The Nightingale Agency Pt. 02

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."

"You had mentioned a party? Do you know Luke well?"

"Yes, it was a reception for his ex-wife. She and I are acquaintances, at best, from college, however she knows several of the people I work with so I was more or less just swept up with the crowd for the invitation. As for Luke, I must admit I hardly know him at all. I had met him a few times while they were married, but neither of them discuss the divorce and there seems to be some shroud of secrecy as to why he moved away. But at the party there didn't seem to be any bad blood between them. And Luke—well, he was...more vibrant than I ever remembered. He almost appeared to single me out, hone in on me. After we talked a while, he told me to give you a call."

She keeps the smile on her face, slightly irritated at his tactics of focusing on their connection but being vague about his needs. Her eyes wander over to the fireplace, dusty and full of cobwebs. She doubts it has been used for a very long time, if at all. There is a stale smell in the air, and the forgotten dust bunnies hiding in the corners of the room tell her that it has been a very long time since Jonathan had anyone to impress. She doesn't even want to phantom a guess as to the condition of his bedroom and bathroom. Eve draws in a deep breath, turning her attention back to him. She finds that his eyes wander over her body but quickly snap back up to hers.

"All right, Jonathan. As I have said, this meeting is more or less an interview. It will help me determine wither or not to take you on as a client. In order for me to adequately assess that, I need for you to be completely honest with me. I am sure that several of the questions I will ask you will be uncomfortable, but if you don't tell me the absolute truth," she smiles, though her voice comes out somewhat harshly, "then you are wasting my time. Okay?"

Taken slightly aback, he lowers his eyes for a moment, "Okay..."

In an attempt to draw out the truth, she words it somewhat cruelly, "Why are you so fucking depressed? Is there truly nothing in your life that brings you joy?"

His eyes grow wide, shocked by her, "I...ah...I'm sorry?"

She blatantly looks him over, making him squirm under her gaze, "I think that perhaps you underestimate my business relationship with Luke. He hired me because he was absolutely miserable. Despite what airs he put on, he hated his life, he hated himself and he didn't know how to fix any of it. You see, Jonathan, if you want me to help you fix things, you must first tell me what is broken."

Dropping his gaze again, he is silent for a long time. When he finally does speak, his quiet, broken voice reveals the true suffering he has, "I...am miserable. You are correct. I wake up and I go to work, simply for a lack of anything better to do. I don't necessarily hate my job, but I don't enjoy it. I come home to an empty house. I don't have anyone—no friends, no girlfriends, nothing. I am fat and disgusting. I hate my body and I hate the way that people look at my body. But the worst part is—I just don't even fucking care anymore. I'll eat a whole pizza by myself and drain a six pack as if it were nothing. On the weekends I can barely drag myself out of bed to piss. After talking with Luke, I realized that for the past few years, I haven't been living—I've just been simply existing. I'm not even sure what the point is, anymore. I'm not suicidal, yet, at least, but I'm pretty sure no one would give a shit if I just locked the door and let myself rot away."

Eve is impressed by his honesty; usually it takes her several attempts to draw the truth out of a person, and she has never before gotten such a clear self assessment from anyone. When she is silent for a long time, he takes that to mean she is trying to find a polite way to blow him off.

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm pretty sure there is nothing that can fix me—I don't even know why I bothered," he rises from the chair to dismiss her, "thank you for taking the time to meet with me."

Without even moving, she curtly orders him, "Sit down."

Freezing, he hesitates before doing what he is told.

Eve leans over to her brief case. The front of her dress hangs open, almost entirely exposing her bare breasts. Thumbing through some papers, she pulls out a stack clipped together, "First, before we go any further, I need you to sign this," she hands him a single sheet, letting him skim over it, "all it says is that I will be giving you a contract to review. Whether or not you choose to accept the terms of the contract, it is to be discussed with absolutely no one. You will not replicate, copy or share any part of the contract. If you decline, the contract will be returned directly to me. I value the discretion of my clients and I expect the same in return. By signing this sheet, you acknowledge that any violation of it will result in a defamation lawsuit."

He finishes reading it. She can see the confusion and apprehension in his eyes, but instead of responding to it he looks up, "It says it needs to be notarized."

Eve draws her stamp out of her bag, "I will take care of that."

Without any further hesitation, Jonathan signs the sheet and hands it back. Eve signs it, with her real name, Gwenevieve Harrison, stamping it before putting it back into her bag. All of her 'normal' acquaintances know her as Gwen.

She unclips the papers, handing them over one at a time, "This is the standard contract between myself and my clients. This, is a disclosure agreement. After you read through the contract, there are two forms in the back, one to accept the terms, and one to decline the terms. Obviously, if you choose to decline the terms of the contract, then I cannot have you as a client. Regardless, you must sign the disclosure and whichever sheet in front of a notary."

Jonathan clicks his pen, thumbing to the back on the contract as he prepares to sign it; Eve stops him, "I highly advise you to take your time and read through it thoroughly. Preferably, with a lawyer. And for those, I cannot be the notary."

He nods, "All right. Then what?"

Raising an eyebrow at his seeming eagerness, she continues, "The contract states all of that, as well as my fees," she rises, tipping forward to flash her breasts once more while she gathers up her bags, "If you choose to accept, then you must get a full physical done by your doctor. There is a questionnaire in there listing what exactly I wish to know. Assuming he gives you the go ahead, our sessions will begin. Now, I do not live in town and typically do not work on Mondays or Tuesdays, however once you have decided and gotten the pages signed, give me a call and I will return to collect them."

Jonathan sets the papers on the table. He rises, grabbing her coat and politely slipping it over her shoulders before leading her to the door and opening it for her, "Will you be in town long today?"

She finds the question odd; there is no way he can fully grasp the contract and complete a physical by the end of the day. Regardless, she smiles sweetly, "My afternoon session runs until 5 pm. I will make sure to check my messages before I leave town."

He nods. Unable to smile, he looks deep into her eyes, "Thank you."

Not sure what to say, she gives him a quaint smile before leaving.

Her meeting with Jonathan didn't take longer than an hour, leaving her plenty of time to kill. She ventures to the mall, purchasing a large, high end bag to be used as her new tool kit. She runs a few more errands before choosing a dive bar in the downtown area to eat lunch. Picking at her salad, she runs through a mental list of her spare tool supply at home, before pulling up a website to order those that she is missing. It isn't much, her work cabinet being fully stocked, but she orders a new flogger, a long spreader bar and an assortment of butt plugs for good measure.

After her light lunch, she drives to the house of her 1 pm appointment. Arriving at 12:45, she parks a little bit down the block so that she has a view of the front door. While waiting, Even unclips her stockings so that she can wiggle out of her panties. Just as she is reattaching the clips, she hears a large delivery truck rolling down the road. When it stops in the driveway of her appointment, an excited grin crosses her face.

The unknowing driver, dressed in an all brown uniform, hops out of the truck, pulling a package from the back. Quickly he walks up to the door, ringing the doorbell. Eve's body tingles at the anticipation—she hopes that her sub won't disappoint. Surely enough, the door opens just a little. She can see the bright red, perfectly curled hair framing a gorgeous, pale face of a woman. The woman looks nervous, but despite her reservations she opens the door wider so that the delivery man can set the package inside. Unable to hide and sign the form, the woman gives up and steps from behind the door. Eve can see the man's body go rigid when he sets eyes upon her—clad in red lace panties and matching heels, the only other thing the woman is wearing are the clamps attached to her nipples, connected by a dangling silver chain.

Even from the distance, Eve can see the woman's body start to blush with embarrassment. Quickly, she dismisses the man, shutting the door behind him. He is only able to walk a few steps before he stops, completely dumbfounded. Assuming no one is watching him, he reaches into his pants to adjust his hard dick, before shaking his head and returning to the truck. A few minutes later, the truck whizzes by Eve.

She can't contain the pleased smile on her face. When her clock reads 12:57, she gets out of her SUV, grabbing her purse and the tool bag from the back. She walks to the house, tucked into a cul-de-sac of a quiet, suburban neighborhood, getting enjoyment from the fact that none of the neighbors suspect what happens every Thursday while they are at work.

The doorbell barely rings before the door opens. Eve doesn't wait for an invitation before entering, the door shutting swiftly behind her. The woman takes her bags, before helping her with her coat. Without hesitation, she stands before Eve and slides her hands along her hips, soft fingers tracing up Eve's body as she pulls the dress carefully over her head. Then, she drops to her knees. With her eyes down, she crawls forward, placing tender kisses on Eve's bald pussy, her tongue tracing the top slit of her cunt.

"Good afternoon, Mistress. May I lick your pussy?" she glances up eagerly.

Eve smiles down at the woman. Normally, she would have taught her subs not to touch her unless they asked first. But with Farah, she couldn't help herself. To be greeted by a beautiful woman crawling to her, darting her tongue into her slit before begging to suck her pussy, drives Eve wild. Plus, she knows that Farah's husband, Kelly, would be more than okay with his wife greeting him the same way every other day of the week.

Eve spreads her legs about shoulder width apart, giving Farah some access but still making her work for it, "Yes, you may."

Farah no longer hesitates before burying her face into Eve's flesh. Her warm, wet tongue hungrily traces over Eve's skin. Wiggling her face to spread her pussy lips, Farah rubs her flat tongue over Eve's clit.

"Mmm," Eve purrs, the sensation making her skin heat up. She reaches down and strokes Farah's hair. When she increases her pace, wrapping her lips around Eve's clit and desperately sucking, Eve grabs a fist full of the bright red hair and pulls her head back, preventing herself from climaxing just in time. Farah always diligently tries to elicit an orgasm from her right away, but Eve never allows her the pleasure. Still holding a fist full of hair, Eve bends at her waist, down to the woman's level. She traces her tongue over her Farah's lips, tasting her own juices, "I saw your performance with the delivery guy. I have to admit, I am very pleased."