The Service Sub

B.J. Frazier

Copyright 2023. All rights reserved

Published by B.J. Frazier Publications, LLC

B.J. Frazier Publications Edition, License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction.

Therefore, all characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination.

Adult Reading Material

DIGITAL ISBN: 978-1-957131-34-4

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

The Service Sub

About B.J. Frazier

Books by B.J. Frazier

Connect with B.J. Frazier

Author’s Note

Not all erotic encounters involve sex. This book focuses on what makes an ideal service sub. It will tantalize your senses on a psychological power exchange level. If you prefer hot and heavy sex scenes throughout your erotica, I invite you to choose one of my other books.

This book was sparked by an educational piece of Multiperv’s.

Huge *hugs* to Mike Bowerbank for designing the cover. *Hugs* also to Thomas Antonson, rubbug, Multiperv, and toymax, who helped with the aesthetics.

Caveat: Multiperv speaks for Pierre, the service sub, by objecting to the cover because it hides the dominant’s face in favor of “merely a service sub”. Like Pierre, however, Multiperv also acknowledges that the choice in featuring the title character on the cover lies in the hands of a female dominant: Me! *grin*

My sincere and devoted thanks go to Thomas Antonson for his editing acumen and his uncanny ability to understand which word I really meant to use.

Please visit my website: bjfrazier.com

I know there are a lot of books for sale, and I thank you for choosing mine.

Happy reading,

~B.J.

Severe Content Warning: B.J. Frazier books contain *plots* and *well-developed characters*

Enjoy!

The Service Sub

“Chit!” Pierre grumbled. He immediately felt the nick of the razor and craned his head to inspect the tiny red dot under his jaw.

It was an amateur move, and Pierre Jonker was far from amateur. He was, however, extremely nervous.

He slowly closed his eyes and breathed before completing the shave. The last time he cut himself, he was a teenager. Nevertheless, placing two ice cubes on a plate was part of his precautionary routine. One would have sufficed but Pierre always liked to have a spare.

As he touched a cube to the cut, Pierre looked at himself. His calm gaze and deep breath filled him with reassurance.

After precisely thirty seconds, Pierre dropped the ice in the sink and applied a pre-moistened washcloth to his face. He held the cloth against his cheeks, then circled outward. He swiped up to his temples before running the cloth down his jaw.

Then he took it in one hand and folded it in half before rinsing it out. He wrung it out three times to prevent any dripping.

Opening the cloth, he moved it in clean lines from his chin, down and up the right side of his neck before folding, rinsing and wringing again. When Pierre repeated the process to the left side of his neck, he applied slightly less pressure over the cut. As he folded, rinsed and wrung, Pierre scrutinized his skin for any remnants of shaving cream.

Seeing none, he carefully draped the wet cloth over a bar and picked up a fluffy, white hand towel. He gently touched it to his face following the same pattern as before, then patted his neck.

After he placed the towel on the rack next to the cloth, he reached for his alum block. Holding it under cold water, he again inspected himself before wiping the block over his freshly-shaven skin. Pierre blinked slowly when he went over the cut.

With a fresh hand towel, he dried the block and secured it in its bamboo box. Then he set the box in its place in a drawer.

He rinsed another washcloth under cold water and wrung it three times before patting his face and neck in the same manner as before, followed by a fresh hand towel pat.

Satisfied that his skin had no residue, Pierre slid a comb through his lacquered hair. Pomade was out of style, but it reminded Pierre of proper times when etiquette mattered. Plus, it hid the hints of grey that had begun to appear.

Then, he carefully separated a pair of black pants from a hanger and began his fastidious routine of dressing. When he was finished, he inspected himself in a full-length, three-way mirror.

The hem of his pants barely kissed his patent-leather shoes. The seams were crisp and straight. His white dress shirt was buttoned, neatly tucked into his pants, and secured with a black belt. Angling to see the back, Pierre nodded. Turning again to the front, he readjusted his perfectly-placed black tie.

Sighing at the black jacket still on the hanger, Pierre hoped he was making the right decision to leave it behind. The only instruction had been to “come as you are”. Not wanting to appear too casual nor too formal, he nodded at his decision to forego the blazer.

Tugging a sleeve, he half-smiled, remembering the final touch. Pivoting to a drawer, he opened it slowly and carefully removed a box made from whiskey cherry. Cradling it as if it might break, he allowed himself a rare moment.

Then he set it on the counter and gently opened the lid. The interior was dark red velvet, showcasing a pair of onyx cufflinks in the shape of pentagons. In the center of each was a tiny diamond chip. They were understated in their elegance.

His eyes welled up as he affixed them to his shirt but he concentrated on positives.

Good things would come to him.

The rest of his life was before him.

For the first time in his forty-three years, Pierre Jonker was going on an interview.

* * * *

Before he left, Pierre slid a number-ten-sized envelope into his black leather attaché case. He opened the door and took a step outside. With one foot on the porch and the other inside the house, he glanced around for the third time. Satisfied everything was in its place and he hadn’t forgotten anything, Pierre stepped onto the porch and locked the front door.

The temperature was moderate for mid-September, but a few bursts of wind hinted at the approaching winter. Pierre decided to walk, knowing he was always ahead of schedule. Plus, he enjoyed people-watching, and his route would take him past the university.

Several fraternity houses stood proudly in brick, boasting many lineages of history. A flurry of activity buzzed as members cleaned up evidence of the previous night’s party... or horsed around with a football, hacky sack or frisbee.

Pierre watched from the opposite side of the street, and smiled when a loud belch reached his ears. His smile vanished when he imagined the proper buildings sagging with shame.

His attention was drawn to a speed-walker, who skipped twice and jogged four steps before returning to a quick walk. The student tried to blend in but it was obvious that he was late for class.

Pierre wistfully watched the figure. He hadn’t officially attended college, but Pierre had visited many lectures. He loved to learn. Breathing deeply, he inhaled the collegiate scent mixed with autumn, and clutched his briefcase.

“Fancy running into you here,” a voice said behind him.

Pierre turned and saw someone who looked like a professor.

“Oh! Wow, I was going to go to your office hours today,” replied a female, who appeared to be a freshman.

“Well, you can see me there or have a cup of coffee with me now,” the professor offered.

“Yeah, I’ll join you. I wanted to talk to you about the paper...”

They walked out of earshot, and once again Pierre considered what might have been.

Stopping for a red light, he checked his reflection in a store window. A wave of panic surged through him when he saw his shirtsleeves. He calmed himself as he went through the logical steps to conclude that leaving the jacket at home was the best decision.

With renewed energy and increasing anxiety, Pierre walked at a quicker pace... even though he was still quite early.

At eight-thirty-three, he found the address for his nine o’clock appointment. Twenty-seven minutes was too early to arrive, so he pretended to ignore the old, red brick house as he walked around the block.

Even though his eyes were straight ahead, Pierre was well-versed in peripheral observations. Instead of a white, picket fence, there were boxwood shrubs around the property, manicured in a three-foot box frame, with a break for the walkway.

The house was a two-story beauty, with a vent at the top slope, indicating attic space. A double-story bay column jutted from the right side. On the left side was a porch with four steps. It was covered by a small, triangular roof, which matched the one on top. The porch was large enough for a couple of potted plants and a small bench.

Decorating the front of the house was a line of white-tipped hostas lying before a row of roundly-manicured boxwood shrubs. There were vines of red Virginia creeper and chokeberry slithering up the brick. They weren’t enough to overtake the home but they had more control than the gardener.

It was a beautiful structure, and Pierre tried to get lost in possibilities... while being acutely aware of the time.

After fifteen minutes, he knocked on the door at eight-fifty-one.

“Door’s open!”

Pierre pressed on the latch with his thumb and circled his fingers around the handle, pulling slightly. The interior was dark, and it took some time for his eyes to adjust. He shut the door and stayed in the vestibule. The floor was tiled with blue and green slate. The heavenly scent of freshly baked bread permeated the air, and his mouth watered.

“Name?”

“Pierre Jonker. I have a nine--”

“Yeah, got ya,” interrupted the voice.

He immediately stopped talking when the girl spoke. His eyes having adjusted, he saw that she sat behind a fold-out table, which blocked the entrance to the house. She flipped some pages and wrote on one. He waited patiently.

She was young and pretty, dressed in a Beatles T-shirt. Her hair wasn’t styled, and there were large chips in her manicure. Pierre maintained a pleasant countenance while silently wondering whether she’d just woken up.

After she was done writing, she put the pen and papers down. She glanced at him and hesitated, waiting to see if he’d speak again.

He didn’t.

“Pierre, is that French?”

“Belgian, actually... er, well, the French part of Belgium. So you’re technically right, miss,” he smiled.

“Uh-huh,” she said, disinterested. She paused again, giving him a chance to add more.

He didn’t.

“You’re the first one here. ‘Cause it’s, like, way early, y’know. I only just got into the chair here.”

“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience,” Pierre said.

She looked at him and smirked. “Do you always talk like that?”

“Like what, miss?” he frowned.

“With them big, college words.”

“I...” but he didn’t know what to say.

She gave him another beat to finish his thought, but he didn’t.

“S’ok. It’s just that we don’t usually get too many...” she straightened in her chair and pushed her chin out, “educated folk.” She pronounced it haughtily then laughed.

“Oh, I assure you, miss, I’m not--”

“Nah, s’ok. I’m just funnin’ ya, Mr. French-by-way-of-Belgian Pierre,” she grinned at her cleverness.

Pierre’s go-to smile was instant, while he bit his tongue to prevent the correction of “Belgian” to “Belgium”.

Again, she waited through Pierre’s silence. He was comfortable waiting, and easily stood erect with his attaché at his side.

“You’re not much of a talker, are ya,” she commented.

“When required to talk, I can speak on a variety of subjects,” Pierre self-promoted, wondering if the interview hinged upon her recommendation.

“‘When required to talk,’” she repeated. “I like that!”

“Thank you, miss.”

She took in his stance, which hadn’t changed since he’d walked in. “A tie? Pretty fancy, hey?”

Adept at interpersonal communication, Pierre bent slightly forward and lowered his voice to ingratiate himself with his would-be co-worker. “I debated about wearing the matching blazer, but decided to leave it home because the instruction was to ‘come as you are’, though, to be honest, I’m not sure that was the right decision.”

She cocked her head and half-smiled. “Oh, you’re serious!”

“Quite.”

She laughed out loud. “And you’re asking my opinion?”

“You have more experience than I do, so yes, I am.”

“I think you’re adorable, Pierre.”

“Thank you, miss,” he frowned slightly.

“You want me to comment about the jacket?”

He nodded.

“No, you’re fine without it, but what would you do if I said you needed it?”

Pierre glanced at his watch. “I could call a cab and have him wait.”

She laughed again. “You’re serious.”

“Shall I do that, miss?”

“Nah, I said you’re okay without it.”

“Thank you, miss.”

She stood up, and Pierre saw her faded and ripped jeans. When she pulled the table back, he moved to help.

“Please, allow me, miss.”

“Oh, I’m done.”

The angled table permitted a tight passageway, and the girl motioned for him to walk through.

Pierre stepped to the right and glimpsed a formal, Victorian-looking living space, flooded with sunlight through the open, red velvet curtains. They went floor to ceiling, and he noticed with dismay that the rope to hold them open hung limply against the wall.

“I’ll take that,” she said.

“Excuse me, miss?” he asked.

“That,” she said, pointing to his briefcase.

He held it up and raised his eyebrows.

“Yep, you won’t need it.”

“Very well, miss,” Pierre said, handing her the case.

“You’ll get it when you leave.”

“Thank you, miss.”

“Down those stairs,” she said, pointing to a door behind her and to her left.

Pierre took a step toward the living room before her words stopped him. “Down the stairs, miss?”

“Yep. Someone’ll be with you soon. You’re early, y’know,” she said.

“Right, yes. Thank you, miss.”

Pierre grasped the glass doorknob and turned it to the left. It opened with a creak onto a dark space. Automatically, he felt for a switch. Finding it in the usual place, he flicked it up.

The stairs were bare, old and worn, as were the walls. It was the complete opposite from the bright and cheery front room.

He turned to the girl and said, “It was nice to meet you, and thank you for your assistance, miss.”

Well-practiced in covering his emotions, he appeared as if he were walking into the living room and not down a creepy set of stairs to a basement.

“I hope to see ya around, Pierre.”

As he descended the stairs, the air became musty. The light stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and he had to find another switch plate, which contained several switches.

He flicked them all up, and miniature lamps lit up the area. They were evenly spaced three feet apart and hung on the wall with red shades, resembling sconces.

The floor was black concrete. As Pierre followed its path, he studied the room as a whole, and wasn’t surprised that it looked like a medieval dungeon. What did surprise him was that the interview was set there... without a proper table and chairs.

* * * *

Pierre thought that where he chose to stand was another test, and he debated about dropping to full sub mode or standing with his arms behind his back. Relying again on the “come as you are” instruction, he decided to stand at the end of an aisleway in the center of the room. It seemed the most appropriate place, given the proximity of the throne-like chair.

During the next ten minutes, several men entered the room making various comments. The first one asked Pierre if they were supposed to stand in line. Pierre shrugged, and the man stood half a foot away. The third asked the second the same thing before taking his spot.

Pierre subtly scanned each person and was affronted by the unprofessional appearance. All were college aged except one who looked to be in his thirties. The last person was the loudest. As he walked down the stairs, he called, “Should I start taking off my clothes now, hon?”

He entered the room with his head toward the stairs but no answer was given. When he looked at the line of men, his smile faded. “I’m not a fag,” he said, half to the men and half back up the stairs.

No one answered. He scanned the line and yelled, “Dude!” and high-fived several men and laughed nervously. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Kirk, my man!”

The group relaxed from the line and formed a circle; relieved by the informality.

Pierre figured the interview would be competition-based but kept his thoughts to himself. He was more concerned by the group breaking protocol, despite not knowing exactly what the protocol was.

He wondered what the next person would do, since there was no longer a line, but no one else came in. The “competition” had a dozen participants.

“Y’all know I get first pick,” Kirk playfully punched one of his pack.

“First pick at what?” asked a vision in red.

Lady Crimson had entered the room and leered at Kirk. She had auburn hair and wore a medieval dress of crushed red velvet with a corset showcasing her massive bosoms. Even though she was of average height, she seemed to loom over him.

When Pierre caught sight of her, he automatically straightened. Her control was pervasive, and she clearly preferred protocol. He smiled inwardly at the anticipation of the situation becoming serious.

Kirk, on the other hand, didn’t share the same thoughts. He was a blond beefcake, dressed in his fraternity’s grey Tee with navy Bermuda shorts. A pair of worn but expensive flip-flops rounded out his overly casual look.

He regarded the woman with a smile before answering, while his friends took a step closer to the line.

“First pick of our choices, of course,” he smiled.

“When I ask a question, I expect it to be answered completely; unlike yours, which begs the question to be repeated.” She paused. “Don’t make me ask it again.”

“I was telling my buddies here,” Kirk motioned to the others without looking, “that I get first pick of the women that will be presented to us.” He flashed a cagey smile.

Lady Crimson didn’t return the smile. “You were the last to arrive--barely on time, I’ll add, which is considered late--looking like you’re about to wash your car rather than be interviewed, and you’re the loudest one here. And for those reasons, you think that you somehow deserve to be the first in line?” she frowned.

Kirk grinned and nodded impishly.

She slapped him across the face, causing every man to react.

“Hey now!” Kirk said playfully. The slap didn’t hurt, and he was more amused than angry.

“I don’t enjoy repeating myself. Since it appears you’re not very bright, I’ll tell you that nodding like a bobblehead is not a complete answer. Furthermore, it’s not acceptable to ‘hey now’ your boss.”

“Boss, huh? So I got the job?” Kirk’s eyes twinkled.

Lady Crimson sighed in disgust and placed her palm against his chest. Pushing him, she said, “Get in line.”

Kirk took a step back, saying, “Sure thing, as long as I get to go first, babe,” he winked.

The lady rolled her eyes and heel-clacked her way to the opposite end of the line.

Pierre immediately bowed his head.

“As the first one here, you get to go first,” she told him.

“Thank you, miss,” he said, looking down.

“We do have some manners in the room!”

Pierre knew the compliment was more of a reprimand to Kirk, and said nothing.

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