Special Services – Day 1
Young, your eighteenth birthday passed just a couple of months ago, single since too long. You never had a real story, only casual flirting with boys your age, and all of them seemed somewhat shallow, uninteresting.
It’s not about their look, of course. You never cared much about that: you don’t consider yourself pretty either, even if you have your “assets” – among which breasts so huge you can barely contain them in your clothes – but most boys do say you are pretty.
Of course, “If I took care of myself better,” you think, “I may look like one of my beautiful friends.” But you never cared about being like them much, either. Going to the gym, losing hours every week to exercise, to apply and remove makeup, to choose clothes, to shave, to paint your nails… this has never attracted you, so far. Or maybe, simply, nobody deserved such efforts, yet.
This may be one of the issues you have to work with, now. Because the last week, you looked for a job. You need one, you are trying to become independent, you don’t want to stay at home forever. University is going to begin soon, and you want to move out – maybe in a common dormitory? – but, for that, you need money.
That online job-offer seemed tailor-made for you:
<<Looking for a part-time job with flexible hours? Do you want to work for someone who will appreciate your most hidden qualities? You don’t need any special qualification, but being yourself, and yet open to changes. Contact us at +XX WWW YYY ZZZ >>
You called the number. The phone call was answered by a gentle woman who organized an interview with you, right the day after. Everything went well, apart from the fact that the woman seemed to be more interested in your physical attributes, than anything else.
You soon understood why: the company is nothing but a naked-services agency providing girls to healthy people who need help with anything at home while spicing up their lives just a little. Mostly old, retired rich men; sometimes professionals at the peak of their career with special voyeour interests.
“Yourself, but open to changes,” you remember. Indeed, you’ll need it, if you want this job.
You ended up accepting, anyway. The pay is twice the one of any other job an inexperienced girl like you could get. Moreover, it’s not that you’ll really have to be naked. The agency will provide you with proper outfits, previously agreed with the customer. And you’ll be able to choose the customer, depending on the type of service they want, too.
One of them particularly caught your eyes: a man between his 50s and 60s. Almost bald, with lively brown eyes and a cheeky smile. He seemed still well fit, even if in the photo you could see under his shirt a tad of a belly. The job description was undetailed, and yet addressing all the doubts you needed to be answered beforehand:
<<Special Services: 4 hours a day, weekend days. The job may involve travelling, shopping, cooking, cleaning and other special activities, depending on the mood and needs. All expenses covered.>>
Yes, you didn’t need anything more. You wanted that money, and you didn’t need to become a slut to get it. No girl has ever died from showing off her body a little. And there will be not much difference between that, and wearing a bikini on the beach, right?
That thought, though, sends chills down your spine, because actually, you have rarely worn a bikini in public. Your huge tits don’t allow you to do that easily, and so you mostly preferred wearing one-piece swimsuits. All your girlfriends telling you how much they envy you for them, can’t understand how much your breasts s are a pain in the ass, sometimes.
But now, this Saturday, just one hour before your first day at Mr Black service, you hold in your hands the outfit that has been requested by the man: a black, lace babydoll with only transparent nylon covering your tits, and a slim black tanga barely covering your sex, leaving your ass completely out in the open.
You look at it, wondering how are you supposed to wear that in front of a stranger. But you know you can’t run away, now. You’re not the type: you’re determined to see how far you can go, and you know the end isn’t by any means close.
Wearing jeans and a white shirt over a white bra – only a red jacket covering them – seems the right choice for introducing yourself. You put the outfit in your bag, tie your black hair in a ponytail falling behind your neck, apply just a thin layer of lipstick and black Rimmel adorning your blue eyes. You’re sure he’ll not notice your hips – a little too larger than normal – when he’ll look into your eyes and lower his sight as soon as you’ll remove your jacket.
Another chill down your spine. “Am I such a slut?” you think, but you know you aren’t. Just, like any woman, you like to be admired. You crave for it.
You are trembling when you arrive at your destination: an old, but well-kept white villa. Not big, not too fancy, but surely the house of someone healthy enough to maintain it. The two expensive cars visible under a roof nearby don’t lie.
Goosebumps run through your body when you ring the bell.
“You must be Lucy, come in.”
The deep, masculine voice comes from the inside. You try to push down the handle and, to your surprise, the door opens.
“Enter the room to your right, and get changed.”
The voice is coming from the left. You look inside that room as you remove your shoes at the entrance: it seems a private library, but apart from the man’s legs poking from behind an armchair and a rivulet of smoke whirling up to the high ceiling of the room, you can’t see anything.
Not lingering anymore, you enter the room on the right, little upset at the man because he hadn’t received you personally. But mostly, you’re disappointed that you couldn’t show him in your carefully-selected casual clothes.
Now, the first thing he’ll see is your almost-naked body. And you fear to admit it, but as exciting as it may be, you are all but confident about your physical appearance.
Nevertheless, you get changed.
Wearing the babydoll is not easy: it’s a little too small, especially on your breast. When you manage to slide into it, you look at yourself in the tall mirror on the closet: the lace barely covers your ass and pussy, and your tits are almost completely visible, groped in the tight, transparent nylon. A rush of blood runs to your face, as you look at yourself.
“Girl, how long do I have to wait? Come here, at once. I’m paying!”
The voice from the other room gets you back to your senses. You must go.
You wear the black heels that are part of the provided work outfit and enter the library room. You know he heard you coming, your shoes can’t hide your steps, but the man says nothing for a while, as you stand there. You look around: you couldn’t see the huge window on the left of the room, before. It covers almost the entire wall, and as such the room is very luminous.
Smoke puffs appear rhythmically beyond the armchair back. The man is smoking, and from the smell, you recognize a cigar or a pipe. He is not that simple of a man, to smoke cigarettes, you think.
“Today, I need you to clean the books on each shelf on the right side of the library. The ladder is there, the cleaning tools close to it. You may begin now.”
You feel bad, now. You think you accepted the wrong offer. You think the man is an asshole. He hasn’t even introduced himself! But indeed, yours is just a job. Why should he care about your feelings? He needs you for your services, for your body, not for some nice conversation.
You notice the ladder, positioned close to the right side of the library. There are at least ten shelves, from the floor to the roof, and tens of books on each. This may take the entire four hours of your allocated time.
“Well,” you think, “this is easy money in any case.”
You make a step towards the library that is located in front of the man, looking forward to finally make eye contact with him, but before reaching a position when you can see him, he speaks.
“You’ll do your job and you’ll not turn around to face me, until and if I’ll say so. Understood?”
It’s strange, but you are there to obey.
“Understood, Sir,” you answer as they told you to, at the agency.
One step, another. You’re past the armchair, you could see him, just turning around. But you can’t. You resist the urge. You know he is looking at you, though. You feel his brown, deep eyes on you. You feel how he breaths-in the smoke of his pipe while looking at your back, at your naked ass barely covered by the black lace.
You check the content of a bucket. Everything you need seems to be there: detergents, rags, gloves. You wear them, and you feel all but sexy now, with yellow-rubber gloves on your hands, even if you’re sure the man doesn’t care at all.
You start from the shelf closer to your waist, the third from the bottom. You remove the books with care, piling them on the floor at your side, one over the other. You know that every time you bend, you show him your ass and your tits obscenely surrendering to gravity. But you can’t do otherwise.
It’s your job, you do it well. You clean the books one by one with a dry rag, removing the dust accumulated in the past weeks. Not much dirt, if you have to say, it seems the man has had another girl providing him services before, and you wonder why she has left.
Then you clean the shelf with the detergent and the wood protector, before slowly taking each one of the books from the pile, putting it back into the same order as before.
The more books you put back on, the more you have to bend, the more he sees.
You hear his breath. He may be smoking again, you think. And you get down to the second shelf. You have to bend a little, but you manage to remove all books, to clean them and the shelf, too. When you bend on the sides to put back the first book of the shelf, you’re sure he can see your tits hanging down, your nipples poking on the black nylon. You don’t have huge areolas, you don’t have very long nipples, but they are overly sensible: having the nylon grazing on them all this time, have made them hard and needy.
You would like to grab your tits, now, fondle them, tease your nipples. You force yourself to stop this thread of thoughts: you feel it coming, you are getting wet. And you can’t get wet, now, there’s work to do.
The bottom shelf is the hardest to do. You kneel down, to remove all the books, and when you clean it you have to lower your head so much it almost touches the floor, to reach the farther side inside the shelf to clean. In this position, you are basically showing the old man your naked ass.
Also, you are sure the outline of your pussy lips is visible on the black thong textile. You may say your lips are as huge as your tits, in proportion. You have always been embarrassed by them. When they are closed, nobody can notice. But you are excited, now, you know it. And you know your pussy may be already open, ready to be fucked. This could mean only one thing: your huge lips spread, and maybe even partially visible on the side of the thong. You hope it’s not the case.
You hear his breath again. You wonder if, by chance, he is enjoying your show too much, now. But you can’t turn around to look at him. You finish cleaning the shelf, and pull yourself up, standing. The room has fallen into a strange silence. There is no sound, but the breath of the man, and yet that sound fills the room like a thunderstorm.
Your head spins, you grab the ladder to avoid losing your balance.
“Everything is OK, Lucy?” you hear the old man asking, and for a moment you think he may not be the asshole you thought.
“I’m fine, Sir, just a momentary loss of pressure.”
You tell the truth, unable to make up an excuse on the spot. You never liked to bend for too much time, the blood to your head makes you easily dizzy. But you’re already OK, now.
There’s another thing that makes you dizzy, though, and you fear that way more: heights.
You position the ladder, you climb two rungs up and begin taking down the books. It takes more time, now. You have to go back and forth, up and down the ladder, to bend and straight up continuously. It is harder than before. You are sweating, and the summer heat is not helping. There is no air conditioning here; the window is completely closed, whilst the sun keeps coming in.
You feel drops of sweat running down your armpits, you feel embarrassed, hoping the man will not notice. Other drops running down your thigh and this time you hope it is sweat and not your open lips dripping juices, already.
You think about the money. You need it.
You think about your limits. You know they are still far to be reached.
You finish the fourth shelf, the fifth.
The sixth shelf is your limit, though. It’s already so high, that your head spins every time you reach it. You have to gather all of your strength and self-control to stay focused on the job, and continue. You are starting to feel very tired, too. That doesn’t help.
How long has it been, since you have been there? You wonder. You can’t turn around, you can’t check the time.
As you clean the shelf, pushing your arms deep into it, the heavy breathing starts again. Now you are sure, it must be the man, looking at you. Because now you are above him: your naked legs, your ass and pussy exposed to his lust. He must be wanking his little cock, you think disgusted, but soon realize the thought actually arouses you even more.
You want to look at him, but you can’t. You want to see if that rich, old man is really so excited to look at you, to masturbate behind you. You want to see if such a young girl is able to turn on, eventually to lead astray, someone of that calibre.
But you stick to your role and your job, and as you climb down the ladder and bend again to get some books, you decide to dare a little. If you can’t see him, you may as well show him, right?
The thought that this would be a bold move on your behalf, doesn’t even cross your mind. It’s always been like that when you’re excited: you never think too much, before acting.
You move your legs sapiently, knowing your body better than anyone else, and you know when you have reached your objective. You feel it, the black thong has now slid between your lips, in your slit, completely.
When you step up the ladder again, it doesn’t take much time before his breathing becomes the only thing heard in the library.
He’s looking at your spread, huge lips, now, you are sure. You hope he’ll not mind you aren’t shaved, not properly anyway. He can surely see small, black hairs around your lips, thighs, ass.
Strangely, now, you care. You would like to be shaved, clean, hairless. You feel embarrassed you aren’t, and yet excited this stranger is looking at you in such a natural, intimate state, knowing he can’t do anything more, by contract.
Nothing is wrong with the books or the shelf, and yet you fake having issues sorting out how to place the books back. You move back and forth, wiggling your ass at him, feeling the thong rubbing up and down, on your clit. You squeeze your tits with your elbows, hoping he’ll not notice. You need it.
He is surely seeing the wetness on your lips and thighs. It is not sweat, now. You recognize the sticky, slimy consistency of your best juices. You are wet, excited, horny.
Every time you climb up and down the stairs, your legs rub each other more, pulling your lips back and forth, teasing your clit. You never felt this excitement. You like it.
So much, you may even cum, if the time hadn’t already finished. Yes, the old man has stopped his heavy breathing, and have finally spoken.
“Lucy, your time is up. You may go to the changing room and leave. Remember the shelf you need to start from, tomorrow.”
His deep voice seems now still broken by desire, to you. But it may be your swollen pussy, your own arousal misleading you.
You didn’t notice, but the old man is sitting now in another armchair, directed to the window. You can turn around to leave, indeed, but as you walk by his former armchair, you notice a white, cotton tissue lying dirty on the small tea-table on the carpet of the room. The tissue seems used, wet.
“I’ll take away the tissue and wash it, Sir,” you say, not expecting an answer that – in fact – doesn’t come.
You take the tissues with your bare hands, feeling the wetness of his sperm on your fingers, your palm. As soon as you are in the changing room, as soon as you close the door behind you, you can’t resist taking the piece of white textile to your nose.
His smell is strong, masculine. The smell of the man who drove you crazy today, without even touching you.
Or maybe you did everything by yourself, maybe everything was already inside you, ready to burst out.
Yes, you still don’t know yourself well.
Tomorrow it’ll be another day, and another test to your self-imposed boundaries.