It was strange, this whole circumstance. An ad she saw on Social Media, a job at a local upstart coffee shop, looking specifically for rabbits -- and specifically with brown-hue fur patterns. On a whim she contacted the number, and spoke with someone with an exotic accent. Italian, it sounded like, confirmed when he used certain words in the language. It was a bit odd, he looked her up on social media during the call. Gave her an offer over the call, a trial or working interview of sorts. She would work for two weeks, paid, in cash, and if she liked the job she could continue.
Grace said it was shady. But also. The cash. It was good cash. She thought it was shady, too, but. She's a big girl.
She got another call from the man a few days later. He asked for her measurements, for her uniform. She didn't know off the top of her head, so he suggested a place where she could get them done. Grace remarked she was getting measured for a coffin, but when she went to the tailor, it was pretty ritzy. The female stoat that saw to her spoke highly of her new employer. Even while she was measuring Megan's inguinal lines.
And now here she was. Either to get a bag, or to get in one.
The windows of the coffee house had a screen over them. Only the door let any semblance of light through to show there was any activity inside. But it was also heavily tinted. She had to get right up and almost smudge her nose to it to peer inside. The lights seemed dim. There was no activity; just little copses of tables and coves of booths.
She tried the door, but it was locked. She walked around the side, and found another door. She tried it, and it was open. She peeked inside. "Hello?" She called. But there was no answer.
She stepped inside, and saw a little ways down the short hallway, with cream-colored walls and dark-brown wooden floors, a door. She went to the door and knocked, but there was no answer. Looking back down the hall both directions, she tried the ornate, crystal knob.
It yielded, and with a tiny thump from it relaxing on its hinges, the door creaked opened.
Peering inside, Megan took in a quiet gasp as she saw her profile picture on a hangar within an open alcove, like a locker with no door. There were a few other of these lockers, but they were empty, save for the one next to hers which had only a naked hangar on the bar.
She stepped in and closed the door. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the dim lighting, but there were also bulbs of brighter lights, made to look like candles, sprinkled about in this room. She went to her locker-alcove. Her picture, of her and Grace smiling at the viewer, was clipped to a note. That same clip attached the note and picture to the hanger. Whatever the hangar was holding was concealed but, at first what she thought was the usual thick clothing holder like one would use for an expensive suit. But when she touched it, she found the covering to be made of satin, or silk, or generally some type of soft, slippery linen.
She unclipped the note, and brought it over to one of the faux-candle lights to read it. The note was hand-written, with an elegant cursive that had no errant or hesitant stroke, on a type of stationary where the paper was impure, with freckles of wood-pulp here and there.
--
Buongiorno, Sra. Bryar,
Mi dispiace, I could not be present for your first day. There is no rationality for this improper introduction; I beg your forgiveness for my absence. Upon the hangar is your uniform. I hope you find the fit comfortable, but if you feel or see any imperfection, please bring this to the attention of myself or your Capo. Once your attire is acceptable we shall tailor additional sets.
My daughter Trinity is your Capo. You will follow her instructions. Please do not mistake her stern demeanor for disrespect; she is responsible for ensuring our exalted standard of excellence and service.
Please change to your work attire and wait in this room for your Capo to address you.
Sincerely yours,
Cornelio
--
Megan set the letter down next to the faux-candle light, and went back to the hangar. She removed it from the hook, and saw herself in the mirror behind it. A changing partition, adorned with iron-forged rabbits at the top, served as the only place for privacy in the room. On the opposite side of the locker-alcoves was a vanity desk, and opposite the changing partition was a set of three full-body vanity mirrors, to see various angles.
She went behind the changing partition, disrobing to her underwear. She then pulled the drawstring of the linen covering slack and let it slip away onto the floor.
There, upon the hangar, was not something she was expecting at all.
This... "Work Uniform," was a deep-red leotard with a wide-open chest, lined at the top with a fill trim, along with a choker and bracelet wrist-cuffs.
Taking a moment to consider the uniform, she reached behind to unclasp her bra.
Fully nude, feeling a slight chill from the ambient air, she slipped on the leotard as gracefully as she could.
Once she settled her hefty girls within and adjusted the support on the back of her neck, as well as smoothed out the gusset and taper in both the front and the back with her fingers; the garment suddenly disappeared.
Well, not really. It just felt like it disappeared. Like it wasn't there at all. She felt no tension or wrinkle. If she had closed her eyes and went to sleep, when she woke up she would feel as though she was nude. It was such a perfect, seamless fit.
She shuffled from behind the partition and went to the full-body mirrors. She flicked the lightswitch, and winced at the brightness. Using the tab to the left of the switch, she dimmed them.
Sure enough, she was wearing something. And moreover, it was accentuating everything she had. It gave plenty of cleavage, packaged her bum like a ring in a velvet-lined box, and concealed only just her vulva and no more. Again she mentally remarked that, were she not seeing this on her, she could be convinced she was naked. But, not in that vulnerable way; no, in more of the confident, comfortable way.
She went back to the partition and added the wrist-cuffs and choker. The cuffs made her feel somehow even more naked, but the choker was just divine; just tight enough for her to feel it, but not so much that she felt, well, choked.
In all of her life since she grew up she could barely find bras and pants that fit her without having to compromise in some way, even when she got measured. But here she was, wearing the skimpiest, tightest little outfit she possibly could--and it was like she was in just a thicker coat of her own fur.
If only she could find one bra that fit half as good as this, she would be in utter heaven.
Now, she just had to wait for Trinity, her Capo. She paced about the room, setting her things i her locker-alcove. As she paced, she noticed something else about her uniform: It didn't ride up or wedgie in the back, nor did it creep up in the front to give any would-be onlookers a gratuitous show of camel-toe.
Based on the letter, she was a little concerned about Trinity. She tried to imagine what kind of woman she was; stern enough to sound like she was disrespectful? Worried about excellent service? Named Trinity? Clearly she would be a bunny--or at least, given this establishment she presumed so--but the person in coming into shape in her mind was a very old, wrinkly, former and wayward nun that had dropped her habit and given into wearing lace and flashing her thighs.
This construction in her mind almost made her miss the subtle knock at the door. After a pause, she answered: "Come in?"
The handle turned, and the door thumped as it once again relaxed on its hinges, creaking open.
Megan expected to see the frumpy, wrinkly old face she had constructed in her mind but, as one might expect, that was not the face she saw. In fact... She... Wait, there was no face? No head? Wha--
"You are Megan, no?"
A voice, but... Megan glanced downward.
There, standing in the doorframe, was a little bunny girl. She was very short, very very petite. She was wearing a similar uniform to Megan's own, but with a deep plum color, and... She had no chest at all. The frills merely draped down enough to show her collar-bone.
She almost looked... Like a cub. Like a cub no older than 7.
"Signora Bryar?"
"Uh, yes, yes that's me," Megan replied.
Even her voice was childish, but that was probably just the influence of her slight accent.
"I am Trinity," the bunny said, letting the door swing open more. "Your... Capo, I believe my daddy said I was, now that I have assistants."
Daddy. The childish little word, and the reminder that this was Cornelio's daughter.
"Curtsey," the little rabbit said.
"I'm sorry?" Megan asked.
The rabbit clapped her hands together twice; loud, and commanding.
"Show me your curtsey, ora."
Stern.
Megan... Felt like she was being bossed around by a little kid. But... Even still.
She bent her knees and drifted her hands in some manner by her waist. She was not an actress nor... Well, who practices curtseying? When she straightened back up, the--young?--little bunny had her arms folded and her face wrinkled in a disapproving frown.
"Pathetic," she murmured. Then, like a dancer NPC in a VR game, she practically snapped into the fluid animation of a graceful, elegant curtsey, with her right hand crossing along her thighs below the crotch of her leotard, almost as if she was intending to draw the eye right to her barely-concealed vulva. "Learn to curtsey."
"O--Okay," was all Megan could respond. She was taken aback by... What she was slowly leaning more and more towards was a little girl, and yet she had the the poise and command of a head mistress.
The way she pivoted on her heel, again like a dancer but in an almost artificial way like a moel in a game snapping to an animation, and the way she walked out. A perfect heel-toe stride, which made her butt and spade-tail wiggle in a way that was even starting to become alluring to Megan herself.
"You are now a service mistress of Coffee & Buns. As my apprentice you will do as I instruct. I expect you to be a mockery for a time. I also expect you to diminish in mockery and crescendo in elegance. Am I understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
The rabbit's wiggling bubble-booty halted. She about-faced, the slight hint of a pout on her face.
"Sì, Signora." She corrected.
Megan replied with the corrected phrase.
"We open in three minutes." She said, leading her to a small table at the corner of the main counter.
There, an alpaca man stood, near the back of his space but clearly visible, and waiting. Had he not opened his eyes and cleared his throat, Megan would have thought he was a statue.
"You shall be the Padrona Dello Zucchero," the little bunny said, lifting a saucer plate with a bowl of sugar-cubes on it. She lifted it level and proffered it to the... Older... Rabbit.
Megan took the saucer with both hands, holding it just in front of her ample cleavage.
"Improper," the rabbit scolded, slipping her hand beneath the saucer and lifting it from Megan's hands, demonstrating how to hold it. "One hand, base of middle-finger center." She proffered the plate again.
Megan took the saucer, her hand shaking to keep it balanced correctly.
"Learn posture," the... Young... Rabbit said.
"Sì, Signora." Megan replied.
"I am the Padrona Della Crema," Trinity remarked, lifting the pot of creamer with her left hand. "Come, we stand here," she instructed, her booty wiggling enticingly as she pranced over to the side wall, where a stool was set. Again, with a dancer's grace, she hopped upon the stool, and twirled about without a semblance of a sway or teeter to her motions. "We bring Dolcezza to those who grace us with their patronage. Stand here." She motioned to her right.
"Sì, Signora." Megan replied, and stood against the wall where her Capo instructed. Looking at the door, she waited with anxious anticipation, wondering how busy this place would be.
"Shame."
Megan heard the disdainful scold from the rabbit beside her. "What's wrong?"
The rabbit took her hand. "Learn not to cover," she said. "On your hip, or behind; never conceal."
Megan realized that, in her nervousness, her left hand had absently gone to cover her crotch. "Sì, Signorita." She whispered, her cheeks beginning to flush.
The sound of a bell run; just a little chime, but in the still and dim silence, it was like a gong. The most dapper weasel Megan had ever seen, waddled through the door. He wore a full suit, and made his way to the counter.
The alpaca came to life, like an anamatronic, stepping forward and greeting the weasel.
As the man put in an order, Megan's arm started to tremble again. Cubes began to tumble off the little mound in the bowl.
"Unsteady." Her Capo whispered. "Learn to be marble."
"Sì... Signora."
Megan had already begun to realize what this job was about, and now it was just settling in. Yet, somehow, her heart was now pounding with excitement.
---
A pic I got with \r\n\t\t\t\t\t
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Story is by me.
In the picture:
Megan is \r\n\t\t\t\t\t
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Trinity is owned by me
In the story only:
Grace (mentioned) is \r\n\t\t\t\t\t
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Cornelio (mentioned) is owned by me
All other characters are just extras.