Services Required Ch. 01: The Interview

*** Many thanks to my editor, shygirlwhore, for all the help and encouragement!

I'm always interested to receive feedback, so feel free to comment or (even better) drop me a message if you have any thoughts. ***

* * * * *

That was how the advertisement started:

"Services required.

We are looking for an obedient and quiet female servant-pet. You will be collared and perhaps more. You must be happy to suck clean the master's length once the lady of the house has finished riding it, and/or lick the master's seed out of the lady as required.

Diligence and fastidiousness are essential. Scheduling negotiable, but will mainly involve evenings and weekends.

Serious offers only. If interested, contact us at..."

No melodramatic capitalisation of 'master' and 'lady'. No crude 'cock', 'prick' or 'dick', yet as direct and explicit as necessary for all that. Seemingly nothing wasted. And as for the way that thinking of herself as a prospective 'servant-pet' made her feel... She read and re-read the ad a dozen times. Minutes past, eventually hours, and still she caught herself coming back to it again and again. Sitting alone in her room, the glow from her computer screen her only illumination, it became her obsession.

Answering the ad was a bold and unprecedented move for her, one she surprised (and shocked) herself with when she made it. She'd never actually tried to reply to an ad before! She only read them, only started visiting this salacious site in the first place, for the mix of scandalised fascination and vicarious thrill that came from imagining other people's sexual pecadillos through their steamy, often bizarre, and sometimes achingly desperate, anonymous notices.

Startling all over again was the speed of the response, left just long enough for her heartbeat to die down but just in time to nip in the bud any nascent despair or disappointment of rejection. The message itself made her breath catch in her throat; her pulse pounded around the edges of her consciousness. After all her time obsessing over the original ad, though, the composition was curiously unsurprising:

"We have considered your application with interest and would like you to visit us for an interview. This Friday at 8PM would be most convenient, however please let us know if you are unable to attend so that we may reschedule."

The affirmative reply seemed to fly automatically from her fingers. Two days to prepare. The doubts began to circle her mind immediately: what would she wear? What would they be like? How could she even go through with this, hadn't it all been a big mistake from the start? Paralysis threatened, but a tingling feeling she'd first felt on reading the advert had slowly come to dominate, and helped her shrug it down. Although they did not even know each other, had not yet progressed beyond scant messages sent impersonally across the digital void, still she felt committed already. Besides, as a small brave part of herself piped up, it wasn't as if she had any other plans for Friday night.

Although not quite sure of her own full control of herself, she went to work over the next couple of days on meeting the first of her self-imposed objections: what to wear. She had no idea what the appropriate dress for this situation might be, if it even existed. In truth, she'd never had to dress for anything near as outrageous as the meeting she was now contemplating, never so much as a clubnight hookup or furtive one-night stand. Even the sexlife she had was sensible, modest, safe. Just thinking of those adjectives made her heart sink with the leaden weight of the sad truth behind them. But then, the strange tingling returned.

She returned to the ad itself, the very source of her delirium: obedient and quiet, diligent and fastidious; no 'hot', no 'horny', not even an 'attractive'. That realisation released some pressure, while she wasn't ashamed of her own looks she could hardly think of herself as anything other than average: average height, or maybe a shade above it; average weight, maybe a little more curved in parts than she was entirely comfortable in admitting; medium-length hair of a medium-brown and eyes of a clear but hardly gem-like hazel. Privately, she felt that her lips were just a touch too big for the face surrounding them, worried she came across looking like a blow-up doll. It seemed that, for once, that little quirk of her features might actually be an asset.

So, 'servant-pet'. Not 'maid', or anything so provocative. Unconsciously her fingers rose to brush the hollow of her throat where the collar would presumably sit, her lips parting in response to the touch with a softly exhaled realisation not bold enough to be a gasp. Feeling chastened in some obscure way, belatedly she let her hand drop back to her lap. Guilt blossomed, and she found herself suddenly revelling in it. It made the tingle increase. Forcing herself to focus, she went back to planning her ensemble.

Nothing so slutty as clubwear, which she had none of anyhow and would presumably have had to order in a hurry; that went double for any kind of fetishy leather or latex, and any maid or servant 'uniform'; but then the kind of suits she'd worn to actual real interviews in the past would seem far too staid and formal. All that, of course, was before even a cursory consideration of the question of underwear, the only answer to which she could muster at the moment was... Yes? Probably?

Through the haze of anticipation, she kept up a steady exchange of messages with her new acquaintances. Past the neutral, businesslike tones of their initial correspondence, their conversations became warmer, more personal: she found out that they lived not far from her, had been married for more than fifteen years since around the time they were her own age, comfortable jobs and no children; in return, she confided that she was looking for more in life, nervous but eager to break out of the shell she'd shut herself up in since starting work after university, had no intimate friends but nevertheless longed for some greater form of intimacy. If she shared too much she didn't notice, all of it spilling out too swiftly and naturally for her to stem. Nonetheless, it helped soothe the still-prickly doubt in her mind and brought her a certain confidence enough to break the deadlock of her decision-making.

* * *

Thus it was that she turned up on the unfamiliar doorstep, five minutes before eight that Friday. Beneath her long jacket she had settled on a cream-coloured silk blouse, one of the more expensive items in her wardrobe and one that had grown somewhat tighter over time. Indeed, if it weren't for the former attribute then the latter might well have seen it disposed of, she had never been bold enough before to go out in the now rather chest-hugging garment. The skirt she wore was a quietly lustrous deep navy blue and cut modestly to an inch or so above the ankle, although its snug hem hugged her hips and rear to an extent she was acutely conscious of. She knew she'd filled out a little around there, as well, at least since several years ago when she'd last bought herself some actual nice clothes.

Her fingers surprised her again by ringing the doorbell without expressed permission, the domestic jangle seemingly sudden and loud in the cool night air. More nerves, and the roar of blood rushing behind her eardrums building quickly until the door cracked open, swung inward...

"Hi there my dear!" the woman behind the door- the lady of the house- smiled warmly in welcome. In her late thirties or possibly early forties, a good few inches shorter, she had a slim figure and slightly sharp, severe features which were nevertheless belied by her cheerful expression, framed by a bob of hair the colour of dusty golden straw. The slinky black evening dress she wore, hanging straight down her slender frame, was slit up one leg to allow for a seamless, liquid freedom of movement as the lady stepped back to beckon her in. She seemed the image of a '20s flapper girl, wanting perhaps only for a circlet-band in her hair.

"Hello!" a quick, flashed smile as she started forward, almost a scurry; nervous anticipation building as she stepped across the threshhold, "It's nice to meet you. I'm-"

"Please, no names," her hostess' pronouncement was instant, polite but firm, "may I take your coat?"

She shrugged out of her jacket which was deposited on a nearby peg to hang from the hallway wall, and found herself being led softly by the hand into a plush lounge complete with stylish, comfortable looking sofas, glass-topped coffee tables and a huge TV covering most of one wall. The lady of the house led her over to one of the charcoal leather sofas and bade her sit, her hindquarters sinking gratefully into the luxurious upholstery. The action brought the thin material of her skirt brushing over her nervously clamped-together knees as its lower edge climbed a little further up her shins.

"There, isn't that better?" the lady stepped back for a moment with her head canted a little to one side. Whether evaluating or simply considering, the grin never left her lips and in fact grew wider as soon as she was done with her quiet contemplation, "Well, you certainly look lovely tonight my dear. My... The master, will be right with us. Would you like something to drink?"

Hardly trusting herself to speak, she answered with a quick nod and a hurried sound that could have been "'s please..." In response, the lady moved to a glass cabinet along one of the walls and picked out a couple of wine glasses, before briefly disappearing through a doorway for the bottle. In a whirl, her hostess presented her with an elegant stem of white wine which was already frosting the glass with condensation. Fruity yet sharp, it also had rather a noticeable strength to it on the first sip, and she found the lady regarding her once more over her own glass and that wide, omnipresent grin.

She nearly choked on her second sip, placing her glass down hurriedly safely out of harms way, when the master arrived. Slightly stocky, humble-featured and with short black hair that was given to a slight curl, he entered from another doorway no doubt leading deeper into their home. He was naked save for the tight white boxers which betrayed a noticeable bulge, and the fact that his hair continued along his limbs and down his chest before petering out over the slight paunch of his belly. She thought in passing that she might have detected a lively sparkle in his dark eyes, before her gaze was drawn to his hand of all places and the strap of black leather and polished metal that dangled from his casual grasp.

"Good evening," his voice was rich and almost reassuring as he advanced into the room, trading knowing glances with his wife as he approached the sofa and came to stand still over her, "Welcome to our home. You may call me 'master', and my wife 'my lady'. We felt it would be best if your interview was of a practical nature... Is that alright with you?"

The lady moved in beside her husband, wrapping her hands around one of his arms. The collar still demanded most of their guest's attention, but she saw that the grin of welcome, cheer and perhaps a certain wry confidence had spread between the spouses.

The original advert had been clear, the idea of an 'interview' decidedly less so. If anything this development brought her back to more familiar ground, it certainly redoubled the now-familiar tingling. She felt herself flush, a sensation that seemed to drop down all the way beneath her skirt, and dipped her head to avert her gaze as she bobbed it quickly once more in assent.

"Excellent. Now chin up, girl," his words were confident, commanding, and she found herself naturally responding to them. As she raised her head and exposed her neck, he leaned in to bring a faint waft of masculine scent to her nostrils, reaching toward her throat with the collar, before stopping short, his hands already just below her sight as she found herself under his gaze, "Once I put this on, we expect you to service us promptly and obediently as we require. Do you understand?"

The tingle had become a surge as she found herself pinned by his stare. Her lips became suddenly dry, she half-wished for another sip of wine, but she managed to find a response in a quiet voice:

"Y-yes, master."

After that there was a slight pressure, a momentary pinch across her windpipe as he reached around behind her and pulled the buckle tight on her collar. It rode precisely where her wayward fingertips had predicted, two days before. It felt like a lot more than just that simple leather strap had closed in around her, as the master straightened up once more, his stark package coming into her eyeline, and she felt an almost desperate eagerness to explore the new confines of her world. She heard distantly the contented sounds of appreciation uttered by his wife, found herself obscurely disappointed as the subtle cloud of his aroma left her nostrils.

"Good girl. Now stand up," a moment of surprise at the abrupt command faded quickly, and she practically leapt to her feet to stand straight, chin still raised in rigid posture by the presence of the collar (or at least, what it represented in her mind), "And kneel here. You'll stay still and silent, and await our call for your services."

He gestured to the spot on the floor in front of him, she bent at the knees and assumed the required position. He corrected her gently by turning her to face the sofa she had just vacated. Her knees gathered beneath her with her skirt pooled around her legs, she held her back as straight as before, her neck tracing a continuous line upward from her spine. Unsure quite what to do with her hands, she folded them in her lap. The carpet beneath her was thick, cushioned and very comfortable for her purposes.

The master stood before her and reached out to encircle his wife's waist with an arm, drawing her in for a deep and hungry kiss. They towered over her in their tight embrace, the unconscious sounds of passion washing over her with the spectacle of these two beginning their loving, coupling. The way in which her stomach lurched to see the amazing scene, the way her mind reeled to think of how bizarre this whole situation was to her sheltered sensibilities, were not entirely unpleasant. The flush beneath her skirt seemed to be growing steadily.

Faced side-on to her as she knelt, they began their slow and heavy dance in earnest. He crushed her smaller body against his, she snaked a hand down between them to slip inside the front of his boxers. From their easy synchronisation, it seemed as though they'd loved each other this way a hundred times before. The lady's palm wriggled inside his underwear and grasped, tugging, hauling the load that it found out into the open. His penis was crimson and slightly glossy, unfurling stiffly above the dislodged waistband of his shorts, cupped in her adoring palm almost as if for the inspection of the girl kneeling before the married pair. Indeed, as wrapt as her attention was on the action between their bellies, she fancied she caught a quick glimpse of the lady's eyes in a sidelong glance her way.

The kneeling girl felt a rising tension as she fixated on the scene before her. Slim, pale fingers began to stroke slowly up and down the darker shaft of flesh as their kissing and embracing continued. As it did, their tempo began to increase: her body's movements a series of shimmies and undulations around and against his larger form; his, slower and deeper steady rolls, like the bassline to her melody. All the while, he devoured her offered lips. All the while, she pumped his engorging organ.

At some silent signal, they pulled apart at last, nearly all the way. Her hand lingered on his rod, his upon her cheek as they steered about in the next evolution of the display. With a deft tug, she freed his boxers to slump down his legs to the ground. Fully naked, he stepped back to lower himself to the seat of the sofa, knees parted enough to give the kneeling girl before him a prime view of his proudly erect member. As he lowered himself, his hand trailed down his wife's flank, catching her by the hip and tugging her gently around to face their silent, spellbound guest before his other hand took to the other side, pulling her backward, supporting her as her own fingers tugged aside the skirts of her gown and she positioned herself over the bulbous tip quivering below.

Staring at the girl on her knees on their living room floor, the lady of the house let herself slowly sink down to be split open and impaled on her husband's straining ardour. Eye to eye with her hostess, the girl felt her lips part in communion and sympathetic link to the lady's own, as the bulk of the intruding length nestled up inside her. Her husband visible only in passing beneath and behind her, the lady began to ride.

His hands remained upon her hips as they began to roll, grinding her body up and down his turgid length. It was impossible to tell if the hands guided the hips or the hips supported the hands, but nevertheless the kneeling girl leant toward the intensely physical action as it began to slop and slide. Apparently, her eagerness was presumptuous: she found herself fixed by the lady's firm, frank stare, sultry and imperious; she subsided backward again, abashed, and cast her eyes meekly to the floor.

She'd never witnessed other people having sex before. This was full-on fucking. With her knees planted on either side of her husband's, the lady of the house bucked and thrust with her abdomen as she powered his length in and out of her. As much as it bounced and sprayed about her face, it was easy to see why she kept her hair trimmed short in its page-cut. The sound of their bodyparts coupling together was wet, squelching and purely sexual, evidently the lady was even more excited by this evening's prospects than her guest. As much as she threw herself about in her passion, her husband kept her tethered. The smell of sex began to steam through the air, seeming to puff harder in time with each downward plunge. The girl, alone on her knees before the rutting pair, was beginning to feel very agitated indeed.

The lady's progress was not quiet, punctuated as it was by small gasps and cries of sensation and pleasure renewed with each roll of the hips. Fortunately, it seemed to cover the ragged and increasingly loud breaths of the couple's observer, who wanted so dearly to be the quiet and obedient servant-pet but just could not seem entirely to stifle her instinctive reactions to the show before her. Occasional deep grunted pants of breath from behind the lady betrayed her husband's own lusty fervour.

As the lady's motions became ever more frantic and her expression more wanton, she seemed to be building toward some grand crescendo. She continued forcing her nether hollows down upon her husband's rod, to ever more impossible-looking depths. When the climax came, the kneeling girl could not stop a single long, lascivious sigh of sympathy escaping as she watched her hostess bring herself to gasping, eye-widening orgasm upon that tower of erect flesh. As it happened, the lady's pelvis hammered forward just too far at last, too forcefully for her husband's restraining hands to hold back, and there was a wet, slithering pop as he was unceremoniously removed from within her.

The lady's expression melded surprise, disappointment, lust and determination. Wasting as little time as possible she straightened, hiked up the skirts of her wayward dress once and for all, hunkered awkwardly around to reverse her orientation and face her husband full-on. She wasted no time in having him plunge back in, the pale flesh of her bare buttocks now exposed going taut as she went straight back into a desperate pumping rhythm of the hips with her hands anchored either side of his head on the back of the sofa to support herself.