Chapter 1: The Interview
Sarah walked down Jermyn St, nervous but excited. When she had told her husband where and with whom the final interview was with he'd wanted to know all about it. When she said she knew little he insisted they meet for drinks after and he also insisted she sexy up her usual interview outfit for this job. Hence she walked down the street on sheer black nylon clad legs over bright red high heel court shoes with a sexy but perfectly respectable dark knee length polka dot wrap dress. Over that she wore a funky fake fur jacket, under it she had a kinky surprise for Rory later.
She arrived at the door of Fifi's at 5pm before it opened, where there was a very well built, sexy in a rough way tattoed guy doing some odd jobs. She asked for Terry, as she had been told to.
The man looked up, a slow, smile spreading across his face. He wiped his hands on a rag tucked into his jeans. "You must be Sarah. He's expecting you. Name's Eddie."
His accent was pure East End and led her past a nondescript door and into a small, plush lobby, all deep carpets and muted gold wallpaper.
"The lift's just here," Eddie said, pressing a call button hidden in the paneling. "Top floor."
"Thank you," Sarah said, smoothing her dress. She caught his glance in the mirrored door as it slid open, checking her out. The elevator was a box of warm, gleaming mahogany and mirror. It smelled of polish and, faintly, of cigars. Then Eddie stepped in behind her and the doors closed, sealing them in. Her reflection stared back, flanked by Eddie’s tattooed bulk. He didn’t press a button. The elevator just began to rise, a smooth, silent ascent.
“Nervous?” Eddie’s voice was a low rumble in the small space.
“A little,” Sarah admitted, adjusting the strap of her handbag. “Final interviews are always a bit of a performance, aren’t they?”
“You could say that.” He leaned against the mahogany panel, arms crossed. The tattoos on his forearms were a intricate tapestry of old-school ink: roses, dagger, a faded name. “Terry’s a good bloke. a bit of a charmer. Bit dangerous to some people, not you though, don't worry”
Sarah's nerves jngled at that as the doors slid open into a dim, plush corridor. She heard the thrumming bass of music from far below. Deep burgundy carpet swallowed her footsteps.
Eddie gestured for her to step out. “End of the hall. The double doors.”
She walked down the corridor, suddenly nervous and thinking the black stockings and bright red 4 inch heels were a bit brashly sexual. She knocked on the rich, dark wood.
“Come.” The voice was confident and very London . She pushed the door open.
Terry’s office was a study in contradictory luxury. One wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a breathtaking, twilight view of Mayfair over the balcony.
The other walls were lined with serious-looking books and modern art that probably cost more than her old annual salary. Terry himself stood by a sleek, minimalist bar, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. He was handsome in a way that spoke of money and ease—late forties, salt-and-pepper hair expertly cut, a tailored suit that fit his lean frame perfectly. But his eyes, when he turned to her, were sharp, assessing, and held a glint of East End charm that hadn’t been polished away by the Mayfair address.
“Sarah. Right on time.” He didn’t come forward to shake hands. He just leaned back against the bar, glass in hand, and let his gaze travel over her. It wasn’t leering. It was an appraisal, like he was checking the specifications of a high-performance vehicle. “You look the part. Sit down'"
"Thank, you. Not too much?"
"Given what we do here, we clearly like ladies to make an effort. Look good." Sarah blushed.
Terry sat behind the desk and for 10 minutes ran through a standard interview questions. Then he asked "You know much about the club, Sarah?"
"Not really," she replied.
"We're very exclusive, it's not drunk office workers and stag parties. Membership is reassuringly expansive. Any bad behaviour they get spoken to by Eddie and Marcus which tends to sort it. Then they get barred. We have Footballers, oligarchs, hedge fund manages, media, actors etc. They expect discretion. They're also mostly men and we have hostesses to entertain them."
"What do they do?"
"Mostly chat, drink, flirt, dance. It can get a bit touchy and the chat can be pretty fruity. We also have a stage and some of the girls get up and put a strip show on, and private rooms for dances. We're a bit more relaxed as it's private than stingfellows etc. A bit of touching is OK so long as the girls are happy. But no sex."
Terry took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. "The girls are contractors. Good money. Very good money. They set their own limits."
Sarah nodded, her mind racing. "It sounds... well-managed." Sarah’s mouth felt dry. The thumping bass from below seemed to grow louder, vibrating up through the floor.
"You, though," Terry continued, leaning forward slightly. "You’ve got a look about you. You’re curious. And you’re dressed specially for the interview." His gaze dropped to her heels for a fraction of a second. "Your husband pick that out?"
"Yes, I'm meeting him later."
"Does he know where you are interviewing? Wants to know all about it, i bet."
The question hung in the air, too specific, too knowing. A cold trickle of unease traced Sarah’s spine. “He does,” she said carefully. “He’s… a bit excited to be honest.”
He glanced toward the floor, as if he could see through the polished concrete and plush carpet to the throbbing heart of the club below. “The real money in this building isn’t made up here pushing paper for me. It’s made down there. On the floor. My hostesses,” he continued, his voice a conspiratorial murmur that somehow carried over the distant bassline, "can make anything from £500 to £1000 a night basic and more if they do a load of dances, and thousands if, you know, they gents take them to hotel." He winked. "You could do onoe two night a week and take home 3 or 4 times what you would in the office. "Interesting to you?"
“Interesting to you?”
Sarah’s mind spun. The money he’d mentioned—thousands—was a stupid, glittering lure. "I"m a 50 year old woman? I can't be doing that with those girls"
"What you are luv, is a MILF. If you don't mind me saying so, a sexy bitch who liked to put on her gloss red lipstick and dress up to show she's got it when she came to an interview in a sexy club."
The words hung in the cigar-scented air, crude and unnervingly accurate. "What would i have to do?"
“Nothing you don’t want to. Have a drink. Smile. Let a wealthy, bored man talk at you for twenty minutes. If he asks for a dance, you can say no. Or,” Terry shrugged, “you can say yes. It’s just a dance. In a private room. The lights are low. The music’s loud. You move. He watches. He pays. A lot.”
The word seemed to hang in the air, vibrating in time with the bass from below. Sarah’s heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. The polished office, the view, the expensive art—it was all just a beautiful front. This was the interview. Not for the EA job. For something else entirely.
“You’re offering me a job as a… hostess?” She kept her voice level.
“Why not,” Terry corrected, setting his glass down with a soft click. “The EA position is real. It’s upstairs. Quiet. Predictable. The other option… is downstairs. It’s neither of those things. But it pays, Sarah. It pays in a way that can solve problems. Mortgage problems. Boredom problems.” He let that sink in, watching her face. “Stand up. Take your dress off."
Terry’s words didn’t hang in the air.
“I’m sorry?” Sarah heard herself say, a weak, automatic reflex.
“You heard me.” Terry’s smile didn’t waver, but it changed. The boardroom polish vanished, revealing the street-smart boy who’d built this empire. “ I need to know if you’ve got the nerve for the environment. So show me what you’ve got under the wrapper.”
Sarah’s mind split. One part was screaming, a shrill alarm of outrage and fear. This was illegal. This was madness. She should turn and walk out. The other part was already adding up the numbers he’d mentioned and the thrill. It was a cold, hard calculation that happened somewhere behind her eyes, separate from the heat flooding her cheeks. That part noted the locked door, Eddie’s likely presence outside it, and the sheer, audacious power Terry held in this room. It also noted the debt on her credit card, and the dull, empty stretch of evenings that constituted her ‘normal’ life.
“Stand up,” Terry repeated, softer now. It wasn’t a shout. It was worse. It was an expectation.
Her legs, wrapped in the sheer black nylon, felt like they belonged to someone else. They uncrossed and she pushed herself up from the chair, the red heels sinking into the plush carpet. The wrap dress was simple. One tug on the tie at her waist and it would fall open.
Her hands didn’t move.
Terry watched, sipping his drink, giving her all the time in the world to drown in the silence.
“I can’t,” she finally said, the words sticking in her dry throat.
“Why not?” he asked, genuinely curious, as if she’d declined a second cup of tea.
She looked at the floor, at the intricate pattern of the burgundy carpet. The bass from the club was a physical pulse coming up through the soles of her feet. “Because I’m not wearing any knickers.”
The confession hung in the air, absurd and intimate. It was the secret she’d saved for Rory later, a private thrill beneath the respectable dress. Now it was just amusement for this man.
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t leer. He just nodded slowly, as if this confirmed a hypothesis. “Rory’s idea, was it?”
The heat that flooded Sarah’s face felt like a brand. “My idea, for meeting him later,” she whispered, the word barely audible over the thrumming in her ears.
Terry set his glass down with a final, soft click and stood, walking around the desk until he was close enough for her to smell the subtle spice of his cologne. “Naughty girl,” he said, his voice low. “Lucky him. Lucky me.” He paused. "Off!"
Her fingers trembled as they found the knot at her waist. The silk tie gave way, and the dress fell open, revealing the her sheer bra and seemless tights with no gusset leaving her bare pussy displayed through the thin glossy material to Terry who sat opposite her, his eyes level with her pussy.
"Turn around for me." He made a rotating gesture.
The door opened without a sound and Eddie leaned against the frame, his eyes taking in the scene without a flicker of surprise. “All right, Tel? you buzzed” he said, his voice a gravelly monotone as Terry grinned, never taking his eyes off Sarah.
“Sarah's not sure she would be a hit downstairs. What' do you think” Terry said, his gaze still locked on Sarah’s exposed skin.
"Good looking, bird. Hot body. Pierced nipples, naughty naughty. A little kinky. Shaved pussy, not wearing knickers to a business meeting" Said Eddie appreciatively. He walked over to her and took hold her arse cheek. "Good tits and nice firm bum. They'll love her."
"Tell her what she can make." said Terry.
"Fucking shit loads, darling. Tips drinking with the punter. Couple of hunder a night easy. But you also want to do a few private dances. Normally about 50 quid a go, ten minutes or so. Tends be 100 or so if you get let them see your snatch, which looks likes it's ok with you. if they jerk off or finger you a few hundred. No sex in the club. If that's what we have an arrangement with the little hotel next door. They pay £1000 to us take you out. Arranged with Fiona on the floor. Also generally £1000 to the girl, more if thy want extra like anal or to cum on you. a good bit more for domination, watersports, that kind of stuff."
The numbers hung in the air, crude and astronomical, as Eddie gave her arse a final, casual squeeze before releasing her. Sarah stood shocked in the silence as Terry thanks Eddie as he left and Sarah sat down and crossed her legs.
"You're turned on aren't you, Sarah." Terry said.
"Why do you say that." sarah asked with a nervous laugh.
"You're fidgeting and squeezing your thighs together." Sarah abruptly realised she was and uncrossed her legs, keeping together, even more self conscious about being undressed. "is your pussy tingling?" He asked.
The question hung in the air, intimate and humiliating. A hot, traitorous pulse between her legs was the only answer she could feel, and she knew the flush spreading across her chest gave her away.
“Don’t be shy,” Terry murmured, walking back to the bar and picking up a chilled bottle of champagne. He popped the cork with a soft, expensive sigh and filled a fresh flute. “Open your legs for me. Let me see.”
Sarah took the glass. The champagne bubbles were a sharp, crisp distraction on her tongue. She took a too-big gulp, needing the alcohol, the cold. The chilled glass trembled slightly in her hand as, after a heartbeat’s defiance, she slowly let her knees fall apart.
Terry’s low whistle was all appreciation, his eyes fixed on the revealed proof of her arousal. “Wider.” he said, his voice a satisfied rumble. “Legs over the arms of the chair. Display yourself to me. I knew you were a natural.”
Sarah obeyed him. He took a sip of his champagne, leaned in so his face was by her ear. She jerked a his hand touched the inside of her upper thigh and with out pausing moved up so his fingers were stroking he pussy lips through the thin sheer material. But she didn’t close her legs.
His finger traced a slow, deliberate circle over the sheer nylon. "You're taking the hostess job aren't you? you're soaking wet." He stroked the increasingly patch on the material. "You're going to entertain my clients, let them live out sexual fantasises and desires with you. What are you going to tell your husband?"
“I’ll just tell him the EA job requires… late nights a couple of times a week in the club,” she whispered, the lie tasting like champagne and possibility, just as Terry’s other hand slid her phone from her open handbag.
“Smart girl,” Terry murmured, his thumb still stroking the damp nylon as he scrolled through her contacts with his other hand. He stopped at ‘Rory’, held the screen up so she could see it, and hit call, putting it on speaker just as her husband’s cheerful voice answered, “Hey you, how’d the interview go?”
“It went brilliantly,,” Sarah said, her voice miraculously steady as Terry’s fingers pushed through the material inside her and onto her clit . “I got the job, being shown a few things I'll see you in a bit at the bar.”
She hung up quickly.
"Take your flimsy bra off so i can see your tits properly, and kneel down, Sarah." Again she obeyed, the deep pile of the carpet pressed against her knees as she lowered herself. "Before you meet your husband, I want you to suck my cock, I need to know you're a good cock sucker."
He took his jeans off and stood by the bar. "Crawl over here, Sarah, and take my cock in your mouth."
He watched, sipping his champagne, his expression one of cool satisfaction as she crawled over, no defiance wearing just her tights and red heels.
"You have a big, powerful cock, sir." She whispered as she opened her bright red lips took his fat cock in her mouth, the taste of salt and skin flooding her senses as her lips stretched around his girth. A low, approving hum vibrated from Terry’s throat, his hand coming to rest on the back of her head and taking firm hold of her hair. “That's right, love, show me what a good cock sucker you are. Have you been unfaithful to your husband before?” He asked
She nodded yes, the motion shifting his grip in her hair. "Some of our clients will enjoy you being married. The power. Taking someone else's wife."
He chuckled, the sound dark and rich. "Good girl. Now I think that wet cunt of yours need attention."
He lifted her to her feet by the hair and his fingers pushed past the damp nylon, sinking into her without ceremony, and Sarah gasped, her body jolting as he worked her with rough, knowing strokes. “Fuck, you’re drenched,” he grunted, his other hand tightening in her hair, holding her in place as he finger-fucked her with a brutal, practiced rhythm.
The sharp, sudden climax tore through her, a raw, choking gasp muffled around his cock as her body convulsed against his invading hand. “Please,” she finally managed to sob, her mouth slack and wet, “fuck me.”
He pulled his fingers from her with a wet sound and spun her around, bending her over the polished edge of his mahogany desk. “Such a bad girl,” he grunted as he took hold of her tights and pulled them down round her knees. He stepped back to look at the sight of her, bent over his desk with her tights round her knees presenting her arse.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, the camera flash stark and sudden in the dim room, capturing her there—disheveled hair, tights tangled at her knees, her glistening pussy desperate and exposed. “Now,” he commanded, passing her own phone across the desk toward her trembling hand, “call your husband. Tell him you're just about to leave and how much you love your new job and how much you need to be fucked.”
Her fingers, slick with her own wetness, fumbled as they took the phone. “Rory?” she said, her voice a strained whisper as Terry’s thick cock pressed insistently against her from behind, “the job’s perfect, and I… I’m so fucking wet now, I can’t wait. I need to be fucked urgently.” As she said she felt Terry'd cock pushing against her soaking lips
The thick head of his cock breached her with a single, brutal thrust, burying itself to the hilt as she cried out into the phone. “Yes, baby, soon,” she gasped, her voice cracking as Terry began to slowly, steadily piston into her with hard, deep strokes.
She abruptly hung up. “Fuck me harder, please, I need it,” she begged as Terry’s thrusts grew rougher, pounding her against the desk. “Don’t stop, don’t stop!”
His hips slammed into her, a final, shuddering drive as he groaned, “Fuck you're a naughty bitch,” and she felt the hot, sudden flood of his cum pumping deep inside her. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his breath ragged against her neck before pulling out with a wet sound and casually zipping his fly.
He stepped back, adjusting his cufflinks as a trickle of his cum began to leak down her inner thigh. “Clean yourself up in the ensuite, but don’t wash that pussy out,” he said, his voice all business now. “You’re expected back here Wednesday at eight for your first proper shift. And you’ll keep your promise to that husband of yours tonight—get him to fuck you while you’re still nice and full of me. Consider it your homework."