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30% of new businesses fail within their first 5 years. You were in year three of your art store. Opening an art store in a small, seaside, liberal town should have been easy. A piece of cake! But the local arts council had a stranglehold on the scene, and you were struggling just to keep your head above water. You were down to only one employee (yourself) and you thought you were going to have to explain to yourself that the paychecks were going to be late this month. Again. That was going to be a difficult discussion .
It had gotten to the point that the words PAST DUE were following you in your dreams, glowing red and dangerous. Maybe it was time to call mom and dad, plead for mercy, and move back home…
Could you really give up on your dream like that?
Your phone rang, startling you away from your late evening review of the pile of bills. You picked it up and had a second, smaller startle when the call display indicated it was your landlord.
“Hello!” You answered, a note of panic in your voice, “It’s not the first yet!”
“Yes, yes, I know what day it is, Ms. Calendar. I actually have a favour to ask from you… uh, valued tenant.”
“What is it, Mr. Fischoeder.” You rolled your eyes. He was probably going to tell you to let Felix use your shop for his nude art classes. Again.
You know, Felix, usually it’s the model who’s naked, and the class is clothed… not the other way around.
“Nothing large! I just have an… event coming up, and I need a little arm candy. You’re young, right?”
“...What.”
“It’s a yacht club event,” He said, like that explained anything.
“I didn’t even know you had a yacht,” you were trying to buy time while your mind caught up to what he was asking you.
“Well, nosy, the whole reason I’m going is to decide if I want one!”
“...Why me?”
A sigh came down the phone line. “Well, Bob wouldn’t let me borrow his wife-”
“Shocking.”
“And the Wharf Women leave a little to be desired in the… class department. Know what I mean?
“Well,” you said, smiling and leaning back in your chair a little, “I bet Mickey could probably clean up pretty good.”
“Who? Oh, the criminal!” he laughed, and you thought you could feel your heart beat faster at the sound. “Yes you’re probably right, but I don’t think he’d look quite as good in a little black dress.”
Your heart was definitely beating faster.
“What’s in it for me?”
“Why, the pleasure of my company of course-”
“No.”
“Fine then, one month’s rent.”
“Mm…” The offer was sorely tempting. One month’s rent would be enough to help you catch up on most of your bills, but did you really want to earn it like this…?
“Two month’s rent?”
You didn’t hesitate, and the word was out of your mouth before you could fully consider your decision. “Done.”
“Fantastic! It’s Friday night. I’ll send an outfit over tomorrow, so you can leave your poor people clothes at home.”
You passed a hand over your eyes, thankful he couldn’t see you. “Thanks, Mr. Fischoeder.”
“No no, my dear, thank you .”
The line went dead.
Ominous .
You set the cellphone down on your desk and eyed the bill pile. For the first time in a long time, hope was blooming in your chest, and it felt like a portion of the weight had been lifted off of your shoulders.
Thousands of dollars for only a couple hours… I must be the highest paid call girl in the town.
You snorted to yourself, banishing the lewd thoughts from your mind. It was going to be boring, a couple hours of standing next to Mr. Fischoeder in uncomfortable shoes and trying not to breathe cigar smoke from people who made more in a single month than you did in 5 years. Ew.
You stretched, and noticed just how late it was. You got ready for bed, doing your best to not think about the words Mr. Fischoeder had used. “ Arm candy ”.
You almost managed it.
The next day was your day off, and a knock on the door came at around noon. You answered to see a courier asking you to sign for 4 boxes. You brought them inside and dumped them on your bed, opening them up. There were four identical dresses of varying sizes. After some perusal, you picked what seemed to be closest to your size to try on. The dresses were black silk, short and tailored, with a spaghetti strap and elegant fold at the neckline that draped over your breast.
You slipped out of your shirt and sports-bra and slid into the dress, standing in front of the full length mirror in your bedroom. You looked amazing, even with your hair messy and undone. You turned side to side, admiring how the subtle tailoring enhanced this, and smoothed that.
Shoes! You’d need shoes! Your normal flats or sneakers really wouldn’t go, and you’d probably get laughed out of the stupid club. The dress still on, you dug through the back of your closet, eventually unearthing a pair of black strappy heels you had bought on a whim from the thrift store once, but never worn. A little dusty, but that was easily remedied. They were also unobtrusive enough that hopefully no one would notice, or ask about the brand. Did rich people do that?
Your phone pinged with a text notification as you were trying them on. You tightened the last strap and picked it up off the bed, expecting your mom, or spam, or another notification from your credit card company, but it was Mr. Fischoeder.
It was the first time he’d texted you, and up until this moment you had been pretty sure he didn’t know how to text.
Hello.This is Calvin Fish Odour. Did the dress arrive.?
Fischoeder
You snorted at his stilted texting style. You answered back:
yea! perfect fit, thanks so much!!
Wonderful. I will need to see a. Photo
For verification… ..
You stared at his message, heart beating faster again. He just wants to make sure I won’t embarrass him. You could feel yourself blushing, and decided to cover your face with your phone when you snapped the mirror selfie. You sent it, and before your better judgement could catch up you took another one, this time sitting on the end of your bed with your leg extended forwards, toes pointed, ostensibly to show the shoes.
The typing… message came up immediately, and you watched it anxiously. It vanished and reappeared a couple of times, before finally:
Thank you young lady You look delightful.
Perhaps a couple more angels… .?
Angles
For further verification…. .
Your blush deepened. He probably had a file folder full of women, you told yourself, and needed to compare you. He’s probably just being his usual strangely eccentric self.
You took the photos. One from each side, tilting your hips in the mirror, playing up your silhouette. You finished with one from the back, holding the phone up over your shoulder and glancing back into the mirror.
The response this time was even quicker.
Excellent You were correct,, a perfect fit.
You look absolutely Delightful
haha yr sweet. its all thanks to the dress!!
thank u again btw, this is now the nicest thing i own
lol
Now my dear a dress is.only as good as the wearer.
He called you “my dear” again. Were your palms sweating? Your palms were sweating. Before you could formulate an appropriate reply to send to your landlord, he sent one last text:
Looking forward to seeing it in person
Car will pick you up. At 7PM tomorrow .
Great. You sent a quick thumbs up and then shut your phone completely off and tossed it on your nightstand, before falling backwards onto your bed and covering your face with your hands.
What the hell are you getting into?
It was hard to fall asleep that night. Scenarios kept playing out in your head, and you kept shoving them down.
Don’t sleep with your landlord. Obviously I'm not going to sleep with him. That’s not what he wants. I’m doing this just for the rent. He just wants to look good to his rich friends. God, when was the last time I got laid anyway…
Your thoughts went round and round, stomach lurching with nerves. Finally you settled down to sleep, urging the morning on.
You were standing on the sidewalk at 6:57, shivering slightly. None of your jackets matched the dress, and you’d hoped it would be warm enough to make it from your house to the car with minor discomfort. The cool wind blowing in from the sea was proving you wrong, however.
You’d managed to find a simple clutch black clutch in your closet, into which you’d stuffed your phone and various IDs. (Your wallet hadn’t been able to fit).
You’d be damned if you were paying for a single thing tonight.
That morning had been a fit of nerves, and you’d ended up doing and redoing your makeup around 3 times, and still managing to finish before 4 o’clock. You’d landed on a simple style, light powder and thin eyeliner, natural lipstick. Your hair was the same, just a more polished version of your usual style.
You looked pretty hot, you thought.
Tapping your clutch against your thigh and shifting from foot to foot, you glanced around. Maybe it was a little optimistic to believe he’d show right at 7, maybe you should have waited inside. Maybe he wasn’t coming at all…
At the sound of an approaching car you looked up from your phone, eyes widening when you realised it was a limo.
Are you fucking serious? At least it’s not the golf cart…
The limo pulled to a stop in front of you, and the back door opened.
“Come in, come in! Don’t stand out there in the cold! Look, I have champagne!”
Mr. Fischoeder was gesturing you inside, dressed exactly as he normally did, with the addition of a half-cape attached to his suit with a golden chain. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you climbed inside. He shut the door behind you, and you settled on the seat opposite him, accepting the flute of champagne when he offered it. You took a sip. It was surprisingly tasty, so you took another.
“Now,” Mr. Fisch was saying, “We need to get our story straight. You are a… visiting countess. From Germany. How is your German? You speak it?”
“Um. No,” You said bemusedly, “I can’t do an accent either.”
“Damn. Well, no matter. I doubt anyone will actually ask, but if they do, just say you’re some floozy I picked up at the bar.”
“Great, thanks.” You took another sip from your glass, privately resolving to make up your own story.
The both of you sat in silence for a few moments, Mr. Fischoeder humming to himself and looking around while you stared out the window, watching the sun set. Usually the two of you had a pretty good rapport, but that was when the boundaries were strictly confined to landlord and tenant. This was something completely new.
“Come here for a moment,” Mr. Fischoeder said, breaking the silence, patting the seat next to him.
“Are you allowed to get up in a moving car?”
“Just come! Jeffrey won’t care, he’s hard of hearing! AREN’T YOU JEFFREY?” He shouted towards the front of the limo, to the driver who waved a lazy hand back at them without turning around.
You sighed and carefully stood, smoothing down the front of your dress with one hand, and keeping a hold of your drink with the other. You teetered over to his seat, sitting down with a whumph when the car went over a bump. You sipped your glass again, tensing up when you felt his arm snake around your shoulders.
“W-... what’s up?” you asked, feeling a blush start on your face and wishing you’d worn thicker foundation.
“Just practicing,” he said, shifting his arm around a couple times, “Need to make it look natural, after all.”
You squeaked as his arm slid lower, his hand cupping your lower back.
“There!” he exclaimed, “Perfectly natural.”
He withdrew his hand. Though, to you it seemed like his fingers had lingered a little too long, trailing up your back. You definitely didn’t imagine crawling into his lap, as the driver put up the partition-
You tossed back the rest of the champagne. This was going to be a long car ride.
The limo finally pulled alongside the yacht club, and you tottered out. You’d managed to put back another glass of champagne before you arrived. The rest of the car ride had been uneventful, though you’d spent it sitting right next to Mr. Fischoeder. He hadn’t tried to touch you again, but your thigh had been pressed next to his for the rest of the ride.
He climbed out after you and adjusted his eyepatch, reaching back in to pull out a cane with a fashionable knob on the head. Oh lord. He slapped the roof of the limo to indicate to Jeffrey that he could depart.
“Shall we?” he asked, proffering his elbow to you. You took it, and let him pull you inside.
It was as smoky and overwhelming as you’d feared. Men in suits and women in cocktail dresses filled the room, and the smell of cigars and alcohol and expensive perfumes assaulted your senses as soon as you walked in.
A man bustled over to take your coats, introducing himself as Wayne the Head Waiter. You chuckled a little at the alliteration, and watched him take Mr. Fisch’s cape and cane off to a closet in the back of the club.
Mr. Fischoeder pulled you through the room, introducing you to everyone, though you were pretty sure he didn’t actually know anyone’s names. His hand stayed firm at the small of your back, steering you through the crowd of people. You grabbed another champagne flute off of a passing waiter, (it wasn’t Wayne) and let yourself be shown off. It was an endless parade of Chads and Chets, Scouts and Eleanors. The men leered at you, the women leaned in too close. You didn’t retain a single name.
And all the while, his hand was on your lower back. You sipped your champagne, beginning to feel a little tipsy, when the hand on your back sank lower, cupping the curve of your ass. You looked up at Mr. Fischoeder. He raised an eyebrow at you, and blinked. Or was that a wink? It was hard to tell with the eyepatch. His little smirk made you think it was a wink, though.
He leaned in close, and whispered “Is this alright with you?”
You nodded, and took a gulp of your champagne. Emboldened, you leaned in close to him, tucking yourself under his arm. The party got pleasantly fuzzy as he pulled you through, showing you photo displays of different yachts for sale, and loudly criticising each one.
Finally, you’d had enough. An idea struck and you tugged on his arm, leading him towards the back of the club, setting your empty glass down on the bar as you passed. You pulled him towards the closet, heart pounding, hoping your assumption was correct.
One glance back at his bemused smile told you all you needed to know, and you pushed the door open.
The closet was dark and quiet, and you could feel his warm presence right behind you as he shut the door after the both of you. You startled a little as you felt his hands land on your hips.
“Now, what are we in here for?” he asked, his breath ghosting right into your ear.
You shivered, and his hands tightened around you. You turned around in his grip, his fingers dragging against the silk of your dress, causing it to ride up your thighs. You stood on your toes a little, and slid your arms around his neck.
“Just practicing,” you whispered against his mouth, and then you were kissing.
He kissed you hungrily, pressing his body to yours and bending you backwards like he’d been starving for it all day. His hands found their way under your dress, questing upwards, and you pulled away from the kiss to gasp into his ear.
“You little minx-!” he exclaimed, admonishment and delight colouring his words, “No underwear… you wanted this to happen, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” you drawled, extending the syllable. The drinks were buzzing in your brain, and you could taste the alcohol in his mouth. Cognac? Was that cognac? You had no idea. You kissed him again, his arm wrapped around your shoulders to hold you up. He slid one leg between yours and you moaned.
He hiked your dress up to your waist and backed you up until you were pressed against the wall. His fingers slid down, down- caressing over your center. You pulled away from the kiss and gasped, clapping a hand over your mouth to muffle a moan. He pressed his lips to the curve of your throat, and you bent your leg up to allow him easier access as his fingers went deeper inside you, sliding through your slick arousal to dip into your opening.
You were shaking, and he withdrew to circle his fingers over your clit. You choked into your hand, pleasure zinging up your spine. Your head thumped back against the wall, and you saw stars as he pulled the front of your dress down, exposing your breasts to the air.
“No bra either,” he tsked, “Naughty! This was definitely planned.”
You were about to reply before he ducked his head down, sucking one nipple into his mouth, and it was all you could do not to scream. He laved his tongue over it, sucking in time with the movements of his fingers between your legs, before switching to attack your other breast.
You hung there, pinioned to the wall like some exquisite butterfly, helpless. Your hands roved over his head and shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair as your release crept nearer and nearer.
“ Ah- ahn- please-” you panted, fighting to keep your volume down, “ please- …Sir- ”
He paused to smile up at you and you almost screamed with frustration.
“Oho!” He chuckled, resuming his movements, “‘ Sir ’! I like that, keep doing it.”
“Yessir,” You breathed, willing to say anything as long as he kept moving.
“ Good girl ,” He rasped into your ear, and that did it.
Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, and it was only Mr. Fischoeder pressing his free palm over your mouth that muffled you as he stroked you through it.
Your legs were shaky as you came down, sweat making strands of hair stick to your face.
“That was… Wow.” you said, pushing your hair out of your face and leaning back against the wall. The cool wood felt good against your bare flushed shoulders. You glanced down at Mr. Fischoeder, noticing the prominent tent in the front of his pants.
“Need some help with that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Since you mention it, yes I do.” Without warning he gripped your shoulder and spun you around, pressing you not ungently into the cool wall. You gasped again, arousal spiking. He nudged your feet sternly apart with his foot, and you could hear the jangle of his belt behind you. It seemed like no time at all before you could feel him pressing at your already soaked entrance. You pressed your cheek into the wall, moaning. He slid inside with little preamble, hissing through his teeth as you tensed around him.
“Oh god -...” you warbled, oversensitive.
“Quiet now,” he growled, which only made you moan louder, “I’m going to have to make this quick, we’ve been in here for quite a while.”
With that he started to thrust, quick deep and regular, fingers digging into your hips as you bent over in front of him. Your breath hitched with each clap of your hips meeting, pushing your bottom back against him to drive him deeper, harder.
He leaned forwards, boxing you in with his body, and pressed desperate kisses to the back of your neck.
“Wanna know what I did with those photos you sent me, dirty girl?” he whispered hoarsely between kisses, “I touched myself to them- stroking my cock before you even sent them, sexy little thing like you- how could I not-”
His words made your knees give out, and only his vice grip on your hips kept you from crumpling to the ground.
“Please sir-” you gasped out, matching the rhythm of his thrusts with your words, “Please sir- please sir- please-”
He ground out another moan, hips speeding up, thrusts becoming irregular. Suddenly he pulled out, wrenching you around again.
“Down, down-” he muttered, pushing on your shoulder until you were kneeling in front of him. You finally got a look at his cock, slick and wet, the head purple with arousal. He tangled one hand in your hair, holding your head in place. Without thinking about it you tilted your head back and opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out as he stroked himself above your face.
“Yes that’s it- good girl-” You moaned again, and that seemed to tip him over the edge, as the next moment he was pulling your hair and curling in on himself, and thick ropes of cum were landing on your cheeks and tongue.
You both stayed in that position for a moment, catching your breath.
“Well,” he started, straightening up a little, “That was-”
He was cut off by the closet door opening. Light spilled in over both of you, and Wayne the Head Waiter was standing there with his hands on his hips.
Deer in headlights would have looked less shocked and frozen than the both of you. Shame cascaded over you, swiftly replacing the residual arousal. You hurriedly fixed your dress, pulling it back up over your breasts and down over the mess between your legs. Oh god your face- there wasn’t anything nearby to wipe it off.
“I say!” Mr. Fischoeder said, his voice casual, “Absolutely stellar service you have here at this club! Never seen another like it! Where do I sign up?”
“Nope.” said Wayne with barely restrained fury, “That is not a service we provide sir, and I am going to have to ask you to leave. Permanently .”
“Oh, alright.” Mr. Fischoeder sighed, tucking himself away like he didn't just get caught having sex in public, “Can we at least leave out the back? We’re not… presentable.”
Wayne sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Fine. Just leave quickly !”
You hurried through the back halls of the yacht club, pausing only to grab some paper towels for your face. You left through an unobtrusive exit door, watched all the while like a hawk by Wayne the Waiter.
“Thank you!” Mr. Fischoeder called with a cheery wave, “We had a wonderful time!”
“Please do not come back!” Wayne answered, before slamming the door behind you.
You stood on the sidewalk together, waiting for Jeffrey to bring the car around. Once again you cursed your lack of jacket. You shivered, crossing your arms across your chest to conserve heat. However, you quickly felt a warm weight across your shoulders. Mr. Fischoeder had draped his cape across you, and was now standing with his hands clasped behind his back, looking up the road for Jeffrey.
“Thanks,” You said, pulling the cape closer around your shoulders.
“No problem! You can pay me back by accompanying me to my next event.”
You laughed. “That’s worth three month’s rent, I think.”
“Dirty girl.”