This is a start from a while ago, never taken any further. It has a certain something, though..
Tiffany had always considered herself a sensible, intelligent girl - not one to go too far, or forget her dignity. But she is getting bored. At 22, she has a decent job in an office, with some sort of prospects, she supposes, but nothing that excites her. The men that surround her, attracted by her lovely face, her elegant bearing, her frankly gorgeous body, her dress sense, her pretty smile, are nice enough, but again, none of them really excite her.
She has had her share of boyfriends - some better, some worse, one a real swine. But none of them has ever seriously engaged her interest. She knows that her innate beauty, her body, the care and time she spends presenting herself, deserve an incredible payback.
It has got to the point where her boredom and desire to be somewhere else, with a different class of people, has begun to be obvious. She is not really part of any social groups. Things come to a head one day and she has a flaming row with her manager, and resigns.
So, she goes looking for another job - energised now to find something with a bit of class, a bit of character. Her main problem is that she doesn’t really have any strong skills, and her reference is bound to be poor. She does the thing you’re supposed to do, and makes a list of strengths. When it comes down to it, what she has is basically looks, personality, and dress sense, she realises.
And so, when she sees a job advert for ‘an international high-finance house, based in a newly constructed island in Dubai’, looking for ‘executive assistants’ with ‘exceptional personal grooming’ and ‘a desire to provide the highest levels of service’, for ‘generous packages and a wealth of fringe benefits’, she knew it was the job for her.
The important part of the interview (held in a very swanky hotel suite, obviously beyond expensive, with two men and a woman sitting in easy chairs, dark glasses, mostly silent, waited on by two maids in elegant but definitely sexy outfits, Tiffany standing, answering questions put by a business suited woman sitting on the coffee table) goes like this:
“You’re a very pretty, presentable girl, with a nice manner.”
“Thank you, Madam.”
“But you’re nothing special. There are hundreds like you. We take on quite a few. Most come back within a few months. They’re not ambitious enough to do what it takes. Are you ambitious?”
This is like a slap in the face, deliberate. Tiffany stiffens momentarily, before realising it is a deliberate challenge - all part of the deep seriousness that these people seem to apply to everything. She recovers herself; there is a silence, and then she decides she must be honest, although it brings a flush to her face;
“Yes, yes madam, I am ambitious.”
“Do you want power? money? status?”
It takes a few seconds, but she knows the answer - even though she has never thought in these terms before.
“Status, I think. Yes. Status is important for me.”
It is hard, talking so honestly, with these three silent ones, and the maids too.
But she is more sure than ever that this is the way for her. This luxurious room, the questions, the hard, clear way the woman looks at her, all excite her somehow - this is something real - these are the people she is meant to be around!
“Good. Status and a certain amount of money are possible for such as you - but very little power. Every advantage has to be earned of course. Earned by commitment to service, for such as you. Are you interested?”
Tiffany doesn’t really know what all this means. But she knows, somehow, that it is what she wants - that it will be what she is looking for. Something inside her fiercely wants to be chosen by these people. Her voice quivers slightly, lower and more breathy than usual, as she assents. She is slightly flushed - she doesn’t know why.
“Will you act as maid for tomorrows interviews? We pay well.”
Tiffany is stunned for a second, then blushes more, pathetically grateful - that must be a good sign! She flashes a look at the maid at the back of the room, realising just how exquisitely designed the outfit is - knowing she will look good in it - knowing she will look sexy. Realising, too, from their controlled but slightly shocked expressions that this is a real competition - these girls are her rivals, have made it to Stage 2 of the process, and that perhaps one of them will now not get the job, as Tiffany will take over her role.
Her heart thuds. Dressing like a sexy maid is not a high status position. But they did say it would have to be worked for - and with a rush of feeling, she suddenly knew that if she didn’t get this job she would spend the rest of her life wondering what it should have been about.
“Yes! yes, of course .. that .. yes. Thank you!”
Lazy smiles from the silent ones.
“Good, go next door, they will give you the details. Do exactly what is asked of you.”
And that’s it, the interview is over.
The woman next door understands at once - this is obviously part of the routine. She is rather older than the others, severe, in a dark suit that is almost a uniform.
She asks Tiffany to strip to her underwear, measures her thoroughly and without any niceties. Tiffany is somehow reassured by this - it is all very businesslike. She is also pleased that she has worn new and expensive lingerie.
So that when the woman asks her to remove her bra, she feels reasonably comfortable; reassured by the woman’s obvious professional knowledge and knowing that she is correct - that the only way to get a proper bra fit is from nature.
Again the measuring is professional, thorough, and disinterested. It doesn’t occur to Tiffany that several small but high quality cameras are recording every move. Nevertheless, her own pride in her body, and need to do what she can to impress this woman make her work hard to look her best all through the process, moving elegantly and smoothly.
“Your figure will suit the uniform admirably - particularly your breasts. We don’t supply jewellery, shoes or nickers - have you black courts? Fairly high?”
“Umm - yes - yes, I do.”
“Good - here at 7 am, please, for a little training session - all very simple, but we don’t want you embarrassing yourself, do we? All OK?”
“Yes - yes, thank you. Shall, shall I get dressed?”
“Well, I’m sure the gentlemen would appreciate you hanging around in that state, but I imagine you will want to be on your way, so yes, I think you might get dressed!”
The woman was teasing her, but Tiffany bites her lip and smiles, weakly, accepting.
Dressed, she finds she needs to ask a question.
“Umm- do, do you have any, ah, - advice - I mean, to … to improve my chances?”
She is blushing. It is clear that sexual attraction is part of the job requirement here - so that it is likely that any such advice will be about making herself more obviously aware of that angle. Even asking makes her out to be either a complete idiot, or as contemplating being a bit of a tart.
The woman looks at her, calm, cool and almost without expression. Gradually, a slight smile appears - a knowing smile. Tiffany’s blush deepens. Now is the time to walk away, she thinks. But instead, she continues to meet the other’s eyes, as the smile broadens a little, until at last, Tiffany drops her gaze, blushing, before looking up again, weakness, pleading in her eyes - which feels out of character to her, but is exactly what the older woman was waiting for. Tiffany has admitted, tacitly, that she knows she is offering to make herself sexually appealing, knows that this has been understood, knows shame, but is nevertheless prepared to stay.
The woman reaches out and takes Tiffany’s chin in her cool, bony fingers, lifts it so that Tiffany has to look her in the eye again. It’s a shock, but again, Tiffany lets it happen to her - certain now that these people do very little that is not part of their plan, and finding herself very much wanting to be part of those plans - without having the faintest idea what they might entail;
“What sort of thing were you thinking of, Tiffany?” The voice is light, firm, without any hint of a clue. Tiffany blushes;
“Well - I mean - I suppose. Well, some guys like a cheeky girl, who smiles at them, others … others like a girl to be quieter - I mean - I don’t want to make some silly mistake tomorrow….”
“Oh. If that’s all, it will be covered by the training tomorrow, with the other girl.” The woman is still smiling, but less interested now. Tiffany suddenly has an intuition that this woman is part of the interview process - that she has just failed some little test. She doesn’t want to fail. Not now, not for this job. Not for this woman, either, she realises - not for someone who already, perhaps, understands her better than anyone ever has.
“Well, er - no. No, that’s not all. I suppose, what I’m asking - they wanted to know if I am ‘ambitious’ - in there - and .. and I am - I mean, I said I was. I wanted to know if there was anything - sort of ‘extra’ - that I could do - that might - you know - give me an advantage over the other girls.”
And now Tiffany is blushing fiery red. She doesn’t realise until she hears herself saying it just how blatant that sounds.
“You want to have some sort of advantage? Is that ethical?”
“Well, I just thought, if - if I can show myself to be - the sort of girl you want, then that might help - you, as well as me…”
Tiffany is blushing, but she makes herself meet the woman’s slightly mocking eyes - wanting the other to see that she is serious - although hoping she won’t notice how deeply her chest swells at each breath.
“I see. Well, I’m pleased you want to be the sort of girl we want. Well, I can tell you that it never hurts to have the highest heels you can manage. Is that the sort of thing?”
From the way the woman’s eyes calmly rest on hers, Tiffany knows that there is more of this - perhaps more than Tiffany can take, but for now, she wants to know more. She smiles. A false, polite, pretty smile, that barely covers her tenseness, but it does the job;
“Oh, thank you! That’s just the sort of thing I meant. Um - is .. is there anything else you could tell me?”
“Why don’t you make some guesses? If you get something right, I’ll give you two more hints.”
And the older woman sits, continuing to keep her cool, amused gaze on the pretty young woman standing nervously before her.
Tiffany’s heart hammers - she was right - this is part of the interview - they want to see what she will offer - how far she will go - she doesn’t know herself.
“I .. I noticed - in there - one girl’s skirt was - was a bit shorter…”
“Quite a bit shorter, yes. Well done for paying attention. Paying attention to what they like will be good for you.”
“Would - could you arrange for me to have a short - shorter - skirt?”
“To be worth it, you need to ask for one shorter even than the one you saw - to be worn with stockings and suspender belt - would you be happy with that?”
Tiffany has worn short skirts before - just not in quite such crudely obvious circumstances.
“They - they like stockings, do they?” she attempts a giggle.
“The preferences of your employers are not really something to laugh about, now, are they? Please, if you’re not serious, don’t waste any more of my time”
Tiffany goes pale; “Oh - please - I’m very serious - I - I’d be very … grateful if you could give me a short skirt, and stockings, tomorrow. And .. and I haven’t forgotten about the heels - I can manage 5 inches for a couple of hours, if you think that will be OK.”
“Better. Very well, we have an understanding. You’ll be happy wearing a skirt that is really noticeably short?”
Tiffany nods.
“Good. Now I’ll give you a suggestion - about the shoes - ankle straps of some sort go down well. And your other hint is to wear a lace choker, with a little locket of some sort. Your hair will be dressed up, and the choker will emphasise your pretty neck.”
“Th .. thank you.”
An awkward pause;
“Tiffany; are you finished? Because I do have other work to do.”
“Oh! Sorry .. I .. I was just thinking. I, I once saw a girl with a very pretty bra, under a thin blouse. She .. she had left a few buttons undone..” Tiffany is looking down at the floor now.
The silence extends, and, at last, Tiffany has to look up, to meet the other’s steady gaze, to show her blush;
“I .. I mean ..” she has to say something to fill the silence.
“You wish to make it clear that your breasts are a part of the package you offer? That presentation of your breasts in an obvious and sexually inviting way can be expected of you when required?”
“I .. I suppose so.”
“Look at me Tiffany. Better. Simple, direct answers are always good. Indeed, you do have reasonable tits. Would you like your uniform to make them very obvious to the panel?”
Tiffany suppresses her usual habit with her girlfriends of dressing up such obviously sexual pragmatism with giggles - it has been made clear that all this is very serious;
“Ye..es, please”
“Good. That can be arranged. Now, I have two more suggestions for you. A little curtsey goes down well. Practice this evening. Pull at your hem with both hands, lift it slowly and as high as you think fit; bend your knees a little; smile a little, too.”
“The other hint is; wear very pretty, very sexy, very skimpy nickers over well trimmed pubes. That way, however high you curtsy, you’ll have nothing to be ashamed of. Higher is, of course, better.”
Tiffany thinks to herself; “I don’t have to show up tomorrow, do I? All this is harmless. I could go to the papers, even!” But, deep inside, she knows she will be there, that she will spend the afternoon shopping for high heels with ankle straps, chokers and new nickers, and the evening shaving and practising curtseys.
“Thank you, ..”
“Madam - call me Madam.”
Tiffany’s eyes flash, momentarily - she doesn’t use those sort of words - she’s not a servant! And then, just as quickly, she understands - that is what the job requires - that she take on the mentality of a servant - a maid, even, and her heart hammers. She bites her lip, making herself accept this, for the moment at least.
At last, she looks up, to find the older woman watching her calmly. Looking deep into Tiffany’s eyes, she smiles again, that knowing smile, letting the girl know that she understands her inner turmoil in every detail, and the meaning of Tiffany’s answer - all too well.
Tiffany blushes, a shiver runs through her. It is not unpleasant - somehow relaxing. In a calm voice, she hears herself say;
“Thank you, Madam. I’ll .. I’ll be here. Thank you”.
It takes a little while before Tiffany can move. In the end, the woman says;
“You may go now.”
And Tiffany thinks; “now is when you curtsy”, and makes herself do it, trembling hands finding their way to the hem of her skirt, fumbling and then, amazingly, lifting.
“Very good, dear. Ideally, your crotch is revealed, and you don’t lower until you are told to, but that was prettily done. Practice now!”
And she was there, next morning, half an hour early, wearing her shortest skirt, skimpiest blouse, the new high heels, stockings, a choker; even though they are going to give her a whole new outfit, somehow she has felt that dressing exactly right is important.
She is met at the desk by the same intimidatingly pretty young woman as yesterday, dressed in a very smart, but also incredibly sexy business suit. She, too has her hair up, and a black lace choker. She smiles, a smile of incredible, deep open-ness, speaking of utter commitment to the satisfactory fulfillment of her role;
“Name, please?”
“Tiffany”
“Ah, yes, for the maid position - let me take your coat - you’re pretty!”
This little compliment nearly makes Tiffany cry, so far from her comfort zone is she, feeling like a slut; but the other girl smiles at her with complicity, and Tiffany endures the knowledge that the desk clerk is staring at her with full knowledge of what she has volunteered for.
“You look worried, Tiffany - let me tell you, nothing is going to happen to you today. Nothing will ever happen to you that you don’t want. Really.”
Her voice changes, and she speaks a little urgently, quite softly, so that Tiffany has to lean her head down to hear clearly;
“There are.. later .. there are points .. points of no return. Be .. careful when you cross those.”
And her bright smile comes back;
“I’m sure you’ll be fine - remember to curtsey!”
The lift arrives, and Tiffany is told to go to the same room. She knocks, and the older lady - the one she called Madam, answers. Tiffany is blushing already, heart hammering, and she is pathetically grateful for the small smile of welcome;
As soon as she is in the room, she knows, she must curtsey. But one of the men from yesterday is here.
She takes a breath, closes her eyes, and makes herself do it, lifting the short, flirty skirt up, up, up, heart thumping, breath fluttering, until she knows he must see that she has decided not to wear panties today - until it must be that her naked sex is fully displayed above the white stocking tops. Of course, she has realised while practicing the night before that it is quite easy to look unattractive or downright ridiculous in this pose; also that being over modest looks stupid - pointless; she experimented until she found what seemed to her to be an elegant pose that nevertheless attracted attention and which looked as sexy as she dared without acting like a cheap hooker.
She remembers, too, that she is not supposed to lower her skirt until she is told to. She wonders if it is possible to die of intensity of feeling, if her heart will burst. She knows that, in a way, one Tiffany has indeed died, here, just now. That a new Tiffany has been born; one who will do this often - show her sex to a strange man, waiting on his pleasure.
