Chapter 12, In which we move up in the world
It was difficult getting used to living on three whole floors instead of a single apartment. There was so much more to take care of! At least I had my own room again, even if it was rather cramped -- it just made sense to use the old servant's quarters because they were so conveniently located.
I hurried downstairs, my mind swirling with lists to organize and tasks to accomplish. It was obvious I needed more help; it was just too much to take on by myself. There weren't enough hours in the day! The stress was getting to me, and I wasn't sleeping well most nights.
Daddy had seemed worse, today. He'd gone into a paroxysm of masturbation at the sight of me, although I couldn't imagine why. Nothing about me had changed; I wasn't even naked.
The snow-white crinolines and lace "apron" served primarily to highlight the elaborate cutwork of my very short black lace dress, and a stiffly boned black leather bustier held everything in place and presented my breasts to their best advantage. The lace on top came barely high enough to conceal my nipples and tease them with every movement; the crinolines peeked out beneath my hem and were just long enough to keep me decent while standing, without obstructing access to anything.
I would have been just as happy to stay naked, but it amused Stacey for some reason, and that was good enough for me. The only downside was that I had to budget over an hour each morning just to get dressed. In all honesty, it probably was due more to the long black-lacquered nails adorning my fingers than the clothing; I was still getting used to them.
My bell jingled lightly in time with the click of my stilettos on the floor. Maybe Daddy didn't like the hose? I'd forgone a pattern in favor of a smoky grey that I thought Stacey would find attractive. Well, that and I'd ruined the patterned pair with an ill-considered grip.
Mom was more civil. A quick glance, a dismissive "I'm sorry, dear, but you're too old for me," and she had turned back to her Internet porn. I wanted to stay and talk, try and get her to socialize more, but I was late already.
Luckily for me, so was our applicant. I was able to greet her at the entry lobby after she'd been waiting less than a minute.
"Good morning," she chirped, clearly nervous. "I'm Irene Calzetta. I have an appointment with Ms. Richwell regarding her executive assistant position." She was thin, with breasts that looked a little large on her body, and curly hair about the same color mine had been. Her makeup was a little much for this early in the day, although I thought it was becoming and knew Stacey would like it, too. I bet myself she was wearing the only suit she owned. Somebody should have told her to remove the piercing in her eyebrow. Another college student looking to jump-start her climb to the top, I imagined.
I didn't bother explaining that I was Linnea Richwell, since it just confused them when Stacey did most of the talking. "Good morning, Irene. May I take your coat?" She accepted, like they all did. "If you'll wait here, I'll announce you."
Once in the cloakroom, it didn't take a moment to hang the coat and find a few hairs. Curling them carefully in my hand, I paced quickly down the hall to Daddy's -- no, Stacey's -- office and let myself in without knocking.
"I masturbated in the shower again, and our ten o'clock is here," I addressed Stacey, ignoring the girl who was kneeling in front of her. Miriam had appeared unexpectedly last week, apparently the result of a chance meeting. Both of them were naked and the room smelled of desire; Stacey wriggled contentedly as the girl's tongue stud stroked her clit, but eyed me with a trace of annoyance.
I missed being in that position, but I knew that Stacey still loved me, and it was important for me to have time to do all the other things nobody else could. It just made sense for me to take care of Daddy and Mommy, and handle the deliveries, and do the cleaning and laundry, and make our meals.
Stacey was such a trooper to help out with the... My thoughts hit a rough patch. Well, she helped out a lot, and was making an effort to master management of our finances, although she seemed to be fixated more on the balance of the money market account and the credit limits on our cards than rate of return or expected cash flows from our portfolio.
"Oh, Linnea," sighed Stacey, "what am I going to do with you? Why can't you be a good girl, like Miriam?" She sighed again, this time with pleasure, at Miriam's continued attentions.
"I can't help myself," I said remorsefully. "I miss you." She'd tried over and over to help me, but nothing seemed to do the trick. The decorative bell hanging from the ring behind my clit had been effective in the old apartment, but my parents' place was just too big. The reflexive jets of piss when I disobeyed or disappointed her had worked for a while, but I'd grown accustomed to them.
Once again, I'd found myself standing in the shower, doing myself and cumming like a total slut. The urine and warm water had run down my bare legs unnoticed while I energetically fingered my tits and ass and felt a yearning for something I couldn't quantify. I thought -- hoped -- it was Stacey.
That brought me back to the problem of finding some additional helping hands so we'd have more time for each other. I knew Stacey was pleased with Miriam, but there were aspects of life that couldn't be solved with a tongue stud, and we couldn't just wait around, hoping we'd run into somebody suitable.
Stacey had sounded dismissive but agreeable when I'd suggested a job posting. With the economy the way it was, we'd been deluged with applications. Naturally I'd had to read them all myself.
She apparently chose to accept my not-quite-apology -- or Miriam was distracting her. "What -- aaaaah -- do you think about this one?" Stacey asked.
"She seems like a good prospect," I offered, belatedly handing over the hairs. "I think she might clean up quite nicely." I hadn't had time to re-read it and couldn't remember the details of Irene's resume, but nobody made it to an interview if they were an idiot or unsuitable. The point of the interview was to do the weeding that we couldn't do otherwise -- no unattractive women, no men, and no high-profile candidates.
It was all very sexist and politically incorrect, and illegal to boot. I'd tried to speak up once early on, in defense of a rather homely girl, but arguments with Stacey always ended with me peeing myself and capitulating. Besides, as she'd lost no time in pointing out, it was exactly what the men did when they thought they could get away with it. I'd had to settle for hoping one of these attractive young girls had a brain in her head. Unlike Miriam.
Stacey pushed Miriam away for a moment so she could swab the curled hairs in her sex and then deposit them in the large candle burning on the desktop. I never tired of watching the process that had brought me to my true love.
Miriam returned to her oral worship. "Show her in, then," Stacey ordered.
I nodded and made my way back to the waiting room. "Ms. Richwell will see you now," I announced to Irene upon my entrance.
She jumped to her feet, a bundle of nerves, and I watched her eyes widen as she really
saw
me for the first time. "Does everybody dress like that, Ms...?"
I realized I'd forgotten to introduce myself, and the poor girl looked confused enough already. I remembered my first interview; I'd been a wreck too. "Miss Lily," I said, thinking of my bell. "And the dress code is quite casual."
Irene's mouth opened, but no words emerged.
"Can I get you anything, Irene?" She closed her mouth and shook her head. "Well then, if you'll follow me?" I jingled down the hall, the muted sounds of Irene's boots a pleasing counterpoint, and watched her out of the corner of my eye.
We'd just arrived at the office door when she reached out to touch my arm, pulling back her hand afterwards as if I'd been a live wire. "Please, Lily, can you tell me anything that will help me with this interview?"
I turned to face her and raised an eyebrow in wordless inquiry.
"I mean, I don't want you to do anything wrong! But the Richwell Trust is rather diversified, and Ms. Richwell also is caring for her parents. The posting didn't say much more concrete than 'assistant'. Should I focus mostly on the business side of things, or the personal?"
"An excellent question," I responded, meaning it. "You should ask Ms. Richwell, but for myself, I would emphasize the personal aspects -- after all, we're people first, aren't we?"
"Thanks, Lily!" she told me, sounding sincere. "Pull yourself together Irene; you need this," she whispered to herself, and then squared her shoulders.
I pretended not to hear her, and led her into the smoky office. "Ms. Richwell, this is Irene Calzetta. Miss Calzetta, Linnea Richwell. Is there anything I can get either of you?"
Stacey looked up from her overstuffed loveseat. Miriam was engaged in applying lotion to Stacey's thighs, a process that seemed to involve equal amounts of licking and massaging. "Thank you, --"
