“How else do you do it?” Christel asked, bewildered.
“Okay, okay,” Megan said, dropping into a cross-legged position next to the desk. “You’ve got food purchases here and a new shipment of cloth. Not to mention housekeeping items and cleaning supplies. By the way, can I get some new pillows?”
“What happened to the ones you have?” Christel asked, angrily.
“They got… damaged. Look, what you do is separate this out by category…”
For the next two days Christel led her over the accounts, although it was quite often the other way around. It turned out that the woman was responsible for managing all of the needs of the harem. She had to track, and account for, all of the food that was consumed, the supply of bedding, the raw materials the girls used in their sewing, their “feminine” supplies and everything else that went into a functioning harem.
By the second day, Christel was in a more jovial mood. Megan hadn’t been lying when she said she knew something about accounting. It was clear that the younger girl was far better at organizing the accounts than Christel had ever been.
“The worst part is that Paul is always checking on them,” Christel admitted early the next day. “He wants me to account for every single item and explain why they were used. The food budget is the worst. He’s always harping about how much food the girls eat. So one time I cut them back and then they didn’t have enough and were complaining.”
“Well, from the looks of some of them they could use a diet,” Megan noted. “But not all. What we need to do is manage the diets individually. But that will mean working more closely with the kitchen staff. Also…”
“What?” Christel asked, looking at her sharply.
“Well, there’s no reason they have to sit around all day,” Megan pointed out. “I’m sure some of them know how to dance, for example. And they could use some toning up. Dial in on the food consumption, maybe have weigh-ins and track their body fat, and start having classes in, oh, dance, singing; can any of them play a musical instrument?”
“We’re a harem, not a choir,” Christel noted.
“Yes, but you said that one of our purposes is to keep Paul happy,” Megan said. “Is he going to be happier with a bunch of roly-poly slugs? Or a group of girls that are healthy, happy, in good condition and maybe can entertain him other than on their backs?”
Christel made a moue and shook her head.
“Think of it this way,” Megan said, carefully. “It’s not going to cost anything more, except maybe for some instruments, and it’s going to look good. Look, I can dance for Paul, at least. And I can teach the other girls, if there’s no one else.”
“You?” Christel asked.
Megan stood up and took off her robe, uncomfortably aware that it left her entirely naked, and went through a series of simple dance steps, lifting on a toe, turning, bending. She wasn’t about to show her advanced moves, much less katas, which looked very much like a dance when she did them.
“Me,” Megan said when she was finished. She picked up the robe and put it back on, belting it tightly. “Not to mention stretching exercises and gymnastics. I’m sure that Paul gets tired of the missionary position all the time.”
“Well, you’ll just have to find out, won’t you?” Christel said cattily and then sighed. “You do have a point, though. And you’re not the only one who can dance, girl. In fact, you don’t dance all that well at all.”
“No, I don’t,” Megan said, meekly.
“I’ll see about it,” Christel said.
Megan had been working all day, skipping lunch in fact, getting the books in order. She had broken out most of the items by category and had started to get a handle on in-flow and out-flow. Some of it still didn’t add up, but she wasn’t sure if that was Christel’s execrable bookkeeping or something else. But she realized that she was so tired of staring at columns, and so hungry, that she wasn’t making any more sense, so she stood up and walked out into the main room.
Christel, once Megan had demonstrated she knew what she was doing, had been spending most of her time in the main room. Ashly had been displaced from the position of prominence and Christel spent her time chatting and playing Yahtzee while Ashly sulked off to the side.
As Megan walked out and headed for her room, she heard her name called.
“Megan,” Mirta said. “I’ve got your outfit finished.”
“Let’s… see it in my room if you don’t mind,” Megan said, gesturing at the corridor.
Mirta merely nodded and headed down to the room where Shanea, inevitably, was ensconced. Megan noted that her friend was one of the ones who needed to go on a diet. Since Megan had befriended her, mysteriously larger portions had made it down the table. Amber was in there as well, knitting something golden this time.
“Here it is,” Mirta said, holding up two pieces of cloth that together might have made one decent skirt.
The top was at first glance a simple halter, with very brief coverage of the breasts; the triangular fabric might just cover the nipples. But the fabric was of some odd material that changed color as the light hit it. Small as it was, it was quite spectacular. The “skirt” that accompanied it, in the same fabric, was brief to the point of scandal in any other environment. Short, very short, and slit up either side.
“I made you some panties as well,” Mirta said. “But with that, well, even a thong might show.”
“It looks… tight,” Megan said.
“It is tight,” Mirta replied. “I got the outfit you were working on from Shanea for sizing and figuring that you went a little loose, I tightened it up, because…”
“Paul will like it,” Megan said, making a moue of distaste. She slipped off the robe, despite the company, and slipped on the skirt, which had two buttons in the back. She found it easier to slide it around to the front to button because it was tight. The buttons gave no sign of straining loose, but she had a struggle to get them in the holes. She also had to pull it down onto her hips to maintain any shred of decency. The halter top was tight as well and as she had feared the tiny triangles barely covered her nipples.
“Oh, that’s… lovely!” Shanea said.
“Pretty,” Amber said, looking up at her with a fixed expression. “So pretty.”
“Just right,” Mirta said, pushing Megan’s breasts up into the halter; the bottom of her breasts showed a goodly bit of rounded flesh. “Perfect.”
“I think I’d rather wear a robe!” Megan said.
“I think that Paul would rather you wear this,” Mirta replied. “And Christel will certainly have no problems with it. The other girls will be clamoring for one just like it.”
“I want one,” Shanea blurted. “But I don’t have anything to trade!”
“I’ll see if I can fit you into my busy schedule,” Mirta replied. “Now that I’ve got the pattern in mind, turning more out won’t be all that difficult. Some… small, strong stitches involved, but not hard ones.”
“I can’t wear this out of here,” Megan complained. “Every time I sit down I’ll show all I’ve got!”
“Not so,” Mirta said, stepping to the side. “The method for sitting is thus. You point your toes and roll down onto your legs.” The woman demonstrated, gracefully sitting without spreading her legs or showing anything she didn’t care to show to the audience.
“Where did you learn that?” Megan asked.