Chapter One
Cinderella's Seduction
Startled, Cindy looked up from her seat as the inner door opened and an incredibly beautiful young woman emerged. The girl looked miserably sad, shaking visibly, her lower lip trembling. She also looked ... perfect; her blonde hair long and flowing, her eyes large and round and evenly spaced on her ideal face, her nose pert, her lips full and red. She had the figure of a supermodel, with firm bosom and hips framing an almost impossibly slender waist. The girl was suddenly startled to see Cindy sitting there, waiting, and after a second's pause, she burst into tears and fled through the room, sobbing.
Cindy sat there, aghast, and a single word flooded out all other thoughts: Why? If a girl like THAT had been rejected, then why even consider putting herself through something that was bound to be the most embarrassing ordeal of her entire life? Why take up the valuable time of the interviewer? Why delude herself any further, thinking that her silly dream ... her silly fantasy ... had any chance at all of coming true?
She rose to go, then stood rooted to the spot as the inner door opened again.
"Cindy?" the woman asked. She was holding a yellow legal pad in one hand, a pencil in the other. This woman was beautiful, too, with coal-black hair streaming past straight, thin shoulders that caused her generous breasts to point accusingly forward, as if saying, "Mine are firmer than yours, little girl ... These are the breasts of a REAL woman." Everything about this lady was proud, feminine, demanding. When she smiled, like she was doing now, her eyes were almost gleeful in their depth and knowledge and self-assurance. Cindy stood mute, nervous, her hands by her sides, twitching nervously, the form she had filled out rustling and fluttering as she clutched it. "It's a yes-or-no question," the woman said patiently.
"Yes," Cindy squeaked.
Without another glance, the woman turned her back and walked back into the inner room. "Come in and have a seat, please. And close the door."
Cindy was thinking so hard about bolting in the other directions that she stumbled as her feet, seemingly acting on their own, began shuffling after the woman. She paused momentarily to close herself into the room with the strikingly pretty lady by gently shutting the door, then she hurried to the chair in front of the desk and perched her bottom precariously on its forward edge. She gulped nervously, trying to fathom what the woman wanted. She was holding out her hand toward her, palm up. With a start, Cindy lurched forward and deposited the form she had filled out into the outstretched hand, before once again taking her seat. The woman's lips twitched slightly into a bemused smile, though it was obvious she was trying to remain serious-looking.
"Breathe," the lady muttered.
Cindy blinked. "What?"
"Take a breath, girl. Don't pass out on me."
With a conscious effort, Cindy took a gulp of air. She tried to will herself into calm alertness, but instead found her thoughts flitting around like wild birds.
"So, Cindy," the woman asked without looking up. "Why do you want to be a sex slave?"
All at once, the room seemed to shift unsteadily. So ... there is it was. The phrase had finally been spoken. It was suddenly ... real. She tried to swallow, but found that her mouth was too dry to accomplish the task. Her lips parted to answer ... closed ... opened again, soundlessly. She was suddenly concerned about tipping forward out of the chair, and tried to push herself back in the seat, only succeeding in scraping the thing backwards on the floor. "I ... uh ... I think that ... um ... I ... think that ... maybe I've made a mistake," she finally said, haltingly. She stood up.
The woman glanced up at her with a placid look on her face. "SIT!" she barked. Cindy sat. Hard. "Put your knees together!" the woman continued firmly, without raising her voice. "Hands in your lap! Sit up straight!" She paused and scanned the form. "Now," she continued mildly, sweetly, "what makes you think that you've made a mistake?"
Cindy' speech rushed ahead now. "The girl that just left ... she was ... beautiful."
"Yes," the woman replied. "Yes, she was, wasn't she? Exceedingly nice figure. Very experienced, too. She had been a sex slave before, to a dominant couple out east, near Lexington. Very submissive. And VERY pretty."
"But ... I'm not," Cindy insisted, earnestly. "I'm NOT pretty. And I DON'T have a nice figure. And I'm NOT experienced as a s-s-sex s-s-slave. I can't even SAY it! I'm plain and I'm overweight and I'm dumpy and I'm clumsy and I'm sitting here wasting your time because I want ... I want to ... um ...."
"I will be the one to decide whether or not you're wasting my time," the woman interrupted. "Now, I will ask you some questions, and you will answer them. Is that clear?"
Cindy blushed and lowered her gaze to her folded hands. "Yes, ma'am."
"Is this form completely honest? Are all your answers absolutely true?"
"Yes, ma'am," Cindy answered earnestly, looking up.
"You've entered your first name as 'Cindy.' That can't be absolutely true, can it? It's a nickname, isn't it?"
Cindy was suddenly taken by the woman's serious tone. "Yes, ma'am. I didn't mean to ... I mean, everybody's always called me Cindy."
"I insist on attention to detail," the woman enthused. "So ... what is it? Cynthia?"
"No, ma'am. It's ... Cinderella."
The woman blinked up at her. "You've got to be kidding me."
"My mother was ... um ... rather fanciful."
The lady's lips twitched again and she put her hand over her mouth and coughed gently. "Fanciful." She looked back down at the form. "Okay, you win. We'll leave it as Cindy." She finally looked up, giving Cindy her full attention. She pushed her office chair back and crossed her slender legs. "Alright, Cindy, let's try a different question. How did you hear about our little ... opening here?"
"I saw it in a magazine," Cindy answered.
"Which one? I put the ad in three, plus on a couple internet sites."
"It was called 'Velvet Chains," Cindy answered quietly.
"Do you read that particular publication often?"
"No, ma'am. I'd never heard of it before. I didn't even know there WERE such magazines!" Cindy paused and took a breath. "There were five of us, in a hotel room up in Toledo. We were there for a big debate team finalist tournament at the University. I'm not a debater ... I'm just a researcher. Anyway, there were three of us in one room and two in another, and one of the girls had gotten a bottle of wine, and the five of us got together in one of the rooms, and we were each having a glass ... just sitting around talking. And Rhonda said that perverts were always reading porn magazines and leaving them in hotel rooms, and they always thought that they were leaving them in places where no one would ever think of looking, but they always left them in the SAME places! And so, she started looking between the mattresses, but there weren't any there, so we were really starting to get on her case. And then she pulled out the bottom drawer of the bureau, and she had to play with some little catches on the sides to get the drawer out ... but sure enough, there were a couple of girly magazines on the floor, under the drawer.
"Well, two of the girls started reading them out loud, taking turns; things like "letters to the editor" and stuff. And then Rhonda shrieked 'Listen to THIS! Here's an ad from a couple in Louisville! Who wants a SEX SLAVE!' And she read the ad, and the other girls were all laughing and giggling that somebody in our home town would write something like that. But ... you just wouldn't believe how that affected ME! Because, you didn't use the words 'sex slave' ... you just used the word 'slave.' And sure, it was in a sex magazine, and so sure, it was naturally assumed that sex would be an important part of it ... but I mean ... 'slave.' Just 'slave.' That means so much more than sex. That means ... everything! And it took just about all the willpower I had to keep from just moaning and crumpling up into a little ball on the floor, just thinking about it!
"But then, it was time to go out for dinner, and so Rhonda hid the magazines again and we all went downstairs. But I told them that I'd forgotten my money and that I'd meet them at the restaurant, and I ran back up and looked at the magazine again, because Rhonda hadn't read the email address for contacting you."
"What did you do?" the woman asked, interested in the story. "Did you copy it down or tear the ad out?"
"Oh, I couldn't do either of those. The others might find a note. And they'd DEFINITELY notice that the ad was gone if they read the magazine again when we all came back. No ... I memorized it."
