The Interview

"Her class teacher is a woman," she began to say.

I eased her skirt back far enough to reveal, not yet bare thigh, but the double thickness in the sheer black fabric that changes its translucence to a band of solid colour encircling the upper thigh, which only stockings have. Tights remain sheer right to the groin. I had been right that she was wearing stockings.

"Open your legs," I said.

For the first time since she had sat down, she parted her legs, even raising herself slightly from the chair so that her skirt could move more easily. She wanted this position, or at least accepted it, both the position that I had advertised, and the position that she had adopted on her chair, the position offering access that she knew would be an essential requirement of the role.

I drew her skirt right back to bunch it at the join of her legs, white thigh flesh now exposed, black suspender straps crossing that flesh, pulling at the stocking tops, distorting them, black thong covering her pubis.

"Does it have a swimming pool?" I asked. "Tennis courts?"

"It has a pool," she said.

She added nothing about tennis courts, their being some, or not.

"And is it wet?" I asked.

The question was ambiguous. My hand was now between her legs. I had pushed the narrow strip of thong over to the side, baring her pubis, and two fingers, index and middle, had gently prised her lips apart and now were in her slit.

Neither meaning needed any kind of answer. If I had meant the school swimming pool, then quite obviously it would be wet. It I meant her cunt, then it was just as obvious that it was wet, my fingers having entered her with the slick, slippery ease that her secretions had made possible.

Yet she answered.

"Yes," she said, acknowledging that it was wet, pool or cunt, or both.

In pushing her thong to the side I had exposed enough of her pubic mound to establish that she trimmed, but did not remove, her pubic hair. It was as sparse as I had assumed, natural blonde, right to the roots. Her cunt had full lipped, pink succulent labia that protruded half an inch and were now slick against my fingers. This cunt was quite a find, an unexpected, genuine bonus in the process of recruitment.

I eased my fingers from her slit, using just the index finger to locate the soft protuberance of her clit, and then drawing my thumb downwards from above, this time holding it gently, conscious of how sensitive this tiny bud of flesh can be.

She shuddered.

"You did say that you want this job?" I whispered in her ear.

"Yes," she said. "I want this job."

"You understand that I needed to be absolutely sure," I said.

"Yes," she answered.

"And tell me again why you want this job so much?"

I rolled her clit, ever so gently between my thumb and forefinger. She shuddered for a second time.

"I need it,.." she said. "I need it, for my family... for my daughter... to support... my husband."

I released her clit, removing my hand from her cunt. I was satisfied. I pulled down her skirt, deliberately leaving her thong to the side of her cunt. She could adjust that later, once she was outside, the interview complete, a reminder of what she was now offering for sale.

I used both hands to tuck her breast back into her bra cup, and to do up the buttons that I had opened just before. It was not an act of consideration. It was a means of conveying to her that her breast belonged to me. Mine to expose. Mine to put away.

I went around my desk and back to my own chair. She had closed her legs as I had resumed my seat.

"Congratulations," I smiled. "I am offering you the post."

She took a moment to register what I had just said. She sat silent, taking in the magnitude of the decision that she was making.

I opened my appointments diary, confirming what I already knew. I had several clients the following morning, all of them allocated, with the exception of one regular, someone who had been with me for several years. I had kept him in reserve, in the hope that this interview would indeed result in a new recruit. He would provide the kind of feedback that I needed, after he had fucked her.

I took a business card from the top drawer of my desk and wrote the name of the hotel, the room number, and the time.

"Tomorrow morning," I said. "These are the details that you need."

I offered her the business card and she took it with her slender white fingers, and their scarlet ovals nails, reading the information I had written there.

"Mr Smith," I said, although, of course, that was not his name. "He works in the city, but takes time out most mornings to get the kind of sex he does not get at home. Wear a business suit. The one that you are wearing will be fine. The stockings are good. No thong. He'll fuck you bare and he'll probably come inside, but he likes to please as well, so you'll enjoy the ride."

"Commission is paid directly into your bank account, on the day. You will need to email me the details. Nothing changes hands at the hotel."

She nodded.

"Thank you," she said.

"I have children too..." I said, glancing at the photograph on my desk, "and a husband that I love. I know how important family can be."

She relaxed a little.

"Did you ever...?" she began to ask.

The question did not need finishing. Most of the women I have recruited were interested to know if I had ever had clients myself. None of them ever phrased the question too directly. They never asked me outright if I had ever been a call girl myself, before recruiting others to serve my still growing clientele.

The truth is that I had. Having first-hand experience of any business enterprise is always beneficial. I knew what clients liked. I knew how to keep my girls safe. I knew how to separate the financial from the sexual, so that whatever went on in the hotels was between consenting adults, and bank transfers related only to consultancy undertaken.

Clients liked it that way too. Many of them used our services as scheduled business meetings, with expenses paid for by their company. That minor fabrication made my side of things seem even more legitimate. It was a neat win-win arrangement.

I had no regrets at how I had come by that expertise, even if, like my new recruit, my husband remained totally unaware that my position in the city had for two years been on my back, or on all fours, maximising our income by penetrating the penetration market, merchandising the assets that he assumed to be his own, realising their true market value, in the cut and thrust of city life.

Certain kinds of work, and family life, just do not go together. They need to be kept at arm's length. Absolute discretion remains the key to a marital bliss. When you love someone, you do not shatter the dream they have of idyllic family life. Loving wives would never do that to their husbands.

I would never tell the father of my children how I earn the money that pays for family holidays on exotic islands, annual ski trips in the Alps, and the convertible that I prefer to drive, while his is the family Audi, with its space for four, and luggage in the back. He has no need to know anything other than that I love him, and I do love him, infinitely more than all the men who ever paid to fuck me, put together.

I sensed that my new recruit would be just the same. She would bring home the money that she earned, but never talk about her work. She would enjoy each and every minute, once she had gained the confidence that her first few times with other men would bring to her, but she would never share the details of her working day. Loving wives do not do that to their husbands.

Knowing all this, I could have told her that I had been where she was now, in need of extra income, with only one way that I knew to earn the income level that I needed, which was by opening my legs. I could have told her, that I loved my husband, and my children, as much as she clearly did her own, but I had no need to share all this with her, or anyone at all.

"There are some questions," I said instead, "that you do not ever ask."