sheer, dark hose made my long legs look sleek, and of course the black cowboy boots set them off wonderfully. To my surprise, I found myself liking the uniform, and the way I looked while wearing it.
However, as I quickly discovered, I didn't like the bustier at all. It looked comfortable enough, but once I'd forced myself into it, I found out what an exquisite instrument of torture it really was. The damn thing wrapped around my stomach and chest tightly, like a corset from hell, so much so that I had to struggle just to breathe normally. The molded interior also forced my bosom up and out in a most obnoxious manner, even while ensuring my breasts were held firmly in place no matter how much running around I had to do. Later on I'd actually come to be thankful for this, but right now, I was less than amused.
Looking in the mirror, I got the sensation that gravity had been reversed in the area of my chest. I suppose this was a big turn-on to men, especially since I was reasonably endowed in the first place, but to me it looked stupid and undignified.
So, in summary, I looked and felt great below my midriff, but above it, I might as well have been a whore.
I should also take a moment to explain something else. In my right eye, I was wearing a retinal camera, the latest in FBI surveillance technology. Elsewhere in town, my partner Mark Powers was watching everything I did though this device, and listening to my conversations through my matching auditory implant. Needless to say, I didn't want him to see me in this ridiculous getup, especially not since everything I did was being recorded. So, whenever I say I looked in a mirror or at myself, you can rest assured I was doing so with my right eye securely closed.
Anyway, once I was dressed, Beth looked me over and pronounced me a worthy employee. I looked back in the mirror (with only one eye, naturally) and forced myself to agree. The costume really looked good on my figure, much to my surprise. Even my remarkably squished-together breasts looked strangely appealing. I'd thought I would look foolish, but instead, I looked sexy as hell.
If I were a man, I'd be all over myself, I thought.
Unconsciously, I found myself comparing myself to Beth, who was clad in the same kind of costume I was wearing. While I'm not vain, I had to admit I filled out the outfit a lot better than she did. She was at least five years older than I was and maybe a trifle overweight, and didn't seem anywhere near as athletic as myself. She wasn't bad, of course, I just felt I looked better.
Well, maybe I was just trying to shore up my confidence or something, but I distinctly remember thinking that at the time.
Anyhow, I took a moment to stow my street clothes, brush my long hair into place, and of course check my makeup and adjust the positioning of the costume (again, with my right eye tightly shut). As I feared, the high cut around the hips was making the back end of the leotard ride up around my derriere. Beth laughed at my difficulties and told me not to worry about it. That sort of thing was what men liked to look at, after all, and part of the idea was to draw the male gambler to the casino. Besides, the dark hosiery would conceal anything embarrassing, as long as I didn't go out of my way to be provocative.
There wasn't much chance of that, I told her, and with another laugh she led me off to the miniaturization room.
That was just what I needed to take my mind off the uniform, but not exactly in a good way. When I saw the machine, I found myself trembling with apprehension. It was huge, covered with tubes and wires and bulbs, like something out of a 50's B-movie. In the center was a glass-domed chamber with a series of colored lights around its interior. Beyond this, along the wall, were several doors of various sizes, obviously leading deeper into the casino.
As I watched, an auburn-haired girl dressed like I was walked calmly into the machine and stood there patiently. A man at a control station threw some levers, and the odd lights began to flash inside the domed room. After about half a minute, they stopped, and the woman walked out the other side, still normal size. That was strange, I thought. Had something gone wrong?
Beth looked over at me, knowing what I must be thinking. "You probably thought she'd shrink instantly, didn't you?" she asked. "It takes a couple of minutes while the energy is absorbed into your molecules. See? She's getting smaller already."
I watched, still shaking slightly, as the girl waited next to the largest of the exit doors. At first I didn't see anything, but after a moment I realized she was indeed getting smaller. She seemed to be sliding slowly downwards to the floor, like an object getting further away in my vision, only this time nothing was moving except her. She didn't seem at all fazed by the experience, but in fact seemed eager for the shrinking to finish so she could get to work.
After about sixty seconds or so the top of the door finally came into view over the woman's head, and as soon as it did, she turned the knob, ducked down, and disappeared into the corridor beyond. She still had a few more inches to shrink, Beth explained, but by the time she got to her station, the miniaturization would be complete.
"Okay, it's your turn," Beth asked after a moment. "Ready to get small, Ashley?"
"No, not really," I replied through gritted teeth. I wrung my hands, trying to make them stop shaking through sheer force of will. "Is anyone ever ready for this the first time?"
"Nope," said Beth with a laugh. "Now come on. Like I said, it won't hurt. Don't worry, it's perfectly safe."
"A-all right," I muttered weakly. Knees wobbling, I forced myself to walk towards the shrinking machine.