Customer Services

From Blushes 74. I love this model and it's a great story too. Good to see Boutts Bank making an appearance. I wonder if young Julie Williamson is still employed there.

The girl is perhaps 18 or 19, tall and blonde, her honey-coloured hair in a thick plait. Her smart white patent leather high-heels stand precisely together on the deep carpet in front of the broad polished oak desk in this small but palatial office. Her navy suit, form-fitting, shows a full curvaceous figure beneath. She has big blue eyes and her ripe mouth has been pinkly lipsticked for this interview. Is it going all right? The big blue eyes nervously wonder.

She has been sitting on the leather chair on the side of the desk but now has been asked to stand by the man seated at its other side. He is fiftyish, smooth-looking in his expensively sober suit and dark tie. His name is Anthony Bentish and he is manager of this bank, Boutts, an exclusive establishment in the city. Mr Bentish has asked this pretty blonde girl to stand so that he can get a better look at her figure. With a friendly smile he tells her that this is the reason. Her qualifications and references are all very good but personal appearance is also crucial. Boutts Bank has very important, very discerning customers. The bank therefore has to be extremely selective in its choice of staff. Its female staff.

‘We can only take the most attractive girls, Miss Morbury. Our customers demand good-looking, perfectly-groomed girls. Girls who are wholesome, appetising one could say. English roses. And girls who are in the pink of condition too. Their bodies trim and firm with healthy exercise. Turn, would you please, Miss Morbury. And tell me, what sports you play?’

This Miss Morbury is very attractive, the rear view as good as the front. Just look at the swell of those buttocks below the arch of her back.

‘Tennis. And… I like swimming.’ The girl whose name is Angela Morbury turns obediently on the white high-heels to present her shapely calves in their sheer-seamed nylons and further up the swell of ripe buttocks in the tight navy skirt. Her voice is Home Counties middle-class, and slightly nervous. Perhaps this is to be expected, though, in an interview situation like this. Mr Bentish has done his best to calm her, as he would with any female interviewee.

He gets to his feet. Comes round to place his hand lightly on her slim waist. ‘We would need to carry out some tests of course, my dear. Angela, yes. Fitness tests. In our gym. In fact various tests. Before we could take you on on a permanent basis. That is the normal procedure of course. But… you do seem very much the sort of person we like to have at Boutts.’

Mr Bentish was saying she had the job. Or at least as far as he could say at this stage. He was going on to say that the tests would probably not be a problem, she looked to be in very good shape. Angela felt a flush of relief, because she really needed the job. A flush of pleasure and success. As she felt this she felt also Mr Bentish’s hand slide down, From her waist down over the ripe swell of her bottom. To cup the undercurve of the near-side cheek.

She shivers, like a nervous young filly, her breath coming out in an alarmed squeak. The hand is a shock, an unexpected development. It is still there cupping the left cheek of her surging bottom through the thin tight skirt. Jiggling the flesh, squeezing, as one might test a ripe fruit.

Mr Bentish’s voice comes soft and reassuring. Not wishing to frighten this potentially splendid new recruit but equally these things have to be done. Testing, checking the merchandise as one could say. ‘Could you… just slip the skirt off, Angela please. And your jacket. I need to have a better look at you. And there’s the matter of your uniform, isn’t there?’

His words are as much of a shock as his hand on her bottom. The hand that with a final exploratory squeeze has now let go. Mr Bentish comes round to stand in front of her, smiling encouragingly. She forces a nervous smile in return.

‘It’s not a problem I hope? But it is necessary.’

Yes of course. Or presumably. She is not going to argue. How can she? She wants this job. Very very much. This job with Boutts who in addition to being a most prestigious employer pay such a handsome salary. So that they can attract the very choicest girls. ‘M…My jacket and skirt off,’ she repeats, somewhat uncertainly, for confirmation.

Mr Bentish says yes. ‘And maybe a couple of other things as well. It’s routine of course. I need to check. And there’s the uniform. I’ll just ring for our Mr Prestling in Personnel to bring something in.’

Another man is coming in? To see her undressed? She closes her mind as best she can to that. As her hands do what they have to. Unbuttoning the jacket tight over the full swell of her breasts. There is a flimsy white blouse underneath. Under which the ripe breasts are lightly brassiered. ‘The blouse too,’ Mr Bentish says. ‘And your bra. Girls at Boutts don’t wear a bra. The customers of course prefer them that way.’

With the jacket now off she is sliding down her skirt. Down over the long nyloned legs. Stepping out of it. There is a white slip underneath. Mr Bentish says this has to come off too… as Angela’s mind gets to grips with his earlier words. Her blouse and bra off… Her head is in a spin… She can’t do that…

But not too much later she has somehow done it. Her blouse and bra are off and the waist-slip as well. Somehow she is standing here in this little office in just her knickers and suspender belt and her nylons.

Red-faced, her hands go up to the splendid nude mammaries, not least because another man has now entered the room. It is Mr Prestling presumably, of about Mr Bentish’s age and likewise in a dark suit and carrying what is possibly a bundle of clothes. The uniform… But she can’t think about that. Mr Bentish has come close. Is gently pulling her hands away from those jutting pink-nippled boobs. She mustn’t be shy. Oh no, not at Boutts Bank where they have these very special customers to be serviced. Serviced? Is that the word?

She emits another of those desperate little squeaks. As Mr Bentish’s hands take hold of the boobs. Strange male hands shockingly cupping her nude protuberances. Her knees feel as if they are going to buckle. What has happened is not possible. She is virtually nude. And Mr Bentish is handling her. Like this. While discussing her with this Mr Prestling. The two of them agreeing what a marvellous prospect she is. The customers are going to love her.

She is being made to turn this way and that. Posing. In just her white knickers and the white suspender belt and her sheer dark nylons. And of course the white high-heels. The uniform, whatever it is, is on Mr Bentish’s desk but she is not being told to put it on. Not yet. Mr Bentish and Mr Prestling are too interested in her as she is. Like this. This lovely Miss Morbury. Her nude and trembling boobs, their pink nipples now as a result of all this action stiff and erect. And her ripe bottom in the primly tight white knickers. In the confined space of this office with the two men…

It is like some kind of bad dream. But she has got the job. Is going to get it. This is just… checking her out. It won’t be like this once she has started. At Boutts Bank. Will it?

----//----

The Boutts Bank uniform for young female staff is a grey shirt with a dark blue tie and a matching very short navy skirt. These items are worn with dark seamed nylons and high heels: the latter can be black or navy blue or white. Angela is wearing the same white ones she wore to her interview yesterday. That decidedly traumatic interview which she has said nothing about (not the traumatic aspects at least) to anyone. Not her mother or her boyfriend Ian for instance, both of whom yesterday evening wanted to hear all the details of her highly successful afternoon at Boutts Bank. So successful that she was asked to start this very next day. Or at least report for more testing. That word caused qualms undoubtedly. ‘Testing.’ Nothing more like yesterday please. But if it is the routine thing at Boutts…

Angela has not had to report to that same office this morning for these other tests. No, today it is the bank’s gym, in another part of town. She is going to be given some fitness tests. Exactly what these are was not specified; but Mr Bentish said Angela should have no trouble with them, not if she did tennis and swimming as she said. And also she certainly looked very fit. That was what Mr Bentish said with his two hands clasping Angela’s nude tits. They had kept her in that state — in just her knickers and stockings — for what seemed like forever before at last telling her to try on the uniform.

She has it on now though. In this brightly-lit room at the gym. Standing straight, at attention, in front of Mr Bentish again. Mr Bentish who this morning had a white coat on, like a doctor’s, in place of his smart suit jacket. And the other man who is here, he is a doctor. The bank’s doctor, Mr Bentish said, Dr Harfield, also in a white coat. He will do the testing, assisted by Mr Bentish. Angela nervously bites her lip. This room is a bit scary. Those intensely bright white lights… and these two men in their dazzling white coats. And the things in this room.

There is an exercise bicycle, gleaming white and chrome. Another machine is over against the wall: a complicated device with pulleys and weights looking a bit like some instrument of torture. And by the other wall is a trolley-table with a thick padded top and various complicated bits and pieces. A doctor’s examination table with those various parts of it to spread the patient out in different positions. Angela can suddenly visualise herself on that table. Being tested in some way. With all her clothes off.

It is as if she is telepathic. Because Mr Bentish, smiling that friendly smile that he had when he was nonetheless groping her nude boobs yesterday, now tells her to take her uniform off. Everything. She has to be nude. They are going to begin the tests.

The big blue eyes blink as she gives another nervous glance round the room. Trying to produce a confident little smile of her own. There is nothing really to be scared of. Taking her clothes off… is not a problem.

‘The blouse first,’ Mr Bentish tells her. ‘Dr Harfield will want to measure you. Measure those nice big things you’ve got. Could they be 38 inches I wonder?’

The big things of course do not have a bra on under the grey uniform blouse. That is the Boutts Bank regulation. Not that Angela’s need that support, they are large but also notably firm, splendidly jutting. Nonetheless a girl does prefer to wear a bra, for modesty’s sake. She put a cardigan on this morning at breakfast so that her mother couldn’t see. Going without a bra when you have such big ones is highly embarrassing. But now, a whole lot worse, like yesterday, she has to take her blouse off. Everything.

Just the blouse off first. So that Dr Harfield with his tape measure can measure them. The tape taut round Angela’s inevitably stiffening nipples. Dr Harfield jiggling it. ‘Almost,’ he pronounces. ‘Thirty-seven-and-a-half.’

The tape comes away. Dr Harfield does a little palming of Angela’s swollen-nippled tits. Then tells her to get the rest of her things off. Everything. He is going to have her lift some weights. And then he will want her up on the table, to measure her body’s reactions. Has she ever lifted weights before?

Hot-faced, Angela shakes her head. As she obediently removes the rest of her uniform. The skirt, and underneath it just a pair of brief white knickers and a white suspender belt for her dark stockings. These things have to come off and the stockings too and then, completely nude, she is going to have to work on that machine which looks like an instrument of torture. Lifting those weights. No she has never lifted weights before. Either with her clothes on or without.

Stepping over to the machine, her heavy boobs swaying. This is a very unpleasant dream just like yesterday. A different dream but just as bad if not worse. She stands in position as instructed and tries to lift the bar. A gasping groan. She can’t, it is impossibly heavy.

Dr Harfield says, ‘Of course it’s not too heavy.’ His hand slapping briskly at her bare bottom. ‘Put some effort into it, Angela.’ The hand fondles at the ripe nether cheeks. ‘Come on, young lady.’

Somehow, with a superhuman effort, the handles of the machine are lifted briefly to Angela’s waist. But it won’t go any further and with a despairing cry she has to let it slide back again. Angela makes several more attempts but it is just too heavy.

‘Not as fit as you look, Miss. Mmm?’ Dr Harfield’s hand slaps Angela’s bottom again, this time a harder smack. ‘We’ll try her on the cycle,’ he tells Mr Bentish. ‘With a check on her metabolic rate and heat reaction.’

At least Angela has finished for the moment with the awful weight machine but is the exercise bicycle going to be any more pleasant? She is breathing heavily from her efforts and is still completely nude of course, except for her white court shoes which she has been told to put on again after removing her stockings. Angela stands hesitantly by the cycle. Dr Harfield has gone over to a cupboard to get something. Mr Bentish smiles at her. His hand slides over Angela’s jutting, big-nippled tits.

Dr Harfield comes back. ‘Stand up straight,’ he tells her. ‘And put your hands on your head.’

He is holding something. Like a folded sheet of transparent plastic. He puts it down on the table, then steps close behind Angela. She is still breathing heavily, her heart thudding from her struggles with the weights. Her nude body is lightly perspiring under the hot bright lights. Dr Harfield’s hands come round and cup Angela’s ripe tits, his fingers tweaking the erect nipples.

‘I want you working on the cycle now,’ he tells her. ‘Working under heat stress to see how you cope with that. By the way, are you having regular sexual relations? Regular sexual intercourse? Do you have a regular boyfriend, Angela?’

Angela gasps out a squeaky ‘Yes.’ And then ‘Yes’ again when Dr Harfield repeats the first question about intercourse. The question has come out of the blue and it is not something she wants to discuss. Dr Harfield lets go of her.

‘That’s good. A girl of your age needs it regularly, for her health. However now you’re with Boutts you may be required to cut it out to a large extent with your boyfriend. We don’t want you overdoing it and of course the Bank’s clients come first. We’ll need you nice and fresh for them. You can see that of course.’

Dr Harfield is stepping over to get the plastic again. ‘Yes?’ he asks coming back. Angela, red-faced, manages to nod. What he has said can mean only one thing. She pushes the thought out of her mind.

The plastic thing is like a big bag, with a hole at the end. Dr Harfield is lifting the transparent plastic and sliding it down over Angela’s head. Down over her body and arms. So that she is completely encased in a clammy transparent sheath except for her head.

‘How does that feel?’ Dr Harfield asks, his hand stroking Angela’s boobs through the plastic. ‘Now let’s have you up on the bike.’

In the horrible plastic bag Angela is made to get up on the cycle. With her arms constrained inside she can’t hold the handlebars and in fact is made to fold her arms behind her back. Mr Bentish helps her maintain balance as in her high-heeled shoes Angela commences to pedal.

‘Nice and brisk,’ Dr Harfield tells her. He is holding the speed indicator.

Very rapidly Angela is sweating profusely making the plastic, tight over her jutting nipples, stick to her like a clammy skin. She feels giddy, as if she is going to faint.

‘Keep going,’ Dr Hatfield repeats. After a bit he tells her to stop, but only for a moment. Making Angela get up off the seat he lifts the plastic up behind her and then pulls it down again round the saddle.

Sitting down now Angela has her bare pussy, slippery wet with perspiration, in direct contact with the smooth vinyl of the saddle. She is made to start pedalling again. Whereas before there was the plastic sheath unpleasantly in her crack, the feeling now is arousing, the lips of her pussy spread open and her clitoris rubbing headily against the smooth saddle. It is arousing but Angela doesn’t want to be aroused, not like this encased in this horrible plastic bag with her nude body on display to the two men in close attendance. The feeling of giddiness increases. A sicky feeling. She is going to fall off… but Mr Bentish has a firm hold of her.

At last, soaking wet and her head spinning, Angela is allowed to get off. Helped down by Mr Bentish. Her legs are all of a tremble. The dripping bag is taken off her. And now she is being helped up on that trolley-table. Lying on her back on the black vinyl top. Dr Harfield’s hand running over her sweat-wet body. Some sort of instrument is placed on various parts of her, testing her pulse rate. Then Dr Harfield’s hands are parting her legs.

‘Regular intercourse, Miss. What frequency would that be?’ His hand is at her slippery wet pussy.

Angela doesn’t answer. Her head is still spinning, swimming, from the bicycle business and now there is what Dr Harfield’s hand is doing. That hand at her aroused pussy.

Dr Harfield prompts her. He wants an answer. How frequently do she and Ian do it. Angela attempts a reply but it seems she can’t speak, or think either for that matter. She is getting all excited down there though. Where Dr Harfield is still working at her. She groans and arches her hips. Above her face Mr Bentish grins down. His hand is stroking the big bare boobs. Angela wants to cry out, tell them to stop. But at the same time she doesn’t want any of it to stop.

----//----

Ian when she gets home wants to know how it went — her first day — but how can she tell him? What can she tell him? That morning session at the gym when lying on the examination table she actually came. Violently, uncontrollably, with Dr Harfield’s hand at her pussy and Mr Bentish’s two hands at her tits. How could she do that? The simple answer of course was that she couldn’t help it, had no control over herself whatsoever.

And then, this afternoon, even worse in a way. Decidedly worse some people would say: Ian certainly would if he ever knew. Mr Silforth. One of Boutts’s customers. One of their most favoured customers presumably in that he was given this first afternoon with new recruit Angela. ‘Whatever Mr Silforth wants, Angela,’ Mr Bentish said. ‘That’s the rule with our very special customers. Whatever the customer wants.’ Then adding. They are of course all gentlemen. Naturally.’

But gentlemen or not that didn’t stop them — or it didn’t stop Mr Silforth certainly — from wanting, well, what you might expect he might want. If you feared the worst. Intercourse. In other words a nice fuck. In that swish apartment by the river that Boutts Bank perhaps kept just for this sort of thing. For ‘entertaining’ by its pretty female staff. When ‘entertaining’ meant basically being screwed.

Angela didn’t fight it. What was the point. ‘Whatever the customer wants,’ Mr Bentish had said. And Angela needed her job. This excellently paid job with prestigious Boutts Bank. Actually it wasn’t really unpleasant. In a way it was exciting, a turn-on. Doing it with a stranger like that. Having to do it.

And Mr Silforth, not young, fifty perhaps, but a gentleman, had not been unpleasant. Complimentary about Angela’s appearance. And her performance too, on the settee. So really it hadn’t been so bad. In a way not as bad as being in that plastic bag on the bike and then on the table with Dr Harfield and Mr Bentish; the two of them making her come.

But Ian of course would think it was bad. What Ian would think… didn’t bear thinking about. If he ever knew. Mr Silforth… and of course the others. There had to be others. Other special clients. Don’t think about that.

‘Hard work,’ Angela told Ian. Meaning her first day at work. ‘But not too bad really.’ Then adding, ‘Yes I really enjoyed it.’

She gave a little shiver saying that.