This story contains themes of non-consent/reluctance, workplace power imbalance, lesbian sex and BDSM
As with all my stories, this is purely fantasy.
No Fashion without Passion
I stood just outside her office, heart in mouth, stomach feeling about a foot lower than it should. The summons had come unexpectedly, and I couldn't shake the mix of anticipation and nervous energy that pulsed through me. With a deep breath, I knocked lightly on the door, awaiting the invitation to enter.
"Come in, darling," came a familiar, sharp voice from within the office, as elegant and precise as her fashion choices. I took a steadying breath, smoothed the invisible wrinkles from my outfit, opened the door and stepped inside. The door closed behind me, leaving me alone with the woman who held the keys to the fashion kingdom, the keys to my career, to my life.
Passion magazine was the biggest name in fashion. Passion was fashion, they said,
you just can't have fashion without Passion
! The magazine had ingrained itself into the industry. It employed the best photographers, writers, designers, make-up artists, hair stylists, booked the biggest models, had shoots in the best locations. The magazine's full name was London Passion and Couture - it had been founded during the Swinging London era, when Twiggy was a fashion icon and Mary Quant's miniskirt was a sensation - but everyone just called it Passion.
It had all been down to one woman -- Valarie Campbell -- a Brit who strolled into the fashion world with a vision and someone made it a reality. Well, a vision and her aristocratic father bankrolling her. Nevertheless, starting as a junior copywriter at Vogue, she worked her way up to the top.
When she became editor, almost twenty years ago, Passion was a joke, penniless and lagging deep in the pack, behind Vogue, behind Vanity Fair and Harper's. Nobody gave a shit, but she made it work. It was dominant now, pre-eminent. That's why everyone wanted to work for her, including me. She made things happen, made
careers
happen. Or didn't. She could just as easily ensure you didn't have a career. Working at Passion was high risk, high reward and if you failed nobody in the industry would hire you.
The high priestess of this sartorial temple, Valerie herself, was a force of nature, leaving terrified interns and shamed workers in her wake. Her hawkish gaze could seemingly pierce through anything and anyone, and her demeanor exuded a condescension and snobbery that, fittingly, rivaled the most exclusive fashion houses. An upper-class English accent dripped from her words like liquid silk, full of icy disdain and condescension each syllable, each breath a testament to a lifetime of privilege and getting exactly what she wanted.
Valerie acted as if she was the center of the universe, and in these offices she certainly was. In this building, and many, many more spread across the globe, her word may as well have been the word of god. I found myself inexplicably drawn to her from the very first time I saw her. She had this commanding presence, so magnetic it felt like the air shifted to accommodate her.
She barely looked up when I entered the room, sparing me a quick glance as she spoke into the phone. Was it a power play? I don't know. I wasn't sure why she had called me in.
Her office was sleek and modern, with floor to ceiling glass windows on one side and crisp, white walls on the others. She didn't live in a fishbowl like some editors, she was already queen of the hive -- she didn't need to keep an eye on her workers, they were already in line.
Stacks of magazines sat neatly on a chest of drawers on the left side of the room, underneath a print of three women posing. It had been taken for the Passion Spring 2008 shoot, a particular favorite of Valerie's. She'd only been editor a few years then, it was one of her first big successes.
"One moment, Tim, darling!" she called out, before holding the phone to her shoulder and whispering to me. "I'll be with you in a minute."
The door clicked shut behind me and I jumped. Valerie didn't notice, she was already turned back around, staring at the skyline out her window.
"Sorry about that, my darling! Do continue," Valerie said laughing. "Oh no! I don't have to grab a pen, my PA's just come in. Yes, the new one! She's pretty isn't she? Lovely eyes, abso-
lute
-ly."
I couldn't help but feel a warm flush for the compliment, but it was soon gone.
"She's a little sour, yes," Valerie continued, clicking her tongue. "Should smile more. Could do with a new wardrobe, I agree. Homely, yes."
I felt my heart sink. This is what she thinks of me? She put the phone to her shoulder and grinned at me. I smiled and averted my gaze.
"Oh, he
loves
you, darling," she whispered quickly, before speaking back into the phone. "So, let's say Tuesday at 5, maybe Le Bernardin? You know I simply
adore
seafood, Tim. Until then. Bye-bye, darling!"
Valerie had been a stunning woman in her youth and had aged gracefully. She was a tiny creature, slim and elegant, with long, luscious hair that she kept in a tight bun most of the time. She let it out when she was at events, and it always caught everyone by surprise. There'd always be a down pager in some gossip magazine about her hair, and who her stylists had been. They were stylists who, for people like me, cost so much they didn't bear thinking about. Hairdressers who thought of themselves as artists first and foremost, and charged accordingly.
Point being, Valerie was beautiful. She had an elfin, otherworldly elegance -- like Galadriel, but with darker hair and a few more lines on her face. I liked seeing her, watching her in action. Even when she was barking orders at some hapless employee, or eloquently shredding a photographer's complaint that she chose a different photo for the front. I liked having a front row seat, from my little desk outside her office.
The click of Valerie slamming down the phone jarred me. She never did anything quietly. Even her simplest movements, a wave of the arm, shifting in her chair, were accompanied by the rustling of expensive fabric, or the jangling of priceless jewelry. She was always immaculately made up, always flawless, never a hair out of place. Like every part of her life was curated. She embodied the industry she dominated.
"Ugh. I fucking hate seafood," she sighed, before regaining a toxic smile. "That was Tim Lincoln. You remember Tim? He's going to tell me about his new collection. Or his new show, I can never tell which. To be honest, I don't really care. Did you get all that? Tuesday, 5 o'clock, Le Bernardin?"
"Yes, Ma'am," I croaked in reply.
"Good girl. Pop it into my schedule when you get back to your desk, thankyou darling."
"Of course, ma'am. Will that be all?"
"No." Valerie huffed, inspecting her nails. They were painted Prussian blue, with a gold stripe down the center of each one. "I wanted to ask you a few questions."
"Of course, ma'am." I nodded. There was a pregnant pause as Valerie took a breath. A subtle tension hung in the air, thick, as if summer rain was on its way, a storm brewing on the horizon. Little did I know, our professional relationship was about to take a turn I never saw coming.
"Have you always wanted to work at my magazine?" she said, almost absent mindedly. Even with a casual remark, she held the room.
"I... ah, of course. It's an institution, and a big step up from the little periodical I was working at previously. I minored in fashion for a rea-"
Valerie gave a short, barking laugh. A false laugh. Superficial, but sharp. It was one of the ways she stopped someone mid-thought.
"Uh, uh. No," she said. "You
misunderstand
me darling. I didn't ask for your little resume. As far as I care you have
no
experience. None. Zip. Nada. No degrees, no previous workplaces. I asked..." -- she held a dramatic pause -- "If you'd always wanted to work for
my
magazine."
"Of course! P-Passion is the-the pinnacle, it's the biggest magazine in fashion, it's a dream come true, I..."
"Uh huh, I see. I see," she said. She sounded utterly disinterested, like she wasn't even listening. "And how long, exactly, have you been my personal assistant?"
"Three weeks."
"That's right."
"Is this-am I doing an acceptable job? Am I doing something wrong?"
"No, no. You're doing a perfectly...
adequate
job. As I said, I merely invited you in to ask you a few questions."
"Okay, ma'am. I'm happy to answer any question you have."
"What do you want, dearie?"
"Pardon?"
"You heard me. What do you,
want
?" Valerie's gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, a spark of something unspoken passed between us--a desire that dared not speak its name but pulsed beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed. I swallowed nervously.
"A career in fashion," I said.
"I'll stop you there," Valerie interrupted. "What do you want to get out of this job? Are you ambitious or content? Some girls want status, influence. They want to work their little selves all the way up, up the chain. Some girls just want a steady job. Others just want tickets to the Met Gala.
"Maybe some girls just really like the work. I don't know, and for the most part I don't care. But what do
you
want to get out of your time here? You've been here for, how long now?"
"You-you just asked...I..."
Valerie shot me a look. I gulped.
"Three weeks."
