Chasity Woodworth Pt 01

I parked my pontiac at the end of the curved driveway just inside the open, iron wrought gates of the estate. The edifice was sickeningly lavish, I could not help noticing, approaching the multi-storied residence with an overwhelming sense of dread and anxiety, but I figured this must only be its pomp and beauty. There had always been something terrifying about the truly beautiful. It had been painted a charcoal gray which made the white shutters and columns seem even crisper, sharper. The greenery was lush and well manicured, but did nothing to soften the over all jaggedness the entire place made me feel. It did not feel like a home, but a mausoleum.

I made my way up the porch to the painted oak french doors and began to worry that I had not dressed appropriately for the appointment. I had never been a housekeeper, much less interviewed to be one, and I had not the slightest idea what formality would be expected. I decided on a white button up, tucked into a black pencil skirt, and nude pumps. It felt standard, cliche, average. My thin, boyish frame fit oddly in the truly feminine attire and suddenly I grew self conscious and silly as I stood next to the wide, long white columns on the porch. I held all my papers, including my cover letter and resume, in a green folder across my flat chest, opting to leave my blue backpack in the car. My makeup was done lightly, but now I was beginning to wonder if I should have covered my freckles, or used a darker shade of red for my lips.

I rang once.

I could see the vague outline of a man through the frosted inlaid glass of the door and my breath caught in my throat as the dark figure moved toward me through the wood. I had never met Mr. Dunbar, never seen in him the flesh. Of course, I had seen him in a magazine or two, occasionally making an appearance on a celebrity gossip show for being seen with a gaggle of models, but that had all stopped with his second marriage.

The door clicked heavily.

The man inside was much different than the image I had of Mr. Dunbar in my mind. That man had been much older, and would be older still, than this man, who upon first appearance could only have been twenty five years old. Mr. Dunbar, even in the glossy cheap photos, was recognizable by his woody brown hair, his chestnut eyes, and unwitting half smirk. This man had blonde hair that was slicked back with a messy ease and empty, shallow blue eyes. His face was boyish, full lips and smooth pale pink skin, but something about him, a scowl, his low brow and tightly clenched jaw—something about him hurt.

Those blank eyes moved up and down my body and his glare was pressed against my skin, and I could feel it against my nerves, lingering on my throat, my clavicle, breasts, stomach, my—I became strangely aware of each part of my body his harsh gaze wandered, as if he were skimming over them with his fingers.

I wanted to say something and I held the words in my mind, running through them like singing a song: Hello, I am Chastity Woodworth, I am the one who called about the interview... But now, I could only stutter awkwardly as if my voice had been stollen, like Ariel.

"Well." The man had waited a very long time to say it, observing and leaning coolly against the door frame, and then he ran one large hand through his blonde locks. "Shows promise, at least. All the other girls where either fat, old, or did not understand english."

I momentarily forgot what was happening and thought I should respond, but failed.

"You do understand english, don't you?

"I..I.. Yes, I am—I am Chastity Woodworth. I am the one who called about the interview."

"You have a quiet voice. Good. Alex will love that." He was starring at my breasts now and then shrugged nonchalantly. "For a while at least. You pass the front door test," the man said, blankly, and stepped aside so I could enter, "but now the real audition begins."

I moved past him and tucked my hair behind my ear while I went to hide my face from his view, but I could still feel him watching me. I could smell his light cologne as he forced me into slipping beneath his arm into the foyer, my pumps echoing off the wooden floors.

The house seemed to be decorated modernly, tastefully, with a feminine touch. I had almost forgotten that Mr. Dunbar was married but it became evident in the decor. I had been expecting something cold, but instead found a foyer ripped out of a magazine, draped in taupe and turquoise.

The mysterious man who was not Mr. Dunbar began to lead me into another room off of the foyer, a sitting room with two love seats and a winged back chair, mirroring the color pattern and style of foyer: warm neutrals and soft blues, touches of gold for accent. The furniture was quality, the decorations were detailed, everything pristine, painfully precise in location and orientation, staged.

"Have a seat," the man said, not with casual politeness, but a stern commanding tone and I found my knees buckling before I had even considered the request, and soon I was sitting opposite of him on one of the love seats, him the other, separate by a glass island of a coffee table, three books laid across it in a perfect geometric alignment. Momentarily, the man retrieved a thin stack of papers from the table and began to shuffle through them absently before saying, "Chastity Woodworth." I nodded. "20 years old." I continued to nod. "No previous relevant experience." I nodded.

He looked up without moving his head, as if we were sharing a conversation only through our eyes, and now he was telling me that this wasn't good for me, that Mr. Dunbar expected experience from their housekeepers, that I would not make the cut, that I had wasted both of our time.

"I.. I have a resume," I told him suddenly feeling him lose interest in me. I desperately fumbled with my green folder and leaned over to hand him the resume. It hovered over the glass coffee table as he sat down his papers and just starred at him, coldly, tiredly.

"A resume? I did not ask to see a resume. Put it, away, Ms. Woodworth."

I complied.

"College?"

"Excuse me?" I mumbled.

"College. I assume you do not attend? Did not attend? Education, Ms. Woodworth, do you have it? What about high school? GED? Anything."

"High school, yes," I began and cleared my throat, smoothed my hands against my skirt, regaining control. "Some college. I was going to attend Brown, but then—."

"But you didn't attend Brown."

"Ye-Yes, that's true. I got in and was planning on it but then, my father..."

"You said some college," he cut in when my voice trailed off, "but not Brown?"

"No, not Brown," I mumbled and tried to avoid the evil cerulean orbs that passed as his eyes that were cutting into my soft, overexposed skin. "Community college."

"That's a far way from Brown," he remarked. And then smirked. I wanted to

punch that smirk. "No wonder you are applying to be a maid."

"A housekeeper," I corrected him, like I had corrected my father when I told him about the employment opportunity.

"Oh, sweetheart, no," he said, with that smirk and dead eyes, "you will be a maid. Housekeeper is just some politically correct term we had to print in the ad. Do not think for one moment that Mr. Dunbar needs someone to run his household staff for him, be some sort of in-home assistant. He needs someone who will wash his sheets and scrub his shower floor. I am the one in charge here."

I wasn't looking at him at all now, out of the painful way his words hit against my ears, or because I did not want to even see him seeing me. My eyes were hot and burning, throat tight. I was angry, at him and at me, and I was scared, of him and of me. I stuck with the former when choosing my tone.

"Who are you exactly? I did not catch your name," I said it sharply.

"I am not someone you will use a tone like that with," he snapped back, his cold eyes darkening.

I set my jaw and tried to return the glare, but there was something unbearable by the way he kept pushing on with this unmoving glare. And then he stood up suddenly, shuffling the paper before returning them to a perfectly neat stack on the table. "Thank you, that is all I need from you."

My mouth went dry. "No, wait," I exhaled, my head swimming as I realized that the interview was coming to a close. All I could see was the stack of unopened envelopes sitting by my change jar, and the ad in the paper, the hefty salary promised, and those damn envelopes. "I'm s-s-sorry," I stammered, "I didn't mean to be rude. I—."

"Are you begging?" the man said, standing over me, his boyish face was cruel like a child bully, "If you are going to beg, you better get on your knees."

"Wha—."
"On. Your. Knees."

I complied, moving from the couch, balancing awkwardly against the glass table, trying to not let my skirt rise above mid thigh, as I lowered myself onto the carpet. The rough texture dug into my knees and my heels were pressed uncomfortably against the edge of the couch, but I sat kneeling, frozen, trying to stay erect, before this stranger.

He smirked. "Much better," he murmured, "Alex will like that. I suppose we can start the audition." He began out of the room but before he disappeared into the hall, he called back, "stay just like that."

I did not move, for some reason I could not be sure. My mind was blank and my sight narrow. Retroactively, I told myself, I needed the money, I needed the job. But in that moment, I was left starring at the stacks of papers, all perfectly, crisp and in their place, waiting for the man to return to tell me what next.

"Mrs. Dunbar appreciates beauty, uniformity...aesthetic," the man was saying as he came back around the corner into the room. "And I'd say Alex shares her proclivity for composition." As he came back into view, I saw what he had retrieved: a black uniform, a thing from the movies or maybe a fetish shop, but made with heavy fabric. I would have laughed if I weren't horrified by the sincerity that he brought it forward. It even had a small, mousy white cap hanging from the coat hanger. "So I will have to see how you fit into... the part. Set the scene. I am sure you will be able to fit into it, and what is gapping or constricting can be tailored away if the overall look is pleasing enough."

"Pleasing...," I mumbled, "Do you want me to try it on?"

"You are so clever. I can see why Brown was so interested," the man said sardonically. He motioned for me to stand, so I did. He thrust the tangle of fabric into my arms. "Go ahead. Dress."

"Is there somewhere I might go...," I murmured.

The man smiled, evilly. "I'll see it all eventually, but I can respect your attempt at modesty. The powder room is off the foyer. Do not be long."

I found the restroom with ease and begun to undress without thinking. I did not want to keep the man waiting, the man whose name I did not even know, and unbuttoned my white blouse hastily. It wasn't until my breasts were kissed with the cold, dehumidified air did I look at myself in the mirror, surprised by the flush in my cheeks, and puzzled by my own eagerness. This certainly was not typical of a housekeeping interview, and for the first time I wondered why Mr. Dunbar did not hire from a reputable maid service. Why he had this infuriating blonde man treating me so harshly.

Perhaps, I should end the interview then, I thought. Tell them, no thanks, it wasn't my sort of gig. Surely, I could get a job at the bank or the grocery store in town.

I brushed these thoughts off quickly, though, and began to fumble with the black blouse of the uniform. In all honesty, it was less scandalizing then I had first expected. But it was tight, and buttoned up tautly across even my moderate breasts. I left the top button on done, showing the hint of cleavage. The skirt was two inches shorter than the pencil skirt I had donned for the interview, impractical at best for cleaning, but the entire uniform came with a pair of stockings and garter belt to remedy that. I had never worn a garter belt before, and struggled securing it beneath the blouse and clipping the thigh-high nylons with a lace hem, but once in place, I found the fabric encasing my thin legs as comfortable, almost erotic. The shoes that accompanied the attire would have to be disastrous, I thought: black Mary Jane's with a kitten heal. They were half a size two large for me, but I slipped my feet in anyways and tried to balance the cap on my head the best I could, tying the little strings around my bun like I had seen them do in movies. I looked absurd.

I folded my clothes I had been wearing and carried them with me as I awkwardly made my way back to the living room.

The man, with his boyish features and angry eyes, held his hands together as if finishing an applause upon my arrival. They collided in a singular clap upon seeing me, a minor congratulations, that, despite my best efforts, rushed over me with a sense of pride. He remedied that fast enough.

"You are bursting out of the sides with those hips of yours," he said and lowered his hands to his side. I froze in the doorway and he approached me, lifting a hand toward my hair. "And this cap is absurd. It'll have to go." He plucked it from my head, pulling out tendrils from my bun, my scalp tingling with the momentary pain. "But besides that, I imagine Alex will be pleased." He let out a hint of a smirk before he snatched my folded clothes from my arms and paced back toward the coffee table. "Did you not wear underwear to the interview? Bold," he said as he shuffled through my garments and placed them on the wing backed chair.

"Of course I did," I snapped without thinking. They were plain, light pink briefs. Sensible, nothing sensual, that left no pantie lines. I became aware of them now, the fabric between my thighs.

"They aren't with the rest of your things," he pointed out.

My cheeks were burning. "I am still wearing them," I explained awkwardly, now not meeting his eye.

"That was presumptuous of you," he remarked, "they weren't apart of the uniform you had been assigned. You can leave the brassiere, I suppose. But the panties will have to go." I paused, gapping mouth, transfixed, and burning. "Ms. Woodworth, is that unclear?"

"No, sir," I found myself responding automatically.

"Good."

He watched as I gauchely lifted the skirt and fumbled with the clips of the garter belt, snapping them accidentally against the tops of my thighs. He did not look away embarrassedly, but starred with intention. Modestly, I draped the edge of the skirt to hide myself, but it only made the process longer, more arduous, and his eyes clawing into me through the silence even worse. Eventually, I was slipping the cheap pair of cotton briefs along my stockinged legs and stepped out of them. I tried to angle my body away as I reattached the belt.

He held out his hand. "Bring them here."

My mouth was dry so I did not say anything. The cold air was a shock against my now exposed labia. I scooped down, trying to hide my womanhood, and crumpled the fabric up into my hand and brought it over to him.

He starred at the wrinkled panties in his hand with equal disdain and fascination. He rubbed the crotch between his forefinger and his thumb, feeling the residue that had formed there, and looked up at me with a raised, accusatory eyebrow, but said nothing and tossed them aside with the rest of the clothes.

"Now," he said, clasping his hands behind his back, "That's settled. Give us a spin why not."

I obliged, turning evenly on the kitten heel, hyperaware of my composition. "Stop." I froze, completely turned around now, facing the wall where there was a painting of children playing in some 1920's streets. The man breathed, heavily. "Bend over, toward the ground." I tried to keep my back straight and legs together, but as I did I could feel the skirt lifting in the back, the brush of the fabric parting from my thighs. "Stop." I froze again like a Barbie doll that had been contoured into this awful pose: legs straight, back straight, a 90 degree angle at my waist. The air was cold on the bottom of my ass and my labia and I desperately wanted to smooth my hands against the back of the skirt to maintain some decency. But I did nothing.

I could hear his foot steps on the hardwood floor as he approached behind me. I could feel the way they moved the ground, the vibrations moving through my legs, into my gut. He we close. "Isn't this a pretty picture, Ms. Woodworth," he said, softly, right upon me now. He sounded close enough to touch my exposed bottom if he had wanted. I half expected it. I half wanted it.

"Would you like—like me to clean anything?" I stuttered out, my throat dry and head empty. He lingered behind me for a long moment. I could hear him exhaling from his nose.

"You've really changed your tone," he noted, "I guess you want this job after all. Stand up straight." I complied. "Come with me."

The blonde man began to lead me from the living room through manse. I did not say anything while I smoothed my skirt down. He chided me for that. He showed me the kitchen, the dinning room, the game parlor and library; each room tastefully composed in modern fashion. I followed him to the second floor and we passed by a door he indicated as Mr. Dunbar's private study, and then the Dunbar's master bedroom, three guest bedrooms, a spare bath, Mrs. Dunbar's sitting room, and finally, on the third floor, two private suites. He explained they had been for hired, live in help when the house had been constructed at the turn of the century. One of the suites had been converted into office space for when Dunbar and associates wanted to do work from the vacation home. He said nothing of the second suite.

"It doesn't matter what order the cleaning is done," the man said as we descended the stairwell, "The laundry and supplies are in the basement. The order of priority should appear obvious, kitchen, sitting space, and master suite with all other spaces secondary. Mrs. Dunbar should bore you with her particularities. Else wise, if I am unpleased with your work, I will make it known."

"Does that mean I got the job?" I said as a paused at the bottom of the second floor landing and turned back to see him.

He smiled, but it did not comfort me. It made my chest tighten and the blood rush. "Ms. Woodworth, this is a very demanding job." He met me on the small landing, standing so close that I could smell his musk.

"It is a large home, but I think I could handle it—."

"It's more than the cleaning," he interrupted. He began to finger the button of my blouse, so casually that for a moment it felt normal. I did not stop him. "You have to be willing," he went on, folding the fabric of the button lose, "to provide an experience." He moved down to the next button. "Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar," he went on as he plucked the next button lose, "will not ask. They want to be surrounded by beautiful, and—." His hand found the last button before the skirt, my entire midriff and breasts were now exposed, but he wasn't looking at my chest. He was looking into my eyes, with that blank intensity I had previously found so off-putting, "Beautiful and obedient things." I inhaled sharply as he snapped the last button open and began to survey my exposed body, pausing when he noted the flush in my chest. "You see," he said and placed one hand on my hip, pushing me until I stumbled back into the wall, holding me there with his body while he whispered close into my ear, "it is not the cleaning I am worried about. Anyone can clean." HIs hand trailed up my thigh and he snapped the edge of the nylon. He pushed up the skirt and I remembered my bare, aching pussy. "It takes someone special to take an order."

His fingers just barely brushed the edge of my labia, and I became aware of the throbbing in my clit. He gently rubbed right above my clit, so targeted it had to be on purpose, denying my pleasure. I could barely breath. "Can you take an order, Chastity?"