03

This is a work of fiction, and is the first in a projected series of stories taking place within the walls of De la Dia Manor. This first entry will take a bit of reading to set everything up, so if you're looking for a quick come this may not be for you. I really appreciate feedback, and thanks for reading!

Chapter 1: The Job Hunt

"Four... thirty-eight... hm. Four thirty-six, thirty-seven, forty... dammit. Wait... no. Yes. Four thirty-eight Pine Terrace Road. Jackpot."

Invigorated with the vivid empowerment of this small success, Amy Curtis momentarily forgot about the swarm of butterflies playing full contact tag in her stomach. This, after all, would be her first real job interview since dropping out of college a year earlier, and quite a bit rode on the success of it. At age twenty-two, with three years of schooling under her belt and little more than three years of outrageous university bills to show for it, Amy knew to count her blessings whenever a prospective employer acknowledged her existence.

Wanted,

the advertisement in the Sunday Herald's classified section had declared,

Female in Good Health for Live-in Data Entry Position, no experience necessary. Send resume via postal service to 438 Pine Terrace Rd. Provide self-addressed, stamped envelope, photograph, criminal record (if applicable). Interviewed applicants must provide proof of recent physical or expect to receive medical exam on site.

- the estate of Sarastra De la Dia, De la Dia Cosmetic Solutions Inc.

The advertisement had conveniently omitted any mention of pay rate or term of employment, never mind the ridiculously personal information required for the privilege of sending a resume, but Amy had applied anyway. Actually, she and almost every one of her girlfriends had gathered the necessary articles and thrown their hats into the circle, along with dozens of professional women, hopeful teenage mothers, waitresses, starving artists... it was a cattle call, and they all knew it. They applied anyway. The lure was just too enticing to pass up; working for the De la Dia corporation in any capacity was like striking gold for any young woman with even the slightest shred of ambition. Local girls had gone from door-to-door saleswomen to corner office executive on more than one occasion in Amy's recent memory, and even those who

didn't

score upper management positions in the powerhouse field of cosmetics came out smelling like roses, far better prepared for the push and grind of careerism. They had nothing to lose and everything to gain, so why not try?

Sadly, this news did not bode well for Amy Curtis. As a slightly chubby, vastly untalented, and somewhat antisocial twenty-two year old, her chances of succeeding in a race against throngs of model beautiful career women were closely akin to the chances of a fraternity geek winning a fist fight with a brick wall. In a battle of beauty and skill, she felt that she'd come unarmed - though this was a pessimistic and inaccurate view of herself - and would never hear even a whisper of a reply from the De la Dia corporation.

It was for that very reason that Amy couldn't help but chuckle, listening to the sound of her work boots clomping along the walkway in front of Sarastra De la Dia's personal mansion that day. Against all those girls with their shiny highlights, radiant skin, and college degrees, a poorly dressed semi-goth girl had been one of only three to receive a reply. She had practically leapt out of her skin to hear the voice over the telephone, instructing her to dress casually for her interview at eleven in the as if the outcome of the cattle call had never, for a single moment, been in question.

Despite all of that, despite her bountiful fortune, Amy could not help but feel sheepish standing in front of that polished oak door. The woman on the phone had said to dress casually, but she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of wearing tan work boots over faded blue jeans and a basic black tank top to any sort of interview. It felt like a stupid combination any day of the week, let alone this most important day in the entire course of her professional life. With unbridled trepidation, she lifted the heavy brass knocker at the door and let its weight slam down against its beaten old plate. A wry smile crossed her unpainted lips, the childish amusement of one who can't afford a knocker on her door.

With a creak of hinge and wood, the oak tilted away from Amy's eyes, replaced by the figure of a woman who could not have been two or three years older than Amy herself. 'Girl' would probably have been a better word, as the soft cerulean Sunday school dress resting upon her petite frame and the matching bow tied securely into her ponytail gave all the semblance of a ten-year old just coming from church.

"Can I help you?" inquired the girl in a tinkling voice that only deepened Amy's impression of her as a child. Amy nodded, stuttering just a bit as she sought the words to properly introduce herself.

"Um," she began, "I'm Amy Curtis. I have an interview scheduled for the data entry job in about fifteen minutes, I think." The Sunday school girl nodded and stepped aside, holding out her arm with what came across to Amy as an unnecessary flourish.

"Please," she said with a lordly smirk, "come inside then. Go straight down the hall and sit down on the green sofa. Please do not sit anywhere else, and do take off your shoes at the door. Also, are you wearing any religious jewelry? Crosses, ankhs, pentagrams, anything of that nature?"

Amy shook her head. Her ears weren't even pierced, such was the extent of her personal disdain for ornamentation. This seemed to please the Sunday school girl, who smiled a pretty, freckle-faced smile, and waited for the prospective employee to enter the house.

"Wow," Amy murmured as she stepped down the lengthy hallway, "the outside of this place doesn't even begin to do it justice." As a girl who spent most of her television time watching those do-it-yourself shows, she could appreciate the archaic taste that the owner of the house must have possessed. There was little in the way of carpet, but the endless walls full of antique furniture distracted her eyes from the floor in short order. The waiting room itself was like a museum gallery, stuffed with furniture that looked far older than her common sense told it to be. The aforementioned green couch, on the other hand, was obviously brand new and not well-traveled for a sofa.

"It will be just a moment," Sunday school told her, just before swishing her way along an opposite hallway with an alluring shake of the hips gracing her every step. Amy was not, as a general rule, an admirer of women, but this particular girl had captured her attention with a walk that looked far more painful than the attention it might have garnered deserved. Briefly, Amy wondered if that awkward-looking trot was supposed to be sexy, but quickly blamed its tilting swish on the ivory heels torturing the poor girl's feet.

For a half hour, Amy waited alone in that cozy little museum. Out of habit she continuously glanced at her wristwatch, the one with the long since dead batteries, sighing out of occasional bouts of malcontent. She had just made the decision to go looking for someone to question when Sunday school returned, this time sporting a gentleman on her pale arm.

"This is Donovan, miss Curtis. He'll take you to see mistress De la Dia shortly." Donovan gave a courtly bow, smiling a toothy smile that sent a shiver up Amy's spine. Despite his Joe America good looks and classy black suit, this Donovan was eerie to her beyond all reason. He just felt... wrong, in a way she could not quite articulate.

"Hi, I'm Donovan Simms, mistress De la Dia's personnel manager. I hope you don't mind the casual setting, but this is a special job opening and I thought that a traditional interview situation might not fit the grandeur that we're going to talk about here." After a handshake that was quite welcome in its brevity, Donovan sank down into another green chair just across from where Amy sat. She couldn't help but chuckle at his energy, despite how thoroughly unnerved she was by him. "Did I say something funny?" he inquired with genuine curiosity in his gravelly voice.

Amy felt the warmth of blush invading her cheeks, and instantly recalled just where she was and how much rode upon this day.

"Honestly," she began, settling her glacial blue eyes upon his burnt chocolates, "it just struck me as kind of funny, the way you described a data entry position. You make it sound like the most exciting job in the world."

Donovan arched an eyebrow. "Isn't it?" Amy felt a smile creeping across her lips, bent a bit with anxiety.

"No?" she asked rather than said.

"At De la Dia Cosmetic Solutions,

every

job is the most exciting job in the world. I've got to say, that of the three girls we've approached for this position, you're the first one to give me an honest answer when I came in with that spiel. Mistress De la Dia is a great fan of honesty." He smiled at her again, this time his expression overflowing with warmth, and Amy's nervousness melted away. Maybe this guy wasn't such a creepy prick after all? "So Amy, you know what we're about on the surface. Right? You know that De la Dia Cosmetic Solutions is the finest purveyor of top-notch skin and hair care products the world over."

Amy blinked again. "Well... actually, I don't really use a lot of makeup. I couldn't say for sure." Donovan laughed again, a friendly laugh that only served to refuel Amy's nervousness. He was being too friendly, too quickly. In her mind, she knew for a fact that Donovan was getting ready to start softening the blow in earnest. Instead, the personnel manager took up what looked like a file folder and began to rifle through it.

"I love it. And she'll love it, too. Now. You know that this is a live-in position, right?" Donovan asked her this as he produced her resume and paperwork from within the folder, earning a nod of her head. "Great. Don't be so nervous, Amy, you've already got the job. We'd decided that long before we brought you in here, because you are what mistress De la Dia asked for down to the letter."

A surge of impossible hope flooded into Amy's chest. "Really? What do you mean?" Donovan held up her paperwork, waving it back and forth in the air.

"The mistress wanted to give someone a shot. Someone who had the right stuff for the job, but hadn't yet found the job for the right stuff if you follow. She specifically ordered me to screen applicants based on a few criteria that weren't mentioned in the newspaper ad. Any girl who sent us a professional picture was out. Resumes with a half-dozen references and an extensive work history are in the fireplace right now. We had a girl who could type a ninety-six words a minute, but she already had a job, and didn't need this chance as much as you. Do you see what I mean?"

Amy shook her head, perfectly puzzled by all this.

"Mistress De la Dia is a woman of older ways than you're probably used to. She doesn't hire people based on extensive education and ability. She loves a challenge, positively delights in taking unassuming young women with little in the way of personal or professional skills and transforming them into first class business women. She likes to think of herself as an artist, but since she's filthy freaking rich, we get to call her eccentric for it instead of crazy."

Amy was beginning to understand at last. So that was why De la Dia hired unpolished young women almost exclusively... eccentricity could be blamed for any number of things, and she had no problem attributing this impossibly good fortune to that.

"So, ah, when do I start? And what exactly will I be doing? Keeping ledgers, taking dictation," she asked, edging forward a bit on the couch. Donovan shook his head.

"You start just as soon as you meet the mistress. That will happen after I show you to your new quarters and give you your job description." Donovan stood, smoothing out his fancy pants and beckoning for her to follow him. Without a second's hesitation, Amy did just that.

"It's pretty spacious for what is basically servant's quarters," Donovan droned on, but the words were more or less lost upon Amy. Spacious's ass. The room was almost exactly the size of a basic high school classroom, only without the posing children and the desks, and decorated in much the same exotic fashion as every other room in the sprawling mansion. Blood red carpeting along the bedroom floor, sponge-painted walls with only one tightly shuttered window, and a two-fan ceiling offered a distinct contrast to the comfy-looking four poster bed sitting just away from the corner opposite the door and the plush computer station complete with rolling chair. Amy couldn't wait to put some mileage on that thing, but Donovan seemed more interested in telling her what it was that she would be doing in order to earn these amenities.

"You will be doing some data entry, yes. But, it won't exactly be in the form that you expect it to be. What we need from you is for you to keep an ongoing journal while you are here," he explained, nodding absently to himself. "You'll need to write an entry by midnight every night detailing how you feel about your situation, and anything else that you might feel inclined to add. In addition, every day you will be given a quick physical, and you will record the data from that as well."

Amy twirled in the squishy office chair, allowing that to sink in as she reveled in the amusement of her pallid blonde hair smacking her in the face. "So basically, I'm a guinea pig? You want me to change my lifestyle according to Miss De la Dia's instructions, and chronicle what happens?" To her, it really didn't feel as bad as her voice made it sound. Still, Donovan nodded.

"Basically. Only, you'll be a well-compensated guinea pig. While you're here, you'll be encouraged to make use of our gym facilities and pool, you will get three square meals a day, and you will be given a whole new wardrobe free of charge. There's more, a lot more in fact, but the rest you get to find out on your won. The only real downside to all of this, and before you get your hopes up too far I'll tell you that it's a pretty severe downside," - Sarastra braced herself - " is that you will be forbidden to leave the premises. I hope you understand. We can't pay you for a job that isn't done, and outside factors affecting you will throw off our results. Is that okay with you?"

Amy's face lit up. "Of course! It isn't like the outside world is that great, anyway." Donovan nodded, apparently pleased with her answer, but she wasn't quite finished just yet. "Honestly, with all the focus on money these days, I'd rather be shut in from it. You know?"

"Oh yes," Donovan answered far too quickly. "I know. And mistress De la Dia knows, too. Just, ah, when you meet her in about two minutes, try not to ask too many questions about such things. She is a sensitive woman, and no matter what the public thinks, she is easily hurt and slow to forgive. Just mind your manners, don't ask any obvious questions, and she'll love you. Trust me."

Chapter 2: Sarastra De la Dia

Of all the spacious passages and chambers within the De la Dia mansion, Amy found the chambers of Sarastra De la Dia herself to be by far the creepiest and most off-putting section. She hadn't quite known what to expect when Donovan had knocked on her oaken door, having heard all sorts of rumors concerning the eccentric lady of the house. According to various sources, Sarastra De la Dia was a man, a hermaphrodite, a beastly fat woman, a serial killer, a supermodel, a vegetable, and any of a number of equally ridiculous possibilities, sometimes in combination. She quickly learned that the truth was far more complex than any of that.

"Ma'am, I've brought Amy Curtis, your new data entry employee," Donovan hailed, while giving Amy a gentle push into the dimly lit office. She went willingly, drawn in by the soft scent of lilac and cool jazz playing over an old-fashioned record player. Without waiting for any sort of confirmation, Donovan shut the door behind her.

What a strange man,

she said to herself, her eyes darting all around the room in sudden disgust. A simple office dominated by a computer desk with a cushy rolling chair, the room's décor was nevertheless as exotic as any of the rumors might have led her to believe. Paintings and statues lined each wall, and each and every piece of art without exception depicted women engaged in various acts of... how would she have put it... lewd and frantic masturbation. Amy's disgust just managed to overwrite a dominating sense of curiosity, and she managed to keep her eyes on the prize.

"Amy Curtis," hailed a soft, melodious voice from the other side of the cushy chair, "I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to meet you at last." Amy felt instantly humbled by that voice; with just a trace of a Spaniard's accent and a trembling tone that lent a sort of broken melancholy to the sweetness of it, it was the sort of voice that could command dozens of emotions in a person without intention to do so. It was the voice for which Amy herself had longed back when she cared for such things.

"Well, I must say, it really is good to meet you, too. I've always wondered about you, like everyone else I guess."

"I would be happy to assuage your curiosities once we have established our situation a bit more firmly. I trust that Donovan has led you to your quarters and given you his speech?" A tinkle of laughter punctuated her question, and Amy felt herself smiling, her muscles easing up a bit.

"Yes, he has. The quarters are lovely, and so far, the job sounds just perfect for me. The speech was kinda dorky, but still good, too." Amy leaned over a bit, trying her hardest to sneak a subtle peek at the woman hidden by the chair's back. She could see a few wisps of devilishly black hair, but beyond that the woman's appearance remained a mystery.

"That is wonderful to hear, Amy. I think I will very much enjoy having you here, and you will like your days as well. Hopefully your experience with 'dorky' will end there." Another chuckle, like sweet, honey-dripping music. "Tell me, though," Sarastara's voice paused for a moment, "what do you think of my artwork?"

Amy cringed. She'd actually expected the question in a way... after all, the brazen art was right out in plain sight. It was probably a test of some sort, and one she intended to pass.

"I'm not sure what I think, ma'am. The artwork is beautiful, but the subject matter is a little deviant for my tastes." Even as she said it, though, Amy felt her eyes kissing each and every piece of the naughty art. The little thrills tickling her nerve endings she could ignore easily enough... the gradual stiffening of her nipples, though, was something else entirely. Suddenly, her decision to wear black didn't seem quite so unwise.

"Most of my household servants thought the same thing when they first applied. However, they have come to love the human form as I have," Sarastra droned on, her voice abruptly as mysterious as the rest of her. "The body, you see, is my canvas. I am enamored and enthralled by the softness of young skin, the fluid grace of a properly treated figure." Sarastra chuckled again, though melancholy still dominated her tone. Amy was beginning to feel awkward with the speech, though, and could not keep herself from fidgeting. Having grown up in a terribly Catholic home, she still knew the church's strict rules of physical intimacy to be the right ones even if openly practicing the religion had long since ended for her. "The business of cosmetics is the business of sex, no matter what the television says," lady De la Dia continued. "We sell products to enhance physical desire in others, to help them receive what their bodies naturally crave, and so, we study the subject fairly carefully."