Dolly sat in the lobby of the office. The chair was leather but seemed to be designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. She wore a black suit. It looked nice enough on a first impression. It had a skirt that covered her knees and a small jacket. She had on a borrowed white blouse. She couldn't remember dressing anything like this since high school graduation. She felt as if she were choking. She was sweating out of nervousness and out of heat. The room was hot. She thought it odd an office lobby would be this hot. She took off her coat and set it beside the black bag and folder she had brought along for the interview.
"Molly? Molly Green?" asked the woman behind the receptionist desk. She was a tall and beautiful woman. She was probably forty from her demeanor and elegance but was prettier than that. Her skin was flawless. Had she smiled she would have been gorgeous but she didn't. She scowled as she called Dolly's real name. It took Dolly a moment to recognize it and then responded. She waved her hand and moved to the desk. She couldn't speak. She wanted to speak, why wouldn't words come out? She was pointed to a door. In contract to the white and grey office with tall windows and beautiful paintings the door was tall and steel and appeared to lock with a long sliding bolt. With some difficulty she pulled it open. She was scared. Why would she go through a door that looked like this, why would they have a door like this. She entered a hallway and walked down it. It was narrow and the heels she had borrowed made a loud clopping sound as she stepped across a stone floor.
There were doors as she walked along the hall. Every few feet there would be two more doors. They were steel, just as the entrance door and had been. Each locked with a similar large bolt. These doors were locked though. The bolts were slid closed. She didn't try to open them; she was headed to door nine. She didn't know why she was headed to nine. Perhaps the woman in front had told her to go to nine. It was even hotter now. She paused for a moment at doors five and six. It was too hot to go forward and the blouse too restrictive. She set her bag and folder on the floor and unbuttoned her blouse. She thought it was odd an office would be this hot. She shouldn't be undoing her blouse for an interview and yet she was. She had to. She laid it beside her bag on top of the folder. She was concerned it would get dirty on the gray stone floor. She could breathe again and took a long deep swallow of hot stale air. It didn't seem to help. She moved forward.
She passed more doors. She passed more doors than she should have. Probably another eight or ten doors went by as she walked, clopping like a horse down the narrow hall. The walls were parallel, it couldn't be narrower than it was but it felt narrower. She was nearly at the end of the Hall. There were two men standing at the end of the hall. An old man and a young man stood talking. She thought they seemed to be unaware of her. She was thankful they hadn't noticed her. She wore nothing but a bra. It would be awkward. The bra was pink. It was a bright pink lace bra. She didn't have one like it but she liked it. She would want to get one like it if she could. It seemed expensive. When she reached the men she would ask where door nine was.
Nine. It was a large number nine painted on the wall beside the door. The number was illuminated by a bare light bulb that stuck straight out from the stone wall. She knew it was number nine because it was the only door that had been open. Inside was darkness. She thought to turn back but the room was cooler than the hall or even the lobby had been and it beckoned her. She entered, her heart racing, her brow covered in perspiration. Her feet hurt. Inside the dark room she felt a bed, or a sofa, perhaps it was just a table but it felt soft. She sat on the edge and removed her shoes. She felt her stockings should go as well, it seemed wrong to wear stockings without shoes. She stood to roll them down her ass then sat back down to roll them off her round legs. She laid back on the bed to rest. It was cool and the mattress, she knew now it was a mattress, was soothing. She let the cool air blow over her body. She thought about removing her skirt. It wasn't professional. She should not remove her skirt for an interview. She had lost her shirt though. Her shirt was out in the hall and the hall scared her. Besides the door was closed.
She didn't remember closing the door.
Tired, needing sleep, feeling the cool air on her shoulders she stood again to remove her skirt. It was difficult to pull over her broad hips, even with the zipper down, but she got it off. She thought to lay it flat so that it wouldn't wrinkle but she was so tired. She laid back into the bed. Short nervous breaths turned to long slow ones. She yawned and although she wished she had moved further up into the bed rather than let her legs dangle over the edge of the bed she dozed off.
The room was no longer dark and she no longer felt exhaustion. She didn't know how long she had slept but she felt better. Most of her felt better. Her arms seemed to ache and her wrists burned, it was a dull burn, as if she was scratched. She tried to look, she made the effort that should have moved her arm from extended over her head to in front of her face but it didn't budge. In fact, the more she tugged at it, the sharper the burning in her wrist. She sat looking at the dim bare bulb that glowed a dull yellow above the bed. Her other arm didn't move either. When she struggled to pull it free again she felt the bite of what felt an impossibly heavy weight on her wrist. She stopped struggling and tried to assess where she was. She was still at her interview. She heard the interviewer speaking from the darkness. He was hidden at an angle outside of her view, the bindings holding her wrists assuring she could not see him.
"Why is she called Dolly." The faceless voice asked. It was an older voice. It was the voice of the old man she thought, from the hallway.
"Why not, it's fun." She thought though again, no words came out.
"Perhaps she is a stripper, or a whore." A younger voice responded. "They use stage names."
"According to her resume she is a slut. She is well experienced. But she isn't a whore. " The old man clarified.
"Ah, she fucks for free then."
"Yes, apparently so."
"Fuck you." She thought. Another response lost to her lack of voice.
"She's fat. Who would pay for that."
"I think some people like them fat."
A tear formed in her eye.
"Great tits though." The old man observed.
Unable to wipe it away, the tear rolled down her cheek and she felt it waiting on her earlobe a moment before dripping away to be swallowed by the mattress. She screamed, another sound lost on the men.
"Spectacular tits." She heard the younger man say before she felt the hand on her. "Squeeze one. We should hire her just to squeeze these tits." The embrace was soft at first and she welcomed it. Then the other man grasped her other breast and the two together gripped her breasts tightly.
