The letter she had received was unexpected. The phone call that followed even more so. They had happened almost in tandem, the call following the delivery of the letter by only a few minutes. The letterhead showed an ornate, sprawling tangle of what she assumed was supposed to be wrought iron, curling and twisting its way around a crest that contained within a quadrant of icons: a single tree branch, an eyeless mask, a gloved hand, and a feather quill.
She hadn't applied for the job. She had only worked at Smith and Sons for barely 4 months. The monotony of life there was a comfort in some ways - the expected happened with a grey regularity and precision that washed over her in waves of quiet calm. It was what she had wanted - somewhere she could be invisible, cloaked, anonymous.
The envelope had been addressed to "Ms V Liatti" and was handwritten. The "Ms" had caused her to raise an eyebrow as she never referred to herself on any documentation, even formal work correspondence, with that predix. She was a "Miss" and decidedly so. There was something in the tone of "Ms" that seemed accusatory - or at least questioning, challenging the addressee to correct the author or else playing with the mystery of your attachment or otherwise enough to be thought of as intrusive. Vanessa liked to be unnoticed and to not be explored. She liked to avoid the ambiguities that some women courted in order to titilate and draw attentiton. She disliked attention. It was this dislike that meant a summons to interview with the Senior Partner of the largest legal firm in the city was something that set her heart racing and set her mind spinning; how had this happened?
Her curiosity had not had much time to fully form before the phone rang. "Ms Vegliati?" came the velvet smooth voice of the lady at the other end.
"Miss, actually".
"Mr Witchief was quite insistent I call you Ms. And that you answer to the name Ms Vegliati."
The statement was left to hang in the air.
"I've just received the letter. I'm a little confused" she replied, deciding to concede the point of her name in order to get to the heart of things - what was going on?
"I have been asked by Mr Witchief to confirm you will be attending tomorrow at 2.30pm."
"I...I am not sure I understand..."
"You will wear a white blouse, stiff and with a starched collar. An pencil skirt in black that sits no more than one inch and i less than two above the knee. Black tights black shoes with 2 inch heels. You will apply a floral scent 30 minutes before the interview. Upon arrival, ask for Mrs Fuxguard, Mr Witchief's Director of Recruitment and she will bring you up to his office."
The specificity of the instructions weren't what caused the silence that followed. Vanessa could only think of the fact she would need to find a suitable skirt from somewhere. She was at once trying to find ways to meet these demands and had forgotten her initial instinct that there must have been some mistake and instead felt a jolt of concern that she would meet the dress requirements for the interview she had never wanted.
She arrived at the offices fifteen minutes early. The cloudless sky meant the early morning sun was already making things uncomfortably warm and the white shirt she had freshly ironed that morning shone brightly with reflected brilliance. She wasn't sure why she had agreed to come. She could only remember the thrill that had come upon her and the sharp taste on adrenaline when the assistant had given her the instructions. The heeled shoes she had chosen had forced her into a more upright gait than usual, elongating her calves and keeping her buttocks pert and tense. She felt a certain power but a certain helplessness too now that she stood at the elegant glass front of Witchief and Partners.
She was welcomed curtly and with a slight wryness by the receptionist, as though there was a private joke that would remain unexplained but the gist of which would soon become apparent. There were no other employees in the office, either arriving for work, leaving on business, or sat at their desk, embroiled in the cut and thrust of....
"Wait here." The receptionist with the wry smile had a brisk and very efficient manner and it was as she sat where instructed that she realised they were dressed almost identically, only the receptionist's blouse was unbuttoned slightly further than would be considered appropriate and Smith and Sons. Vanessa waited for her to leave and made the same adjustment to her own blouse, unbuttoning to the fourth hole and feeling her cheeks flush slightly in reply.
The door to Mr Witchief's office was frosted glass and she could see only the vaguest blur inside. The grey smear seemed to belong to a man about six feet tall, broad but slender, and whose dark, chocolate voice, though muffled, carried out into the open plan space where Vanessa was waiting. The blur turned into a shadow and then a silhouette that filled the glass door which opened now, revealing the sparsely furnished interior - a desk and two chairs only - and the man inside.
"Come in and sit." He quietly but firmly emphasised the consonants of the last word in this sentence with breathy insistence and she found herself rising and following the directive without comment, as if waiting for permission to speak.
Mr Whitchief sat opposite and took a moment to assess what he had before him. He stood up and walked towards the window. "Your interview will be in five parts. There will of course be a physical examination to ensure medical fitness to serve, in addition to tests of loyalty, ability to follow instructions, endurance and finally psychological aptitude...
...Sit up straight!"
She complied without hesitation. Her heart began to race. The logical thing to do would be to ask one of the thousand questions that she couldn't quite at that moment identify but she knew had been there a moment before. All she knew now was that she needed to sit upright, shoulders back, face implacable and to control her breaths.
He had approached her from the side and brushed her hair back begind her ear, then stroked her cheek, lowering his hand a smoothing it across to her chin, placing his thumb on her lower lip and meandering further down her neck, running against its front and onto her clavical. A sudden tug brought her head back, her eyes meeting his, wide, white, her pupils had become puts of black and the bitter taste of adrenaline made her mouth water deliciously.
"There is some paperwork to do first though. Sharpen the pencil on the desk, read an sign the permission slip, and then stand behind your chair..."
Some time had passed but she knew better than to complain. The office was bathed in sunlight that was magnified by the floor to ceiling glass that encompassed a hole side of the room. The perspiration came from every pore and trickled down her back and had left her fresh white blouse semi transparent and her make up had startes to run.
She was stood as upright as she could manage. Deportment was absolutely crucial, she had been told, andn the true test of posture was endurance. Her skirt had been removed, of course, and though she had been allowed to keep her plain white panties for now she knew that one wrong move would mean a consequence that could jeopardise things entirely.
"Your nipples" said Mr Whitchief in a matter-of-fact way, barely glancing up from his clipboard, "are they sensitive?"
She felt the trick in his question despite his monotone delivery.
"Yes."
She replied, hoping this would mean the test of their sensitivity would be less severe as a result.
"Good. Remove your blouse and bra" was the response.
She did as instructed and within seconds she felt a shard pinch as he pulled at them, pink and pert as they were, before delivering a sharp smack to each breast.
"I will need to apply these clamps. This isn't to stimulate you, you understand, but rather to ensure they are not available for you to play with yourself anymore."
The logic involved in this statement seemed perverse but she was in no position to object. The clamps were applied with care and Mr Whitchief stood back from her, admiring the precision and the symmetry of her newly endorsed areola.
She was unsure how much time had past. The blinfold he had secured, initially cold and silken leather, had grown warm and beads of sweat skirted around it. Her make up had begun to come away from her skin and her scalp tingled with the sensation of loose hairs, out if place now, irritating her disheveled visage, the occasional few stuck to her cheek and to her neck.
She moaned again. Less softly this time. A sudden rush of emotion released as a sob she tried in vain to catch caught the back of her throat in a guttural gurgle that then turned into a squeal of frustration. The ball gag was tied too tight, she thought, as spittle and drool slid down her chin. She could breath but only through her nose and her jaw was beginning to ache. Her arms were tightly secured in another leather contraption that locked them straight and pulled them behind her. She felt his hands caress her body and the soft ache in her nipples was beginning to feel more sharp, alternating between a sensation of a bruise and a pinch...
A surge of adrenaline coarsed through every vein and capillary. He struck her buttocks again and she cried out the number; "42. Thank you, sir. May I please have another?"
At this point her face was barely recognisable. The smear of make up looked like a bruise and her cheeks were marked with burst blood vessels - the result of the last round of slaps she had endured with gratitude. She was sweating profusely and beginning to wonder what it would look like to others on the train ride home.
Shit
She was going to have to travel home like this. This thought hit her hard and she began to breathe rapidly. His hand clamped her mouth shut and pinched her nose while the other hand expertly found her clit and teased it before landing a sharp slap directly onto it. He released her mouth and nose, walked round to face her and held her by the throat.
"If you don't behave yourself and show a little more gratitude" he whispered, "I will put your clothes back on, tidy you up, and send you home in a fresh blouse and skirt I have in my desk drawer. But i know you don't want that. When you go home you want people to see. You are proud of what we are doing here today. I want you to be happy in your filth you dirty little pig. So, this is your only warning: if you want to have the humiliation you have earned so far to he complete, I have one more task for you..."
The walk home was beyond her wildest desires and her worst fears. Her clothes, though dishevelled and wet were at least covering her modesty but to anyone looking on it was perfectly clear what had happened. The ball gag was lodged in her mouth and her nostrils flared from the hooks that held them out and up at the same time. The words "good girl" were written in lipstick across her forehead and her blouse clung tightly to her body with a mix of sweat and the water she had been hosed down with at the end of the interview. Her nipples, now released, ached intensely and her legs were heavy. As she entered her building and climbed the staircase, almost home, she relived the ordeal in her minds eye and found herself unable to explain why she had gone through with it as far as she had.
She stooped suddenly a few metres from her door.
"So..." he said, smiling broadly, leaning cooly against her front door... "do you want the job?"
The end!
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