The interview was going well. She was smiling and flirting with the three dark suited partners. They were in their forties, extremely rich, powerful and relaxed. She was 23, a lovely, sexy thing, dressed in a smart but oh-so-sexy little skirt-suit, even though she was penniless, and aware that her resume was pretty thin.
The room was obviously designed without thought for cost - it had a dark, masculine, powerful aura - all expensive wood, deep red leather, hand crafted and exquisitely worked. It was at once intimidating and exciting to the girl; she was with serious money now. Sitting in the heavy leather chair, she looks dainty, fragile, vulnerable, and she knows it. She is being careful not to undermine that impression, avoiding strong answers, speaking softly, in her upper register, smiling prettily, giggling sometimes. She has crossed her legs four times now, slowly and seemingly unconsciously. She has on lace-topped hold-ups and a tiny, black, asymmetric thong. She thinks she knows what she is doing. She thinks she knows how to manage this sort of situation. How wrong she is, she will find out only when it’s too late.
She has run up huge credit card bills on pretty, sexy clothes, and hung out in banker bars, flirting. She was flirting with one of these guys when he mentioned the opening. She had fucked him as carefully and thoughtfully as she knew how, doing everything she could imagine he might enjoy, letting him use her as he wished; enjoying it herself, letting him know she was happy to give pleasure to powerful, rich, handsome guys like him. When it was clear he wanted to be rough with her, she had crossed a line she had promised herself she would never cross.
Instead of pulling away from him and giving him a hard time, she had done the exact opposite. Acting the part to perfection, she had looked up at him, with a pretty show of fear in her face and voice, and said;
“That was .. kinda .. harsh. Are .. are you - gonna - be rough with me?” - making it clear with her body language and her provocative stance that she would not resist - and he had made her tell him that she wanted him to hurt her.
And indeed, he had hurt her. She had always known, feared, that there was a side of her which would respond to such treatment, and respond she did, prettily encouraging him to abuse her, spank her, smack her about a little; force his cock deep into her throat, hold her just as he wished as he fucked her, sodomised her, remaining soft and pretty, and coming noisily (and genuinely) for him at a time she judged would boost his ego most.
And in the morning, she had woken early in the sunlight, and fixed him a breakfast, wearing only a lacy babydoll nightie, and brought it to him. And he had told her he wanted to watch her masturbate while he ate his breakfast, and, after as much pleading and giggled refusals as she dared, she found herself facing him, at the foot of his enormous bed, legs spread, working on her pussy with a shiny black vibrator, her blush and her vanished smile evidence that she had gone beyond her limits again, her loud orgasm evidence that she liked it.
And she had been shortlisted, despite her resume. Which was good, because she had run out of credit - everywhere.
He was smiling at her now;
“You understand, Chloe, that this is going to be quite a … demanding role? You are going to be expected to look incredible, every minute of the day. You will need to have a manner that goes with your looks - sweet, eager, willing to please, tolerant and accommodating. You will be here early each morning, and will often be required to work late. You will often be required to accompany staff members on trips away. You will often be required to dine with and entertain clients. Nothing, absolutely nothing, will be too much trouble for you. You will give us the impression that you live to please us - that you have no life apart from your life here. Can you handle that?”
She is a little taken aback - that is REALLY full on. Her doubt registers in her face, which is entertaining and encouraging; they don’t want a whore, someone who has been used up already; they want an innocent, but one who will be easy to use. They think they’ve found her.
Chloe pulls herself together - she really needs this job! She can handle this! She’ll have them wrapped round her little finger soon enough. She decides to be flirty and cheeky;
“But the salary reflects that level of commitment, right?”
Amused grins. The old punchline comes to mind ‘…. so, all we’re arguing about is the price’.
“We believe that it does - substantial bonuses will also be awarded for demonstrations of devotion to the firms interests.”
What did that mean? Well, at some point, it meant ‘lots of money’, so it had to be good, right? She liked them smiling at her. She knew they must all know how well she had fucked Joe - or ‘Sir’, as she had to remember to call him from now on - and that the other two must be assuming they would get to fuck her too. Which was fair enough, as she was assuming the same thing. Even looking forward to it. She likes fucking rich, powerful men, likes giving them all she can - she is willing, she knows now, to take the rough stuff, to be made to feel like a whore, but only with men who can really look after her. And she knows that she is really the one who is in charge. She’ll give them everything, yes, but it is her choice, and they’ll end up hooked, so she will end up with the power. That’s what she thinks.
“So, can you handle it?”
“I guess - I mean, when you say - um - ‘look incredible’ - I mean…”
She giggles, knowing they will enjoy thinking it is weakness, will like to feel they are pushing her.
“What we mean is; very, very short skirts, often no panties, extreme high heels, pretty thigh-highs, lacy push-up bras that don’t cover your nipples, tight basques, corsets; low cut, sheer blouses, pretty chokers, ankle chain, belly chain. Sometimes you will be required to wear a skimpy french maid outfit. High maintenance hair and make-up, neat little landing strip pubes, sexy walk, lots of flashes of pussy and cleavage for us and our clients - that sort of thing - but all with a very high touch of class. Can you do that for us?”
She blushes, giggles some more, then decides it’s time to encourage them; sits up a little straighter, slides a little forward in her seat, opening her legs a little, rolling her shoulders back, presenting herself, looking into the older one’s eyes - she figures he’s the senior - letting him see she will fuck him;
“Wow. If … if that’s what you want - then yes; yes, I can do that. I .. I do .. like to feel sexy. To have men … look at me. But .. but; you wouldn’t be satisfied .. I mean … just with looking, would you?”
Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes right; this is beyond anything she’s done before - but she can handle it; she is breathing a little heavily - her breasts move deliciously, but her smile is deliberately provocative.
‘I’m going to do it’ she thinks ‘I’m going to become the office whore for these guys. Its going to be so easy.’
His voice is low, but firm and steady - no trace of doubt or embarrassment;
“You’re right, we won’t be satisfied just with looking. Your job will be to be inviting, and eager to please; you will be soft and easy and very willing, and you will be obedient, and nothing will please you more than to please us, any way we like it. Do you understand?”
There is a long pause; the girl seems to be going through some sort of internal struggle. The men smile. It doesn’t really matter to them. She isn’t the first girl they’ve seen, she certainly won’t be the last. But for her, this moment is when she decides she is a whore, or not.
She looks up, flushed, but calm, smiling softly;
“I … imagine Mr Marriott has told you that … that I can be … very willing indeed. If … if you hire me, I won’t let you down.”
She is breathing a little fast. She is sexually excited, and she knows they have seen it. The feeling is incredible. She looks at each in turn, letting them see how she feels, her mouth a little open, blushing, but opening herself, deliberately, letting them see how sexy she can be.
The senior guy speaks - D;
“Well, now, let’s see what you mean by willing. Why don’t you do a cute little strip for us now. Show us how hot you are.”
She smiles at him, feeling her pulse begin to beat harder. God, she is going to do this! She’s going to be a slut for these guys. Let them do her - just because they have money. Become a real whore. She feels herself getting wet. She can also feel the shame rising. Clamping down on the shame, she focuses on the warm, sexy feeling in her belly.
It’s not that she doesn’t care - she’s been very careful, ever since she started enjoying the power of her sexuality, not to go too far - a sexy dresser, a flirty character, uninhibited in bed, happy to please her man, affected by and interested in wealth, power and influence - yes to all these things, but never too easy, never too obvious, always classy.
But ever since she realised the effect that her late-flowering body could have on guys, she has been working up to this moment - she knows, now, she was always going to do this - all she was waiting for was the right time - not to sell herself too cheaply, to the wrong sort - but to sell herself - become a whore. And these guys are kosher - seriously rich, straight business players - easy to handle, easy to please - so she believes.
If she’s going to be a whore, then this is the safest possible place to be a whore - a well paid, high class, exclusive whore - private, not public property. The idea of being here, every day, dressed up to the nines in sexy clothes,smiling, showing herself off to them and their clients - knowing that she is there to get fucked - is incredible; so sexy. It gives her a warm glow at her crotch.
Within a month, she thinks, she will have conquered them - fucked their brains out, so that they can’t see beyond her tits, her pretty little puss, her soft red lips. And then she will begin to live the life of elegance she wants, and they will pay.
She looks up, and the smile she gives them is genuine, excited, soft and warm, even as she blushes - she is inviting them to enjoy her shame. Then, slowly, she stands up, flushed pink, but elegant and in control, and begins to sway slowly, dancing to imaginary music.
At first, she looks only at the floor, but, as she gets used to the idea, she lifts her head. Her smile is brief - the moment is too intense for smiling.
The little jacket goes first, then the skirt. She really is gorgeous; her waist is small, her belly flat but feminine, soft. Her thighs are slim and long, well spaced as they meet at her crotch. And she has chosen to wear very inviting lingerie; skimpy, lacy panties with asymmetric straps, a little silky ribbon bow with a pearl - it is clear she has dressed with display in mind.
As she begins to unbutton the slinky little blouse, her lips are softly parted, her movements sensual and generous, naked now but for the lacy bra, panties, stockings and shoes, dancing for them. Whatever her embrace of the idea of doing this, it is now, that she is actually going beyond the point of no return - she is going to be naked in front of three near strangers, offer them her body.
But there is no hesitation as she elegantly removes the bra, her breasts swaying free with just enough of a bounce to make it clear they are entirely natural, the nipples well formed, semi-stiff, dark against her pale, velvet smooth skin. Her breasts are incredible; generous, but firm. And she moves deliciously, seductively, feeling in herself a rising excitement, responding to the flashes she sees in their otherwise cool eyes. She knows she has to let them see it - see that she is turned on by acting the whore.
And in turn she needs to see that they are responding. She has stripped before - even stripped for 3 guys before - but never so clearly and unambiguously in the context of being ready to fuck in return for money. Here, there is not even a pretense at a social relationship; she is stripping so she will get this job. These men know she is a whore. It is a more powerfully affecting feeling than she could have imagined - different from anything she has felt before.
She feels dirty, and she likes it. It frightens her - she wants to believe she is in control. So she pushes down the fear, ignores the warnings from her own subconscious, and keeps on dancing, feeling her breasts swaying; wondering again whether they aren’t too big - that old insecurity - first, she had no breasts at all, then, suddenly, they were so obvious, so attention grabbing, defining her so strongly.
And still she dances, lifting her hands high, caressing herself, catches her breath and makes herself begin rolling the skimpy panties down her thighs a little at a time, until her sex is bare, the panties tight around her thighs, until they fall, and she opens her thighs wider, kneels on the low table, gathers her hair at the back of her head and begins to slowly grind her thighs, opening herself wider, wider.
This is getting really intense for her, she is trembling, her moves are getting less assured. She has forgotten her intention to keep her eyes open, to keep looking at them - lost in the moment, ashamed, but after a time she finds she needs to look, needs to know what is in their faces.
The vulnerability, need, doubt in her eyes makes it certain that they will take her. Her hopeful little smile is the opposite of a stripper’s professional grin. Her swaying falters.
“Very good - you have excellent tits, and you dance well Chloe. That concludes the interview. Unless, that is, you have anything else you would like us to ah, take into consideration.”
Chloe is blushing, confused, unsure - are they really that cold, unaffected by her display? Then, slowly, she realises what is being asked - they want her to offer herself. Her smile wavers again; she blinks, trying to calm herself, pushing away the thought that this isn’t going as she had imagined - that she is one that is off-balance, not them - not wanting to consider this, not now.
She takes a deep breath, a pretty, naked young woman, thighs spread, in front of three business suited men, all old enough to be her father; she makes herself giggle - it comes out more like a breathy little moan, almost a whimper - feels her breasts jiggle;
“Well .. um .. I’d.. I mean .. “
She closes her eyes, makes the funny little sound again, her voice is very small and soft;
“If .. if any of you would like to fuck me, I’d be very .. um .. Please .. please - fuck me”
There are tears pricking her eyes, but her heart is hammering, and her pussy is as hot as it has ever been. Her chest is heaving, and when D stands and walks over to her, unzipping his fly, she is so grateful to take his thick cock into her mouth - to have something to do. She gives him the best blow job she can, letting him use her throat when he pushes, caressing his cock with her tongue when he pulls back, then meekly, moving as prettily as she can, spins around on the table when he gives her a little push, lifting her ass, lowering her head, helping him penetrate her, deliberately letting herself moan as he penetrates her, hearing the shame and pleasure mingled in her own voice, biting her lip to keep the tears of shame from falling, trying to forget that the other two are watching.
He grasps her wrists and pulls her onto himself with them, hurting her, not caring.
She does her best to move for him, to offer herself as fully as she can.
Then “Bring yourself off - use your fingers” He lets go of her right hand, twists the left arm, hard, to keep her up against him, hurting her, not relaxing when she cries out.
And she has little choice, even though it burns her with shame to do it; touching her stiff little clit, feeling at once how much she likes it, knowing she is going to be able to come soon, knowing it will be a big one, that she will moan and cry out as this stranger fucks her - like a whore - in front of her other customers, feeling the knowledge make it stronger, these thoughts going round and round in a crescendo of dirty excitement until she is jerking and moaning, and feeling him throbbing in her pussy, filling her with his jism; so grateful, so, so pathetically grateful, hearing herself;
“Thank you, thank you oo–ooh, Jesus, Fuck me, fuck me!”
And then he is out of her and J is lifting her head in his hands, poking his stiff dick at her, into her mouth, and she takes him, knowing from her night with him that he is going to want to simply fuck her throat, to use her, and that she is going to let him do it, let the other two see her being used like a fuck-hole, jerking like a rag doll as he uses her hair as a handle, working hard to keep herself soft for him, keeping her hands down, grasping her own wrists behind her back, showing her submission; choking and gagging until he comes, grunting, the jism spurting from her nostrils, leaving her coughing and spluttering as the other man, whose name she has forgotten, makes it clear he is going to sodomise her, and the tears, snot and jism mingle on her face as she nevertheless moves with him, doing what she can to open her almost virgin asshole to this stranger’s cock, crying out in pain as he finally loses patience and thrusts roughly into her.
“Move, bitch! Make me come!”
And she does, whimpering and moaning until she feels him tense and begin to jerk inside her, moving as seductively as she can, softly crying at the same time.
Spent, he pulls out with a short laugh, leaving her despoiled, sticky with three men’s come, shaking, crying; just holding on to herself.
Looking up after a minute, it is clear that D has cleaned himself up and is back at his desk, watching. J and the other man are nowhere to be seen.
D’s voice is as calm as it has been throughout;
“You’re a juicy fuck; that is a point in your favour. There’s a thousand pounds in this envelope - a small appreciation. We have another girl to interview next week. Nevertheless, we’d like to have you on a week contract until we’re in a position to compare you both. What do you say?”
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