"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. |
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