Irene checked her watch and silently pleaded for the subway to go faster. The new high heels she had bought for today dug into the backs of her heels, drawing sharp lines of pain on her delicate skin. Her legs cramped from nervousness and fatigue of standing in the same position for the last twenty minutes. So many seats, why had no one offered her one? A man, dressed in age-old clothes and reeking of alcohol sat by her side. She pressed her legs together tightly as he angled towards her, trying to peek up the small business skirt she wore.
The ride seemed to take forever and when she arrived at her stop, she was uncomfortably pressed against the crowd of bodies as they rushed out the door. Freed from the throng, she stood on the platform, fixing her clothes and running her fingers through her hair. She pulled out her makeup mirror to check her face. This was the best opportunity she'd had since she graduated school three months ago. Jobs were not easy to come by in this city and the position she was offered paid more than she would have expected with her qualifications.
As she approached the building, she squinted to see the top. The mid morning sun gleamed on the immense wall of steel, leaving its mark when she closed her eyes. The building was one of the largest in the city and its layer upon layer of windows made it feel oppressive. She composed herself and entered through the heavy revolving door.
After some slight trouble identifying herself to security at the front desk, she was ushered into the elevator and told they were waiting for her on the twenty second floor. With a silent rush of air, she exited and studied the architecture of the floor. It was early twentieth century art deco, a style she knew well. The office was almost obsessively clean. Reflections appeared in every bare surface, in picture frames, doorways, windows and the large marble desk of the receptionist.
"Ms. Bailey?"
She nodded, feeling scrutinized.
"Wait right here. Mr. Stanton is on his way."
She thanked the woman, an older matron with a dull face and waved off her perfunctory offer of coffee or water.
There she sat, resume and references in the bag on her knees, tapping her foot impatiently as she geared herself for the questions she'd be fielding that morning.
After waiting for what seemed like most of the morning, she was greeted by a tall, dark haired man in a fresh Brooks Brother's suit. With a large outstretched hand he introduced himself as Mr. Stanton. She quickly stood up, almost losing her footing in the uncomfortable high heels, and returned the greeting. With a wave of his hand, he bade her to follow him so they may speak privately.
The office was in full production. Dozens sat and scurried in a large room in the center of the floor. Some conferred with others, some spoke rapidly on headsets, others tapped away maniacally on their computers. Mr. Stanton explained it was what they called "The Epicenter", the heart of the firm. "This is where everything gets done. Countless overtime hours, careers raised and dashed, money earned and lost. I'm sure what's taken place here has caused quite a few nervous breakdowns"
He eyed her, searching for a reaction but she only answered with a smile. "Great, I'm best in just such an atmosphere. It's what I'm used to."
He scoffed and continued the tour. As she followed, she dug her fingernails into her palm. Had she seemed too confident? Was she taking the wrong tactic? It wouldn't do well to leave a bad impression so early.
His office was impressive. His desk was a deep mahogany and framed diplomas and certificates covered the wall behind him. Shelves filled with plagues, trophies and framed pictures lined each side of the room. Looking more closely, she saw he met the Governor, shook hands with the mayor and even shared a dinner with Paul Newman.
"Now then," he said sitting across from her. "Let's get started." He offered her a smaller, well-stuffed chair and she sat gingerly. Arranging her paperwork before him, he quickly looked them over.
"Under grad at Stanford, MBA from Columbia. Quite impressive," he mused. He flitted over the pages nonchalantly before placing his attention on her. He had commanding eyes of a deep blue. His hair was dark black and perfectly kept, his fingers large, strong and perfectly manicured. He even smelled professional, Irene felt very awkward.
She noticed hewas eyeing her heels and followed them up to the curve of her legs. Irene had always considered them her best asset and usually enjoyed the affect they had on men. Here she just felt examined like a creature behind glass.
They talked of the position and discussed her accomplishments and she began to feel more relaxed. When he held her eyes she found herself becoming lost and didn't mind when he stared at the swell of her breasts of the sharp red of her lips. Her nipples firmed at the attention.
She was unable to hide this from him and found him lingering on the detail of her breasts and the outline of her nipples against her thin blouse. Though she knew she should be upset, perhaps even refuse to work for such a person, she found herself opening to him. His voice was deep but melodious. It touched her and she began to open to him.
He noticed her knees unlock and slowly drift apart. Within he could only see shadows and the hidden promise of her sex. Refusing to yield, he sat up, piercing her with his gaze.
"And what would a woman like you offer to this firm?"
She was away somewhere, imagining his hand between her legs, his lips mouthing her breast.
He feigned irritation and repeated the question in a more exacting tone. "What would you- a woman that's obviously used to getting what she wants from men- offer to this firm?"
"Well," she began, searching for the textbook answer. "As you can see, my background speaks for itself. I've worked in such an enviro-"
"I mean, you- a cockteasing little girl- you think you have what we could want?" He cut her off, growing more irritated.
