She had to make haste with her chores; she did her morning run faster than usual. Checking in on her chickens, she said a quick hello instead of taking the time to catch a few and pet them. Back in the house she rushed through a quick shower, forced to towel dry and blow dry her hair. Quickly setting the hot rollers, she glances at the clock: 7:30 am. Selecting a black underbust corset, she slides it over her torso, tightening up the laces behind her back. She pulls on a pair of black lace panties, carefully sliding them between her ass cheeks before arranging the wide lace sides over her hip. Rolling the stockings over her legs, she finds that the panties feel foreign against her bald pussy. Normally, she goes without, but erring on the side of caution in the meet with a potentially new client, she thinks it best to play it safe. She clips the stockings to the straps on her corset before selecting a deep purple, stretchy dress from her wardrobe.
Typically not her style, she keeps a few on hand for impromptu occasions when going full on pin up might be a bit overwhelming. She steps into the dress, wiggling to get the clingy fabric over her hips. Her breasts sway back and forth, free from any confines and solely supported by the corset. She slides her arms into the three quarter sleeves before tucking her tits inside. The front of the dress is a loose scoop neck, folds of fabric draping downward. Though it only shows about half of her cleavage, it is an easy dress to pop her breasts out of. The sewn-in bunches along the sides cause the fabric to gather naturally, hiding the fact that she wears a rigid corset beneath it. It drifts down to just above her knee, but the slits on either side of her thighs stop just shy of her underwear, which reveals the top of her stockings when she crosses her legs.
Quickly removing the rollers from her hair, she parts it down the side, whipping the shorter side back and into a large victory roll, leaving the bulk hanging over her left shoulder. Applying her makeup, she keeps it relatively simple with heavy black eyeliner peaking into small cat eyes and deep, cherry red lipstick. She spritzes on perfume before quickly walking to the foyer. Though she desires to wear knee high boots, she knows that combination with her dress would definitely be way too clubby, so she picks a simple pair of black stilettos. Pausing to go over her mental checklist, she runs back to the bed room and hastily picks out some matching jewelry—a necklace, earrings and bracelet. Rarely while working does she bother with any jewelry, as it becomes more of a health hazard than an adornment, but she wants to seem more professional than fuckable.
In the foyer, she opens the large, lightly colored art deco wooden wardrobe cabinet. Affirming to herself that it is Thursday, she grabs the proper 'tool kit' for her afternoon appointment. From the bottom she snags her black briefcase bag that contains all of her new client paperwork. Grabbing a light, black, knee length duster, she slides it on and ties the front. Assuring that she has her phone, wallet and everything else she needs, she locks the door behind her and hops into her red, 1947 four door, deep green Buick. She cherishes that car, but each time she tries to forget that it was her husband who gave it to her.
A twenty minute drive brings her to an out of the way, discrete, twenty-four hour storage facility. She drives her car through the back gate, throwing it into park before she gets out and unlocks the two stall unit she has rented for the past three years. Then, just as she does every day before work, she parks her Buick inside. Unloading her bags into the newer, black Cadillac SUV, she backs it out before shutting and locking the door. Though she would love to drive her car everywhere, it isn't exactly a very discrete car. It wouldn't take much for an acquaintance of hers or her husband's to spot it anywhere within the city. So, to avoid possible questions and curiosities, she always takes her work car.
She follows the directions Jonathan gave her, ending up in a newer area of town. Identical, two story side by side townhouse/condos line the street, giving the whole block a Mr. Rodger's Neighborhood type feel. Finding his house number, she drives about half a block down before putting it in park and shutting it off. The clock on the dash says 8:52 am. Eve takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a minute to gather her thoughts into one cohesive clump. When compared to other doms who have multiple subs, her turnover is rather low. In the past three years she has had roughly a total of seventeen clients; though she still has six, a majority of her former clients either went on to marry others in the industry, moved away or simply evolved beyond their needs for her type of services. She sees a lot of them still, at the House where she works occasionally. But despite her business success, she finds that she always gets nervous when meeting new people.
Delicately getting out of the car, she retrieves her purse and brief case from the backseat. Keeping her face devoid and blank, she walks the half block in her clicking heels holding her briefcase in one hand and letting her purse dangle from the crook of her elbow on the other. Thankfully, it being nine am on a Thursday means that almost all of the neighbors are at work. Almost all. An old man two houses down from her destination, watering his roses, eyes her curiously as she walks by.
Eve lets herself into the quaint, white picketed gate before crossing the short walk and making her way up the dozen steps to the front door. Drawing in a deep breath, she presses the doorbell.
Heavy footsteps draw near, indicating to her that Jonathan must be a large man. It doesn't bode well with her, not because she finds them unattractive, but because she expects her subs to be physically able to do whatever she asks. The doorknob twists and it opens, revealing him.
Briefly, she looks him over. He is massive—not just heavy, but tall, at least six-six, as the top of her head barely reaches his shoulder with heels on. His portly body stretches his clothes out; he isn't obese, per say, but pretty darn close. He is dressed well, though simply in khakis and a light blue polo, she can tell by the fabric that they are high end. Thankfully, she thinks to herself, his shoes match his pants, so he must have some semblance of fashion.
Glancing back up at his face, her eyes linger a moment. He has high cheek bones, framing dull green eyes. His dirty blonde hair is disheveled—whether intentionally or unintentionally, because of his wide frame it makes him seem sloppy. All in all, she envisions that at one point he was probably a very handsome man—it is as if someone placed silly putty on a Jonathan newspaper photo, then pulled and stretched it out wider than it should be.
Having only looked him over for a few seconds, she puts a warm smile on her face, "I am Eve Nightingale. We spoke last night."
Her sultry voice causes him to take a sharp breath in. He works hard to wipe the stunned, shocked, mortified look off of his face. Stepping back, he opens the door wider, "Please...come in."
Nodding in thanks, Eve steps inside the entry. She keeps the inviting smile on her face, careful not to let him see her eyes as they scan the room. Without so much as acknowledging what she sees, she turns back to him and waits for him to lead her. Hastily, he heads to the living room, holding out a hand to offer her the couch.
She sets her bags down, untying the strap on her coat. Surprise hits her when Jonathan steps behind her, carefully grasping the collar so that he can delicately slide it over her shoulders. He folds it in half and drapes it over the back of a chair. Eve makes a mental note at his efforts to be gentlemanly.
Sitting smack dab in the middle of the couch, she delicately crosses her legs, letting the dress drift open to expose the tops of her stockings. As if she doesn't notice, she clasps her hands in her lap, waiting until he sits down before speaking, "So, Jonathan, I'd like you to explain why you believe Luke referred you to me."
His eyes quickly glance at her legs before he sits back in the arm chair. Not flustered at all by her bare thigh, he ponders her question, "I...I am not sure exactly. I guess he saw something in me that he felt...he could help."
