Gainful Employment
.Excerpt).
Chapter 1: The Interview
It's four in the morning and my alarm won't go off for hours yet. But I'm awake, lying in my bed and looking out at the reluctant gray light that chills everything before dawn. The city's quiet right now, largely because it's too cold for much activity. Even in my studio apartment on the third floor, with all the heat rising up from my neighbors, I have to dress in two layers of shirts, leggings, pajama pants, and two pairs of socks to keep warm. I'd worn a beanie cap to bed, but in my typical tossing and turning the hat had come off, which left my straight black hair to tangle and splay on the lumpy pillows. My bed takes a beating, but not because I'm a social butterfly. I have nightmares often, and vivid dreams that are confusing even when they aren't troubling. Half the time I wake up with my sheets kicked off and my heart beating painfully hard.
But not today. Today, I was allowed out of sleep, I suppose you could say, without a panic attack. I'm not sure why I'm unusually serene today. I have an interview in about five hours, at a building I thought I'd never set foot in for such a thing. One Franklin Square. It sounds like an address, but it's the name of the actual building located on 1301 K Street NW, right in the heart of Washington, DC. This place is one of the tallest buildings in a city of height restricted opulence, and its facade dominates one entire city block between 13th and 14th street. I had to reconfirm with my rep at the staffing agency that this was really where I was supposed to go.
The morning creeps by, and I get up, shed my sleepwear, shower, and huddle over a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal. The heat is cranked and I'm still cold. I'm small at 5'2” and weigh barely a hundred pounds soaking wet. My metabolism is so high that I burn off most of what I eat, and don't save enough to even keep warm in the winter. So while I sip from my coffee mug, my hands are wrapped in fingerless woolen gloves. The heat from the ceramic gets my fingertips to an almost hedonistic warmth that I rarely feel in my day to day. Right now, my day to day is job searching, occasionally interviewing within the city, and cooking for myself - which can be a maddeningly difficult chore, given the metabolism.
Today, however, is different. I'm wanted at One Franklin Square bright and early, so I take the metro there to arrive at eight and temporarily roost at the Soho Cafe and Market on the ground floor. It gives me an hour to go through all the stages of pre-interview jitters: being anxious, calming down, fidgeting, and needing a coffee and then a toilet, and finally settling down. With this body comes a lot of energy, and buzzing in my chair during the interview just wouldn't be appropriate.
Because of the weather, I've dressed in several layers. Knee high leather boots, which had been given a quick polish at my table, cling to my slender legs, and after that a pair of black leggings take over. A white tunic in high-quality linen covers the shape of my ass elegantly, and is belted about my low hips with a white satin cord. A long, well cut black suit jacket rests on top of that, and over all of it is my even longer black woolen duster. Red eyeshadow blends in and darkens towards my black eyeliner, giving my large and gray eyes a bit more depth within my narrow, angular face. Some call it elfin. I call it annoying. I'm in my late twenties and everyone still thinks I'm nineteen. My lips, which I can play up to really look hot or downplay to simply look demure, bear a dusky pink tint to be professional without crossing the line into the salacious.
About twenty minutes before I'm due for the interview, I find my way to the elevators and make for the eleventh floor. Nestled in between Hines Interests Limited Partnership and Reed Smith LLP is a nondescript office suite with a door plaque that notes the suite beyond belongs to the Aries Corporation in officious block lettering. It's the place I've been instructed to go to, with the general rundown of the job being something secretarial. I have the information saved on my tablet, which is neatly nestled into the leather messenger bag that hangs at my right hip. I've looked for information on the Aries Corporation, but there is very little to find.
It's one of those entities that's behind the scenes of all the other players who are behind the scenes. The lack of any kind of presence on the New York Stock Exchange, the NASDAQ, the Tokyo Stock Exchange, the London Stock Exchange Group, or the Euronext is evidence of that. They don't need money from the public, and yet it's not obvious just what they produce in terms of goods or services. It's been as if wherever I looked for the Aries Corporation, I found an abyss – and it looked back at me, taunting. Really, it's kind of concerning. This is the kind of place that's either a marketing scam (and it can't be, with an office in this building) or the sort of place that's a front for something. Either way, I'd have to sell my soul to work here – and luckily for them, I'm desperate enough to do it.
Yet for all that mystique, the suite I walk into is well kept and disappointingly ordinary. A few cubicles fill an open space to my left, and a few blocked-in offices occupy the space to my right. Potted plants are placed here and there, and running my fingers across one of the leaves proves that they're real. The lighting is bright and pedestrian, not meant to comfort, but rather to help workers find paperclips that they've dropped on the floor. It smells like coffee, the ozone from a fax/printer, and carpet cleaner. The furniture looks rented and durable.
I seek out someone and let them know who I am and why I'm here. My rep said that I'd be interviewing with a man named Reginald, but when I'm asked to sit and wait - and offered coffee that I decline - I'm informed that I'll be interviewed by a woman named Susan. Alright, shit happens, I suppose. When 9am rolls around, I see a woman walking down the central hallway that leads to the door I'd entered through. I have about five seconds to take her in – a few inches taller than me, fit but curvy, black and curling hair that's pinned up into a bun, thick and nerdy-chic glasses that perch on a button nose, pouting lips tinted a bubblegum pink, and an outfit that I unfortunately can only think of as “Office-Slutty.” Her ankle boots click their heels on the pebbly carpeting, and stockings that are sheer and lovely ride up her legs to her short black pencil skirt. A white, trim blouse is tucked into the skirt, and a silver necklace dips down into her shirt, with the top two buttons undone to make it obvious how that chain disappears into her cleavage.
My eyes flick back up to her's when she comes to a halt in front of me. As I stand to be polite and shake her hand, she just pulls her glasses down her nose a little to look at me from over the frames. “Hmm. Take your coat off.” Her voice holds a bubbly London accent that's demanding in a way that both is and isn't flippant, and I slowly take off my coat. “And the jacket. Let's have that off, too.” I really don't think this is appropriate, but I slip out of my jacket anyway. A job's a job, after all. And bills don't give a shit about how uncomfortable I am undressing for this interview. With my slim frame only dressed now in my tunic, boots, leggings, and undergarments, Susan pushes her frames back up her nose. “That'll do. Come along.”
I feel more than a little stupid carrying my armful of coat and jacket, with the additional weight of my messenger bag at my hip, but I follow along behind her. Her pace is a thing I can only describe again as Perky, with a capital P. I can imagine her being one of the stars in some tawdry office-romance porno. With those lips, she'd be famous. So of course, now I'm thinking about porn as we enter her office, and when I sit in the seat provided I'm blushing just a little bit. “Oh, and close the door,” she calls over her shoulder as she rounds her desk, clearly busy with opening a few drawers and looking for something. I hang my coat on a hook on the wall, and then close the door before sitting back down just as she does.
I watch, fascinated, as she pushes an earpiece into her right ear. It looks like the sort of thing a person working in a call center would have, with a slim mic on a stalk following the curve of her cheek. “Okay, so, just so you know, this interview's going to be a little different.”
Again I have thoughts of that office porn film, and I clear my throat. “Yes, Ma'am.”
“Oh no, just call me Susi. Everyone does.” She frowns and then turns her head slightly to the right, bubblegum lips pursed. “Right, okay,” she says softly before turning back to me. When she folds her hands on the desk primly, I can see that her nails are the same color as her lips. So she's coordinated. That's nice. “Tell me your full name, date of birth, and your address, please.” The cadence of her speech is more authoritative with that last, and it's obvious that someone else is feeding her words through the earpiece.
Don't they have that on paper about four times over by now? Feeling the first coil of apprehension, I sit up primly in my seat, folding my hands in my lap. “My name is Olivia Andrews. I was born on April fourth, 1984. My current address is 4201 7th Street, Apartment 301, Washington, DC.”
Susi nods, then turns her eyes down and to the right before asking. “You left out your phone number.”
“You didn't ask for it, Susi.” Maybe I shouldn't be so flippant, but I'm not fond of having my time wasted.
I'm about to rise out of my chair when Susi nods. “No, I didn't. Well done.”
I keep watching her, though she simply smiles at me. It's like she's waiting for something. Instructions through the earpiece, probably. So who's really interviewing me? Susi catches me glancing at it and makes a soft, pleasant sound close to a giggle behind her closed lips before she takes off her glasses and starts to polish them with a little microfiber cloth. With her eyes still on her eyeglasses, she asks “How many chairs were in the waiting area?”
“Four.”
“How many potted plants?”
“Five.”
Lifting up her glasses to her desk lamp to check for stray spots, she nibbles her lip before asking “What about me did you consider first?”
“Your height.” Thank God she didn't ask what body part I looked at first.
“How much taller am I than you?”
“Three inches in heels, one in bare feet.”
“Why am I asking you these questions?”
My attention is so focused that for a moment, when I'm asked to pull together a conclusion rather than toss out numbers, I hold my breath. “Because you don't need a secretary.”
Susi turns her head slightly to the right again, nods, and then closes her eyes with a touch of frustration – probably because gestures can't be seen through the earpiece. She mmhmms into the earpiece, and then stands up from her seat. “Leave your things. I'll keep an eye on them.”
I get up from my seat and follow her out to the main office area. “Go through that gray door there, then head down the corridor. Keep going until you can't.”
Before I can ask her any questions she's shut her office door and locked it, complete with my belongings still inside. Great. I'm completely out of sorts. I never mention my eidetic memory on applications. It's so complicated to explain, and more often than not they expect me to be like Rain Man. That isn't how it works at all.
Once I slip in past the gray door, all the sounds of the office are suddenly gone. The walls must be soundproofed in here. A shiver runs up my spine as the adrenaline of my memory test fades, and my fingers curl and uncurl to remove the tension there. The hallway itself is narrow and dimly lit, with beams of light from outside flowing in without any of the road noise. As I walk down the hallway, I admire the curling, symmetrical patterns of the red and black mosaic tiles. The walls are bare of absolutely anything, and after a few twists and turns, I come to a set of double doors.
These doors are beautiful and made of some exotic, nearly black wood that's been carved with motifs of angels and celestial themes. I stand before them, reluctant to touch them. I see no knob on either door, nor do I see any lock. But as I look closer, I find that one of the figures carved into the wood looks different and slightly out of place. I only have a moment to examine it before the doors begin to open into the room before me.
I remain where I am for a moment and take in what I can. Light streams through two large windows at the far wall from the door, illuminating a path set within the marble flooring of the room itself. Once my eyes get used to the glare, I can make out a large desk, flanked by two columns on either side. Rectangular screens hung on tracks along the columns lift up into the ceiling silently, and the subtle smell of mechanical lubricant greets my nose along with the aromas of flowers, a pool of water, and a fire. But I can't see any of those three things.
A voice coming from the dark area beyond the desk intones, “come in, Olivia Andrews.” It's a woman's voice, with an American accent that's smooth and rich.
Somehow, I know that I should follow the design in the floor, keeping within the edges of the path delineated by the slightly lighter color of marble as I approach her desk. With every step I take, my eyes adjust more to the light, and I can make out the speaker's shape, but only just. Once I'm about halfway within the room, she says, “hold, for a moment.”
My feet press to the floor side by side, and I keep my attention on her.
“What do you know about the Aries Corporation?” she purrs, and the slight creak of leather suggests that she's shifting in her chair. If the leather is, indeed, clothing the chair and not her. At this distance I still can't tell.
“Nothing.”
“Don't be modest. You know more than that.”
“I was unable to find anything about the Aries Corporation.”
“Mmm, but that doesn't mean that you know nothing about it.”
Resisting the urge to fidget, I say, “that kind of information is only impossible to find if someone doesn't want it found.”
A low, slow chuckle slithers forward from the darkness beyond the desk, and I feel my stomach tighten and my nipples harden. I wish I knew what she looked like. Is this the CEO?
“Your searches were so thorough, too. Systematic. Very elegant. I do so like elegance.”
“How do you know that? I used...”
“...your laptop, using the wireless provided at the District of Columbia Public Library. You undoubtedly thought this would provide you with anonymity; it certainly provided a sense of security, false though it was. You tried so many search strings, followed so many leads, and all for nothing. Frustrating, wasn't it?”
“How do you know that?” I repeat, growing flustered. If someone's managed to get into my files, then I'm in deeper trouble than a blown interview.
“Because I want you, Olivia Andrews. I want your memory. But to find you, I had to search for some time. You keep your tracks well covered, and I can only imagine that you're paying your rent through dubious means that the law shouldn't be made aware of.”
“So I'm being blackmailed, then.” The quiver in my voice is soft but there, and I swallow to tame it. She's right, of course. My memory lets me remember things, whether I should see them or not. And there are people out there who pay good money to get some information that they shouldn't have.
There's another creak from the chair, and the woman behind the desk stands up straight. She must be over six feet tall, and as she slowly rounds her desk and walks towards me, I can see that about four inches of that are stiletto heels. Her figure is alluring, feminine, but imposing and aggressive. Elegant but dangerous. I remain where I am as she circles around behind me, denying me the sight of her face. At this point, turning to look is out of the question. I'm unquestionably neck deep in some shady shit right now, and this is DC. Shady and stupid don't mingle well.
“Olivia,” her voice lilts just enough to hint at moaning my name, and I swallow again. Her long fingers, slide over my shoulders, and my pulse seems to quicken with every new inch she touches. Her body pulls in closer behind mine, and I do my best not to shake. I'm intimidated as hell, but there's something else, too. I haven't even seen her, and I know already that she's vastly, immensely out of my league. A hair's breadth from my ear, her voice slides against my skin in a whisper as she says, “you don't really want what you came here to get. You would be wasted. I require your memory, and the various applications to which it can be best put to use. If you look where I tell you, listen when I tell you, and record what I tell you, the police will never find you. Your debts will be paid, and you will live comfortably and well, as befits an agent of your prowess.”
“An agent?” In DC, that term is a bit loaded, after all.
“Of course.” She moves away only enough to stand upright again, and I close my eyes in disappointment. I'm not sure what I was hoping for. This is still a job interview, just for a very different position from what I had been expecting. Hoping for the boss - for she's clearly the boss - to seduce me is just ridiculous. But at that moment her hand presses to the back of my neck, and I feel myself being directed forward until I'm forced to press my hands and chest against the nearest column to the left of her desk.
Her other hand slowly caresses its fingers down along my spine, and the thin material of my white tunic does little to blunt the scrape of her nails over my pale skin. This interview has definitely crossed the line into utterly inappropriate, but if I protest will she call the police? Evidently she has enough evidence to get me in a lot of trouble, or she wants me to think that she does. I bite my lower lip to keep it from trembling as my back dips, and then dips further at a second, slower pass of her nails.
The third pass goes further than the last two, and her touch trails down over the curve of my left butt cheek and the back of my thigh before wandering back up between my legs. I tense and close my eyes, and my breath shakes softly as her touch rubs up against the hidden flesh of my pussy. She begins to rub, and I'm sure she can feel the heat of my desire through my clothing. “A thong, Olivia? You were quite desperate to get hired, I see.”
Again I swallow. “N-no, I never intended to do this.” My voice is barely more than a whisper, but in the silence of the room it sounds very loud to my ears.
“I've seen the videos you watch when you're home, late at night. Those women are always so rough.” Her hand swiftly moves from my crotch to slap hard against my left butt cheek, and my knees nearly give out right there. The hand still at the back of my neck keeps me firmly against the column as she strikes me again, this time on the right cheek. I flinch, and my hips shift away for a moment before I offer them again like a slut. I'm embarrassed by it, but I can't stop myself. I'm too overwhelmed.
The woman chuckles and rubs the hurt firmly into my cheeks with a slow caress, musing, “I can't decide which I like better. The video where the girl had her cunt struck with a crop, or the video where the other girl is strapped to a bench and forced to pleasure a group of women, one by one, with her mouth until they cum upon her face, nearly smothering her.” Her hand returns between my legs, and this time she can surely feel how wet I am now, and how smoothly the sodden crotch of my thong slides over my hairless lips. “How desperately do you need this job, Olivia?”
“I'd do anything for it.” My face is burning, and all I want is for her to slide her hands inside my pants and finish me. I need it. I'm desperate for it. But without warning she walks away, leaving me against the column while she steps back around her desk and takes a seat once more in her chair. This close, I can make out the shape of her face and the fullness of her lips. She's gorgeous even with almost no other details, and the glint of light reflecting in her dark eyes transfixes me while I remain, trembling, against the pillar.
“Think about my offer, Olivia. If you accept it, record your release.”
I flush as I consider what she means, and stand up properly once again, straightening out my tunic. “If I decline?”
“You won't decline. You are dismissed.”
My trip home is a blur. After I collect my things from Susi, I take the subway to the Southern Ave stop and walk the rest of the way in a fog. Keys in the dish, door closed and locked, bag and coat deposited on my couch. It's all done on autopilot. After I make my way to the bedroom and take off my boots, it takes me many hours of just sitting on my bed to really process what's happened. And that's not a reflection on my memory. I can't help but replay everything in precise detail. Or, well, it might be more accurate to say that because I can't gloss over every caress, every intonation of her voice, and every sensation that had shot through my body, I can't help but still be entranced, unsettled, unsure, and terribly aroused.
As I let this morning play over and over and over again in my mind, my eyes fix on my dresser where my laptop sits. The thought of recording myself makes me nervous. I've never done anything like that before. Not even when I was dating. No sexting, no nude pics, nothing. I'm really kind of boring that way, even if I do like watching the more exotic forms of carnality. But as her phantom hands in my memory caress along my back I can feel myself getting aroused all over again. Had I ever stopped being aroused?
I fetch my laptop and turn on the camera, orienting the screen to face the bed. I hit record and move back to the mattress, biting my lip. My tunic and leggings are still on, so I lean back on my left elbow and slide my right hand over the rise of my small breasts, down over my flat stomach, and then down further between my legs. Even that bit of contact makes me whimper – I'm still on fire. My toes curl into the sheets and my hips grind into my touch gently before I slip my fingers up under the bottom edge of the tunic, and then into the waistband of the leggings. The small, silky triangle of my thong (which I wore to prevent panty lines, that's all!) is nudged up, and my fingers trail down over my smooth, hairless flesh.
And my pussy is painfully aroused. My lips are full, molten and smooth and wet, and I lower the leg closer to the laptop to let the camera catch the sight of the shape of my hand beneath the stretchy fabric. I can only imagine what this looks like, but I don't glance at the camera. I'm too shy to do that. I don't want to see myself. It's not that I don't like how I look - or maybe it is. I don't know, I can't think straight. I can think of nothing other than how her hand would feel there instead of my own. All I want is to feel those slender, elegant fingers slide into me and take me. Yes, oh God, I'm dying for my potential boss to fuck me, and I'm not even hired yet.
With a moan, I ease down onto my back and push my leggings and thong down to my knees. This part isn't necessary. She just wanted to see my release. If she has access to my laptop, which she does, then she's going to see this new video file pop up on the desktop. But I want her to see more. I want her to see what I want, and so I pull up my tunic to bunch at my waist so that the pale expanse of my skinny, gamine body is exposed from my knees up to my stomach. Even in the low light of the bedroom, I make sure she can see the glisten at my crotch and on my fingers. She'll see how my stomach and thighs tighten every time I pass my fingers over my clit.
My other hand joins in, too. I don't even have to suck on my fingers to wet them – I'm gushing already, so it's easy to just slip a finger, and then two, inside myself. I pretend that she's fingering me as she tells me to rub myself, that I have to do this because she wants me to. My back arches and my eyes close, and my full lips part in a silent moan. The memory of the cold metal column tingles once more into my cheek and neck, and my shoulders hunch forward like they had before.
I'm so close. My lips tense and quiver while I almost speak aloud the dirty, nasty things I want her to say; I want her to call me a slut and a whore, a slip of nothing, evil and worthless. I want to feel terrible about giving in, because it's so fucking wrong... so fucking wrong that it's rocketing me towards one of the best orgasms I've had in a long time. And while she's denigrating me, I want to feel the sting of her hand on my ass again. Or on my face. I want to hear the obscene sound of my body being struck by my boss as she uses me sexually in her office, and sets me on fire so that finally, when she drags me to my knees and pushes my back against the column with her hips, I have no choice but to eat her out with furious need when her pussy threatens to suffocate me. I can taste her. I can almost taste....
My back finally arches sharply and I cry out, my head flung back and my hair wild, like a spill of oil on the sheets.
I shiver as I sink back down onto the bed, my hands still between my legs because my pussy is too sensitive to move them just yet. My heart's pounding and my thoughts are saturated in a delicious fog that dulls the edges of my perception for a few minutes. I dimly remember moving over to the dresser to stop the recording and save the file before pulling off my clothing in the interests of a shower. No more than a few minutes later, I can hear the double beep of my phone from beyond the hiss of the water, signaling a new email in my inbox.
Swallowing, I turn off the water, grab a towel, and head back into the bedroom, my heart beating hard. I take up my phone from my night stand and swipe it on. It's a brief message, sent from a dummy account, but I know who it's from.
Welcome to the Aries Corporation, Olivia Andrews