Chapter One
Jessica sighed and rubbed her temples, trying to ease the headache that was already threatening to overwhelm her. It would be a long day. Still six more candidates to interview -- and none of them particularly impressive, by the looks of their resumes. Glancing at the next one on the pile, she pressed the intercom button on her desk. "Denise? Send in Andrew Carson, please."
A few moments later, the door opened and he entered. Tall, with an athletic build, dark hair, a tailored Brooks Brothers pinstripe suit. His tie was tasteful and knotted perfectly. Still, she sensed a little unease on his part, as if he wasn't entirely comfortable in the expensive clothes. Older than the others she had interviewed as well. He had a quick easy smile with a current of ... something ... behind his blue eyes. He moved with the ease of an athlete, someone comfortable with his body. His grip was firm and dry as he shook her hand and introduced himself, then sat down in the office chair, his briefcase in his lap.
Jessica shuffled some papers on her desk, letting the silence build. An old tactic, but effective. It was always interesting to see how they reacted to the tension -- some felt compelled to speak immediately, filling the emptiness. Others fidgeted nervously, looking around the office.
He did neither. Rather he sat in the chair, slouching a bit indolently, looking at her with a slight smile on his face.
She cleared her throat. "OK, Mr. Carson --"
"Call me Drew," he interrupted. "Everyone does."
"Very well," she said, a little nonplussed. The other prospective copywriters had been so eager, falling over themselves like puppies to please her. This guy was too cocky, he acted like he was interviewing her. She scanned his resume again. "I see you've done some freelance work for several West Coast magazines ... and three online advertising firms. I hope you brought some samples of your work." She looked at him expectantly.
"No, that was bullshit." He waved his hand dismissively. "I've never done any copywriting. I'm a fiction writer. Some non-fiction for a few specialty mags, but that's it."
She blinked several times. "So, you have no advertising experience?" she asked slowly.
He grinned. "None at all. But advertising is fiction, right? I can pick it up in no time. Oh, but I did bring a sample of my writing," he said, opening his briefcase.
Jessica stood up. "Mr. Carson, let's not waste each other's --" She froze as he tossed a magazine on the desk, landing with a thump in front of her.
She stared at the lurid cover.
Bondage Chronicles
. The photo was of a young blonde woman, ropes crisscrossing her body in an intricate harness, her lips spread wide around a red rubber ball strapped between her teeth. Drool dangled in a thin line from her chin. "Sluts Bound and Humiliated!" promised the tagline.
"Is this a joke?" Her tone was icy.
His grin widened. "Not at all. My story is on page 39. 4200 words -- pretty good, if I do say so myself. Not a real innovative plot or anything, but they pay quite well."
"Look, Mr. Carson, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she said firmly. "This isn't funny."
"I told you, call me Drew," he reminded her gently.
"I'm going to call security." She picked up the phone.
"How about this?" he asked. "
Reddened Bottoms
? Maybe you remember this one."
She froze, her hand gripping the receiver. Oh God, no. It couldn't be. But there it was, in his hand. She had hoped, prayed, that she'd never see it again.
Flipping through the pages, he found the pictorial he wanted. "Let's see ... 'And sassy Cassie loves to have her naughty butt spanked,' or so it says here." He flipped the magazine open on the desk, exposing the pictures. "She looks familiar, doesn't she?"
The photos showed a slender, tanned brunette, dressed in a plaid skirt, knee socks, and white button-up shirt. She was bent over, fingers laced together behind her knees. The skirt was flipped up over her back, revealing her bare bottom. A man in a suit and tie stood behind her, wielding a large wooden paddle.
There were several close-ups of the poor girl's exposed buttocks, the bright red imprint of the paddle evident against the paler skin. One shot in particular caught Jessica's eye. The photographer had captured the girl's face just as the paddle struck -- her head was back, eyes wide with pain, teeth clenched. The resemblance was unmistakable.
"Give me that!" she snapped, grabbing for the magazine. He pulled it away at the last minute, tucking it back into his briefcase.
"Get out!" she hissed, pointing at the door. Her heart raced as she struggled to remain calm.
"Have a seat, Jessica," he suggested. "Or should I call you Cassie?"
Legs trembling, she lowered herself back into her chair, and put her face in her hands. "Please. Just go," she whispered.
He stood up and strolled around the office, looking at the copy of her diploma, the award plaques on the wall. "I've done a little research on you, Jessica," he commented. His familiarity was infuriating, yet she forced herself to remain quiet. "Majored in business at Washington State, and then an MBA in marketing from UC Berkeley. Graduated at age 22." He raised an eyebrow. "Quite an accomplishment."
Jessica closed her eyes. It was her worst nightmare come true. She had struggled all through college -- the loans and grants were never enough to keep up with the costs of tuition and books and rent and food and so much more. The ad in the student paper had promised no nudity, although she soon found out that the payment was much more lucrative if she agreed to pose naked. Five hundred dollars for a two hour photo session. The spanking hadn't been so bad.
In fact, you kind of enjoyed it
, accused the voice in her head.
"Hired by Aston-Fremont, one of the biggest advertising firms in Seattle," he continued. "In only two years, you became a director of marketing. Youngest in the firm's history." He turned around and dropped back in the chair, looking at her. "Very impressive."
The bondage shoots had been the worst. She shuddered, remembering. The sleazy photographer in the tiny studio in Redwood City, how he had tied her tightly and then leered and pawed at her as she struggled. No one would ever see it, she had reasoned. No one she knew would ever buy a filthy magazine like
Bound Bitches
or
Tortured Teens
. Her past had come back to haunt her.
"So, let's talk, Jessica," he said quietly.
She took a deep breath. "Are you suggesting that that's me in those photos?" Even to her own ears, the protest sounded quavering and unsure.
"Of course it is." He reopened his briefcase. "Shall we look again? The hair color is different now, of course, but I can tell by the little mole on your neck. Perhaps you can prove it to me, show me you don't have those three freckles on your inner right thigh." He smirked.
"Well, what if it is?" she countered. "That was a long time ago. Lots of college girls experiment with ..." Her voice trailed off. Where was she going with this? What could she say?
He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. "Here's what's going to happen," he said firmly, his gaze locking with hers. "You're going to give me the job. I know I can do it. If you don't, then copies of those photos will go out to all your major clients. I'm sure Hansen Chevrolet -- the owner's a fundamentalist Christian, you know -- would be quite appalled."
She dropped her eyes. Olaf Hansen was one of the firm's biggest clients, with nine car dealerships in the Puget Sound area. What Drew said was true. She would be disgraced, ridiculed. It was largely because she landed the Hansen account that she had been promoted over several others in the firm with seniority. Her rise to director had been quite contentious; she knew many of the senior employees at Aston-Fremont would revel gleefully in Jessica's debasement and fall from grace.
"A porno star," he chuckled. "Yeah, I bet old man Fremont would love to know how his newest director paid her way through college -- by getting tied up and spanked for whack-off magazines and spanking videos."
Oh, fuck!
He even knew about the two videos. She realized now it had been a mistake, but at the time it seemed there was no other option. With her heavy courseload, she hadn't had any time for a conventional job, and the money had been very good. But now she was ruined. Her career was over.
"I can pay you. Give you money," she pleaded. "Please don't do this to me."
"No, I told you what I want." He snickered derisively. "You're mine now, Jessica."
Goddamn it, get control of this situation. Don't let him push you around.
Crossing her arms defiantly, she stood up. "I won't do it," she said firmly. "Go ahead, tell whoever you want. I can get another job."
He shook his head. "You're not a very good poker player, Jessica. Maybe you need a little demonstration." Leaning over the desk, he pressed the intercom button. "Denise? I'd like to schedule an appointment with Mr. Fremont, please."
"Stop that!" She lunged for the intercom, knocking his hand away.
He grabbed her wrist. Although she struggled to free herself, his grip was like iron. She stared at him defiantly over the desk for a long moment. There was no mercy in his dark green eyes, only determination.
The intercom squawked. "Miss Landers? Did you want something?"
