Jessica's Interview

Author's Note: Hi! This is my first submission. I wrote it a few months ago for someone. They really liked it, and so did I. But reading it back, not sure at all...! Very interested in feedback. Thank you.

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Jessica rushed through the quiet and heavy revolving doors, and entered the hushed foyer. A glance at her watch told her it wasn't quite 2pm ('phew, just on time!') but the large clock in the foyer of the grand building told a different story - apparently she was 10 minutes late.

'God dammit' thought Jessica. 'This is not a good start'.

She looked around and took in her surroundings. On the floor was a deep, rich carpet that muffled the sounds of the few people (mostly women, she noticed) who were coming and going. The furnishing was evidently very expensive, but tasteful and subdued, in keeping with the reputation of the organisation she had entered. On the right she saw old-fashioned lifts, each operated by a liveried bellboy. On the left were two reception desks, staffed by two platinum, imperious looking women. In the centre, and looming larger than ever, that clock.

Trying to keep her composure, she walked quickly to one of the desks and got the attention of its attendant, who eyed her coldly.

"Oh hi, erm, my name is Jessica. I'm here for an interview with Mr..."

"You're late" came the reply.

"I know, I'm sorry I don't know how that happened I..."

"He doesn't like to be kept waiting. You need a photograph before you can go up. Come here, around the desk, closer to me"

Jessica moved around the desk, anxious to get these dumb procedures finished as quickly as possible. On the woman's desk was a large camera on a fixed tripod, and a large flash gun attached. Rather than moving the camera it appeared to be necessary to manhandle the poor, late, girl. Grabbing her hips, she moved her in to the right position. She even seemed to find it necessary to gently, but firmly move her head to find the right angle.

Pop! The flash went once, twice, three times. Further disorienting Jessica as she was adjusted for the best shot.

'Woah, she is stronger than she looks' thought Jessica, and in her haste she could not have noticed that her white shirt, so carefully tucked in to her best interview skirt, had been completely untucked at the back. Or that quick fingers had turned her hair, neatly tied back in to a tight bun, in to something rather more messy, and flicked open not one, but two buttons on her blouse.

"Quickly" she was ordered by the unsmiling receptionist "take the elevator on the left. Ask the boy to take you to the very top floor".

Jessica ran to the lift, gave the boy the instruction, and waited with her heart in her mouth as he clanged the door shut, and pulled the lever for the very top floor. She noticed that he stood uncomfortably close, but she didn't notice that, with a tiny knife, he expertly slit the ribbon holding up one of her stockings. Nor did she notice that, as the elevator doors closed, her receptionist looked at the big clock, pressed a button on her desk, and the long hand sprang slightly back, to read... 2pm.

***********

The last day had been a whirlwind for Jessica. She had been living in London for one year after moving from the countryside where she had lived with her parents. There was no work for her there, and she had come to the big city to try to earn something to help support the family. But 12 months in, she had only managed to find a waitressing job in a none-too-salubrious restaurant. If she was honest though, she knew she was quite lucky with that job - her waitressing skills were distinctly average.

And then yesterday, a very smart looking courier had delivered a telegram. She had been invited to a job interview at the famous Switchmore Club on London's Mayfair. The Switchmore was, by far, the most expensive and prestigious of all London's gentleman's clubs. It was also extremely secretive. It took up a very large plot on one of London's most exclusive addresses, but was set back slightly and although everyone knew exactly where it was, it somehow remained unobtrusive. The perfectly maintained foliage, and clever design of the surrounds, made it rather difficult to see just who came and went.

The Switchmore had another reputation, and that was for simply excellent service. It was almost as hard to get a job there as it was to become a member. Although it was never clear exactly how, there was always a suggestion that the training methods were... unconventional. But it was also clear, after a few years of working at the Switchmore, a girl would be guaranteed a job at any hotel, club or restaurant in the world.

All this was going through Jessica's mind as she rode the elevator up. Normally very reticent and shy, upon receiving the invitation to interview she had gone shopping with all the money she had. Naturally modest, she did not believe that she could possibly compete with whomever else she was interviewing against - everyone knew the Switchmore only employed the most statuesque and elegant girls. But she was sure going to try!

Her shopping haul had included black shiny heels. She knew she could not walk in stiletto, but had gone for the highest she could. She wore a navy skirt that flared our prettily from her hips, and a tight fitted white shirt. A blue smart jacket matched her skirt and in her ears she wore small lapis studs, a gift from her grandmother when she left her country village. Twirling on her new heels, and admiring herself in the mirror of the store, Jessica had been chatting with the pretty sales girl, and let slip she was shopping in preparation for an important interview.

"Well then, you need to make sure you feel confident from head to toe" the girl had winked, and bought out a pair of beautiful cream silk knickers. Jessica felt her breath grow a little short, and a beautiful scary icy feeling drop down from her heart to her belly. 'Such a waste' she thought 'who will ever see them?' but part of her knew she was going to buy them the moment the girl winked, and smiling guiltily she nodded her head as they were added to her pile of purchases.

With a clang. The elevator came to a halt and the boy pulled open the door.

"'ere you are love" he said, not all together kindly, and with a hand in her back gave her a gentle shove out of the compartment. Jessica semi-stumbled forward, and her the elevator began it's descent behind her. The hallway was spacious and grand. A skylight high above filtered sunlight down on to the polished wooden floor. She took some tentative steps forward, scaring herself with the amplified 'clack, clack, clack' of her heels on the floor.

"Hello...?" she called out, and felt the butterflies in her tummy getting bigger and stronger...

"COME" a strong male voice called out.

A door was slightly ajar, and she felt sure the voice had come from there. With some trepidation she crept forward, pushed open the door, and stepped in to the room. It was a very large, beautiful room with windows all down one side. It was fitted out like a study, with books along one wall, armchairs and sofas for reading, and a very large mahogany desk that dominated the room.

In front of the desk stood a man. He looked strong, and lithe thought Jessica. Although he was totally still and smartly dressed in trousers and shirt, something reminded Jessica of a cat or a wolf. He looked designed for movement. And he looked angry.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"I know, I'm so sorry I'm late, I..."

"Late? Late is not the half of it" he fumed, confusing Jessica slightly. 'What else had she done wrong?' she thought.

"Come in girl, right now. Stand here, in front of me, in the centre of the room".

"Do you know who I am?"

Quaking, Jessica shook her head.

"I am Sir Jonathan Kavanagh, and I am the owner of the Switchmore. These rooms at the top of the building are my private apartment, and I had need of a new live-in maid and personal assistant. I sent for you, and I am beginning to think that I have made a mistake.

"Let me explain to you how the Switchmore works. The majority of this great building is a gentleman's club. The most distinguished and uncompromising men around the world pay an exorbitant fee to be a member, so that when they are in London they can stay here. We provide the very best, of absolutely everything. Food, wine and excellent, excellent... service. In order to do this we recruit girls, and train them to our own exacting standards. That is not why you are here."

He approached her, and came to stand very close. He seemed to radiate energy and smelt clean, with a hint of aftershave. In comparison, Jessica smelt faintly her own sweat from her flustered arrival.

"You are here because we provide another service. We recruit, and train, the finest young women we can find in the role of maid and assistant. Myself, and a few other gentleman that I have hand-picked over the years, keep apartments here, and with each apartment comes a young woman who is expected to manage everything that the gentleman requires. You will be trained to cook, and clean, and take notes, manage his diary, drive his car to appointments, and a great great many other things besides. Your mind and your body will be honed to be utterly subservient, and at the same time to be the very best that you can be

Your training period will last for a number of years, during which you must, indeed you will be trained to be, completely obedient. Consistent and loving discipline is an important aspect of our training regime. But when your training is completed, you will be permitted, by mutual agreement to leave. You will leave as an exceptionally strong and awakened young woman in touch with herself and her deepest powers. The world will be your oyster.

All this I offer you, and you turn up looking like this".

At this point Jessica noticed herself in the large full-length mirror off to one side. Her careful preparations that morning had been for nothing. Her hair, supposed to look smart and business like was tousled and awry. Her blouse was untucked and buttons undone, exposing far more cleavage than she would have wanted. And worst of all, the ribbon her stocking seemed to have snapped, exposing a shameless expanse of thigh.

The bashful girl tried to adjust her clothing, but only seemed to make things worse.

"I have long thought that girls today had far too high an opinion of themselves, and simply did know the manners and correct state of dress for meeting their elders and betters" seethed the man.

"And I have a very clear idea in my mind of how they need to be educated as to the error of their ways. I believe that this role is now completely out of your grasp, young lady, but nonetheless as a member of the aristocracy I see it as my right, in fact my duty, to uphold the morals of this society whenever I can. And to act resolutely whenever I see fit."

He strolled back, leaned nonchalantly against his desk, and crossed his arms.

"Now. Take off your skirt"

Kavanagh carefully watched the girl in front of him. If his intuition was right, and in these matters it almost always was, then there would be no defiance from the girl, not at this point. Defiance would come, certainly. He was not interested in girls with no fortitude. They lacked the inner strength required for the training, and the energy to not only survive, but blossom and thrive under the regimen. Besides, girls with no defiance just weren't interesting.

But that rebellion, he believed, would come later. His small tricks with the time and her appearance would likely have done enough to knock her off balance and in this moment, her defences would be low enough for him to gain the upper hand. But more than that, from years of experience he knew his type of girl. The type that he needed to satisfy himself, plus the type that he could work with to become the very best version of herself she could be. And here, he believed, was a woman truly exceptional.

He had first noticed her one night at her restaurant. He liked, occasionally, to dine at such down-at-heel establishments. He could relax there, away from anyone who knew him. And they often proved rewarding hunting grounds for his business and passion. He had noticed this girl straight away.

She moved with the poise and elegance of a kitten, which is to say, with very little of either.

Things were forever being dropped, spilled and bumped in to. But there was a strength in her movements, and just under the surface a kind of animal grace, that he believed he could develop in to jaw-dropping beauty. With the right combination of love and discipline, she would become extremely capable. Those slight aberrations and imperfections would remain, but, as a connoisseur, he knew that would be what made her truly spellbinding to observe.

After that first visit he had watched her carefully twice more, and confirmed his previous assessment. He watched her serve the customers, and joke with them, and push off their advances. An expert, he felt sure that here was a very special girl indeed. She was fun-loving, and outwardly confident. But vulnerable too, with a meekness and respect for authority that most would not have noticed. He knew the type, and judged that deep-down, she wanted to be cared for and lead. To be told exactly what to do, and punished when bad. And he judged also her needs, her sexual needs that she likely hid even from herself. How powerful they were within her, and how they were not being met. Just by watching her walk, he also reckoned on a strong, but latent, exhibitionist streak.

Which brought them, both, to where they were now.

"Take. Off. Your skirt."

He moved closer, further in to her personal space. Making it more humiliating for her to obey his instruction, but increasing the panic signals from her brain that she absolutely should comply.

Jessica's physiology was completely in over-drive. Absolutely nothing in her life so far had prepared her for this. Her heart thudded high in her chest; great pounding thumps that shook her slightly with every beat. Blood teemed in to her head, whining in her ears and clouding the edges of her vision. Every sense focused on the man in front of her.

She knew that she should resist. That despite the magnificence of the organisation she should turn around and leave. Yes she was late, and yes ('somehow, how?!') her appearance showed total disrespect. But no one, no man could order her to strip against her will.

But another part, a surer part, told her he was right. She had been bad, and naughty, and deserved to be punished. And another part, a part she did not understand at all, wanted to take that skirt off very, very much. Standing here, in the middle of this large and beautiful room with sunlight streaming in, to slide down this zipper, because she had been ordered to.

"Jessica..."

His eyes were hard, and he scared her, but his voice was soft and matter-of-fact. An edge of kindness, even.

"I shall not tell you again."

Her heart thumped so hard she thought she might faint, and her eyes, wide, felt glued to his. But her hands, seeming to work all by themselves, found the waistband and her fingers traced it round to the back. The movement forced her arms and shoulders back, pushing her breasts, already embarrassingly exposed, forward and up. Shame and excitement flushed her face red and she fumbled with the brass zip. But she found it, and moved it down, slowly from the small of her back over the curve at the top of her bottom, and down slightly in-between each cheek. She let go, and the material fell with a slight whoosh, sliding over her thighs to land in a crumpled heap around her ankles.

With a tiny, almost imperceptible sigh, she let out her breath.

Kavanagh studied her, knowing he would remember this moment for a very long time. A tiny sheen of sweat slicked a few stray hairs to her forehead and her mouth hung shamelessly open as she drew more desperate air in to her lungs. He saw each judder from her heart, and each tiny rasping breath caused her cleavage to swell, pushing hard nipples against the fabric of her bra. Her blouse ended just at her hips, tapering down slightly at the front drawing his eye to a very pretty and silky pair of cream panties nestled at the top her thighs. Her legs were strong and brown, and ended, just now, in an adorable little tangle of skirt.

"Fold that neatly and pass it to me."

Jessica stepped out of her skirt. The click of her heels on the floor sent sound waves echoing around the room, which bounced back and seemed to emphasise her nakedness. She bent down, picked her garment from the floor and fumbling found the edges. She pressed them together, and thrust it out toward him. He paused before accepting it, allowing the significance of the gesture to seep in. Standing there, arms outstretched she offered him this symbol of her nakedness. It was an acquiescence, a submission, an agreement that she knew she was wrong and deserved whatever she had coming.

"That is hardly neat" he muttered, "I can see that with you I shall need to be strict".

He took the skirt with one hand, and firmly took her hand with his other. Marching quickly he led over to a high-backed chair without arms, positioned slightly off to one side. Tottering slightly on her heels, she stumbled after him. He reached the chair and, still holding her hand, spun smoothly so that he sat on the edge. For just a second he paused. Her hand held in his, he gazed up at her.

'God, you really are beautiful' he thought. But then, knowing exactly what needed to be done, he pulled her down and over his knee.

Jessica suddenly found herself upside down, palms pressed in to the floorboards. A jolt of humiliation went through her and ignited a little flame of rebellion. She kicked, and tried to force herself back up, but a firm hand on her lower back kept her in place, and a powerful, authoritative smack landed right in the centre of her bottom.

The flame went out as soon as it had come.

The feeling of being upended, held down, and struck on this intimate area resonated with something buried inside her. It hurt, and she felt ashamed, but she also felt safe.

The thought came, unbidden: 'I need this. I need this really really bad'.

Another spank landed, and another, and another as her master found his rhythm. Each stung, and she tensed and cried out little yelps. But soon the tension drained out and she wrapped her arms around his legs and pressed her face in to his trousers.

Sir Kavanagh was determined to ensure the girl felt very soundly punished. His experience told him that the act of submission must be followed up with a very soundly spanked bottom or she would not feel she had seen, had not been properly dealt with, and would doubt his commitment to her. But he knew that she needed something else as well.

Gradually, between spanks, he would grab her bottom in his hand, kneading and squeezing, and massaging those firm and sensitive muscles. He pushed the material of her panties over the reddening skin of her buttocks, the silk simultaneously soothing and abrasing the soft and tender area.

Each time he removed his hand now, she arched her back and pushed her bottom up, seeking the direction and security of him. And each time, whether he bought it down to punish or caress her, her yelps and sobs had been replaced by soft animal moans.

He stroked the skin at the top of her thighs, and, defeated, she let her legs fall further open. He reached through, and took the whole of her sex in his hand, grinding and sliding the material of her knickers over her lips and swollen clit. She pushed helplessly back against him, any dignity forgotten in a swirling haze of humiliation and desire.

With one finger he pushed her panties to the side and massaged her there, his fingertips moving quickly and firmly, her sweet silky juices gliding him over her most sensitive and vulnerable skin. He grazed the nail of his thumb over her tight, ridged little ass and she instinctively tensed and jerked her body away. But two very firm spanks bought her back in to line. He pushed again and and she pushed back so his thumb, slick with her moisture, pushed a centimetre inside and claimed her there. Simultaneously, his fingers parted her lips and thrust fully deep in to her cunt.