Special Services – Day 2 – Lies
It’s Sunday, the second day of your new job, and you wake up wet, surprised. This happens rarely to you, and you don’t recall having had any hot dreams. But it takes not more than a couple of seconds to your waking brain, to remember what has happened yesterday.
Again those chills down your spine, your hand slides between your legs as the memories become more vivid, those sensations take possession of your body and mind.
The night before, when you got home, you haven’t even had time for a shower. You removed your jeans and shirt and fell asleep on your bed like that. Can’t remember the last time you felt that tired. You surely have had no time to heal your aching pussy, till now.
Even masturbation feels like a novelty, to you. You seldom did it, never felt the need for it so much like now, as your inexperienced fingers circle your clit, already exposed by your still swollen lips, rub it, tickle and caress it.
But your fingers remember how to do it, better than you, and you soon explode in an orgasm that satisfies your body, your mind, and calm the ache you were feeling since yesterday.
Finally awoke, you spend the morning at home, cleaning the apartment and yourself, thinking about the afternoon to come. You need to shave, today; you want to. But as the razor reaches your inner thighs after having taken care of your armpits, something strange happens: you want to shave, you want to be beautiful down there, not to feel embarrassed by those black, thick hair, and yet you want it. You can’t decide because you don’t know: was the excitement you felt because of exposing yourself or was it because of exposing yourself like that – natural, hairy, unprepared?
In the end, you shave your thighs and your ass, not your pussy. Taking this step by step seems the best choice. You realize you still don’t know yourself enough.
Only now, you notice the white handkerchief on the clotheshorse: you don’t remember having washed it, but you are happy to see it’s dry, and you can bring it back to your customer.
Today, you choose a good set of black lingerie you haven’t worn for long, a grey skirt, purple shirt and hells. You know Mr Black will probably not even see you wearing them, but you feel good taking care of yourself a little more than usual. Again, just a layer of lipstick and black Rimmel on your eyelashes – nothing more – but you spend half an hour polishing your nails with a pink, pearl varnish.
No differences today, when you ring the bell. You still feel like yesterday: insecure, excited, tensed. Goose bumps run through your right arm and leg, caressing the side of your breast. You realize it is like the first day because you still have to see him, to speak with him properly, to know him.
Again, his voice from the inside.
“Come inside, get dressed.”
The same room, the same thin line of smoke swirling up to the roof from beyond the back of the armchair, and just the tip of his bald head visible.
It’s the same outfit as yesterday, and yet it doesn’t feel tight anymore. It fits you, cuddles you, caresses your body in a gentle hug that reveals everything you want to be revealed. In one day, your outfit has already become a tool for your job, a precious one.
The heels knocking on the wooden floor of the corridor betray your presence in the library.
“Good afternoon Lucy. The same rules as yesterday apply. You may start with shelf six.”
Walking to the ladder, looking at the library, you realize the man is wrong. You have already cleaned shelf six. Should you clean it again? Would it be rude to tell him? You think, wearing the gloves and positioning the ladder in the right place. Then, you decide to speak.
“I already cleaned shelf six yesterday, Sir. Do you wish me to clean it again, or should I start from shelf seven?”
The following moments of silence are cold like the worst winter. You hear his breathing, alternated by puffs of smokes flying in your direction. He has already turned his armchair towards you, you can’t turn around anymore. He is looking at you, at your body, at the line of your babydoll grazing your naked ass, the black lace half covering it.
You feel a shiver, and your legs tremble.
“As if the height wasn’t enough!”, you think, and you wonder how you’re supposed to climb that ladder and clean the seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth shelves without fainting and falling down.
“It seems they have sent me a good one, this time, for a change,” is the only thing he says, and to you, it sounds both as an acknowledgment and a compliment.
For the first time in that library, you smile. But the corners of your lips lower again, as soon as you approach the ladder. One, two, three, four, five rungs, and you’re there. You can’t watch down, you mustn’t. You gather as many books as you can on the top rung, then climb the ladder down and take them to the floor. Up again, other books to gather, your head spinning every time you realize you’re that high, your hands clenching on your life-saver – the ladder rail – until you calm down and you can climb down again.
You’re so concentrated in maintaining the composure, the control of yourself, that for the first couple of minutes you don’t even feel his eyes on you. Only later on, when you finish cleaning the shelf and you tentatively climb down the ladder, when you bend to grab the first couple of books to bring back up on the shelf, goose bumps remind you the old man’s eyes. And when your focus goes back to him, you hear his breath again, your rhythm naturally synch with the cadence of the long inhales in his pipe and the puffs of smoke coming in your direction, telling you he is there, behind you, looking at you.
Now, up the ladder, putting back on the shelf those books you’ve just gathered, you feel that thrill again. You feel your ass exposed to him, you feel your nipples getting hard, pushing on the transparent nylon, and those butterflies in your stomach preceding you-already-know-what.
Waiting for your juices to wet the cotton of the black thong, you push yourself deep into the shelf, tensing your legs on the rung, feeling your muscle hardening from the tips of your toes to your ass.
You know what you are showing him, now. You find yourself thinking about the day before when you smelled his cum.
“It was so dirty,” you think, “I don’t want to do that again!”, and yet at that moment, your lips disclose and your accumulated wetness pours out. You smirk, conscious you have just lied to yourself.
Back down the ladder, up again with other books. Two, three times, until the shelf is done, and you move to the eight. Your movements are mechanic, now, at least the ones you dedicate to cleaning the shelves. But every muscle of your body is moved, controlled in the right way, with a clear purpose. There are no smoke puffs anymore, but the heavy breathing behind you means you’re doing your job well. So well that the old man may even not care about the actual cleaning, you think, smiling again.
Up and down, up and down. The eight self is done. You reach the ninth. Only now you realize something strange has happened: completely caught in the act, completely focused on the show for the man who owns you, at this moment, you forgot about your fear. And the height suddenly is nothing to worry about. As if it was always there – your fear – to be conquered by him, by his presence.
Today, you want to push it a little further. You play like you did yesterday, you let your swollen lips slide out of the edge of your panties, for him to enjoy. You feel your juices dripping on your thighs; today it’s a good thing because you want him to notice it, you want his cock to be hard and needy, you want him to see you shaved, you came prepared.
No, you don’t want to.
You lie to yourself, again.
Then, you have an idea. Up, on the ladder, almost at the top, knowing your ass is completely visible to him, and your lips too, you casually slide a hand between your legs and pull your thong away from your pussy. You complain to yourself, faking it itches, knowing you’re exposing your pussy to his eyes in the process, and then you put back the thong on you. One, two, three times, every time uncovering your pussy, every time grazing it with your fingers, feeling the incredible wetness filling it.
“Is it something wrong?” Mr Black asks.
“No, Sir, everything is OK. I just… this outfit… the textile doesn’t seem of good quality and it itches a little and… after hours working, climbing up and down the ladder, the… sweat… must have accumulated, I’m sorry, Sir,” you try to justify yourself.
“You must complain to the agency, not to me.”
You take your time to climb down the ladder, bringing down some books from the ninth shelf. Legs a little spread, the body just a tad tilted to the right so he can notice your breasts hanging down as you bend to lay the books on the pile forming on the floor. Then you speak.
“I’m not complaining but,” you say, casually reaching out to between your legs, pulling your thong away from your lips, “I think I’m getting irritated. Could it be you have here a spare outfit from the agency, so I could wear dry panties?”
Mr Black coughs. He never did it before, in your presence.
“I don’t have such a thing.”
“Ah, I’m sorry to bother, Sir…”
You go back up to the ladder after you managed to push your thong in your slit, knowing it’s almost as if you were naked, down there, at his eyes.
Soon, you finish cleaning the shelf. You climb down the ladder, fetch some books, up again. And again and again, until the shelf is done.
Only the last shelf waits for you. You grab the first batch of books, climb down the ladder, and stall there, for a while.
“Lucy, is it something wrong, again?”
You knew he was going to ask.
“Sir, would you mind if I… If I lower my panties a little? I can’t keep them like this, I’m getting sore thighs, I’ll not be able to walk tomorrow, otherwise,” you ask.
“Please,” you beg, even if you know there is no need for.
“Just take them off, already,” he blurts. The first sign of a capitulation that, you know, is going to come sooner or later. But the old man doesn’t want to show himself to you, and so you’ll not show yourself to him either. Not as he wants.
“Sir, I would never do such a thing! I’m not paid for that. I just need… some relief,” you use that word purposely, “from this aching I feel between my legs. I’ll take that as a yes, though.”
And so saying, you simply lift your babydoll enough to slide your thumbs across the band of your panties, and pull them down just a couple of centimetres. You feel your pussy free, now, with the textile lying way below it and air flowing on your naked lips. You feel it visible, yet knowing the man can’t see it properly. You feel your juices forming a white web connecting the cotton and your lips. You are overly excited. You want to touch yourself, but you can’t.
“It already feels better. Thank you, Sir.”
This time, as you climb up the ladder, you know he can get glimpses of your naked, hairy pussy, looking in the space between your panties and your sex. You know it, and it excites you so much that, again, you wobble on the ladder.
“You don’t seem to feel better than before,” he says.
“Oh, I’m overly better, Sir. Just… it’s the height.”
Yes, today you feel like lying.