Community Service
You look at the clock on your computer. 3:23pm. The day is simultaneously turning into the longest day ever, and racing through at double speed. Time seems to have stopped this afternoon as you wish you could just fast forward to 5pm. But as you feel your pulse race, and you start to feel light-headed from the adrenaline flowing through your veins, you wish it was Thursday and you had another day to prepare.
You look back to the computer screen, aware you have the same document open as you did at 9am, with barely any change. You look around at your colleagues in the open office, wondering if anyone has noticed your lack of productivity today. Probably not, it's a Friday, and they are all mostly having their own thoughts of what they'll be doing this weekend. But their thoughts are of bars with friends, playing sports, BBQs and lazy brunches. None of these things enter your mind today. For whilst your mind races, the physical reminder is constantly there as you sit in the office feeling the pressure of the string of pearls that runs over your pussy instead of panties.
For the 100th time today, you think back to how you got here. If any one thing had not gone exactly as it did, you too would be getting ready for some fun after work drinks and then a generic weekend that you would recount on Monday back in the office. You were just living life, 9-5 job, making ends meet, but not really saving anything. You'd just got back from a summer holiday week away with some friends. Sun, sand, sangria and, yes, just a little sex. So the bank balance was looking pretty dire as the month went on. And then you got the letter from your landlord telling you she was selling your flat. You'd been there for 2 years, and knew the rents had gone up around the city since then so that was going to mean a big increase, but worse you needed to find the month rent deposit. In hindsight any other way would have been better.
You had been at the company 18 months now, and each Friday you prepared the supplier invoices ready for your manager to arrange payment. 15-20 invoices, and thousands of dollars. It seemed so simple; add an extra small invoice, get the rent, and next month after you got your old deposit you could put a credit through and reverse the payment, and no-one would know. The end of year audit would see everything balanced. And the plan worked perfectly. You got the money for the rent. Ok, and a couple of hundred extra dollars, well those new shoes counted as essential goods. And once you'd moved, you prepared the credit note to be able to repay the 'loan' as you'd convinced yourself it was. Only that's where it all went wrong.
As you went to see the manager as you did each week with the invoices, about to breeze in to his office you gave a nod to his secretary, ready for the obligatory nod and instruction to go in. Instead "He's not in. You are to take those up to Mr Jones on level 8." You literally stop in your tracks. This was a first. You'd never been called up to the executive floor before. And whilst normally you'd be excited to go up there, any other week would be fine. But with the recriminating evidence in your hand, this was not what you needed. "You've not been up before, so I'll show you to his office" came the friendly but unwelcome offer. As you got in the lift with the secretary your mind races. How can you get out of this. It's not just losing the one sheet, it's the whole report that would need to be updated if you take out the evidence of your theft. Yep, it's back to theft now, not a loan. The lift goes up, and your mind inexplicably starts thinking you wish you'd worn something different today as it's not really going to be very comfortable sitting around in a jail cell in a tight pencil skirt, white cotton blouse that is deliberately a size too small for your bust and those new high heels with the heels just 1" too high for the office.
Bing. The bell brings your focus back to the moment. And you walk through the exec floor which in stark contrast to your normal workspace is a series of individual offices. As you walk down the corridor, you see the door at the end, the company owner Mr Jones looming towards you. Each pace taking you closer to your fate. As you get there his secretary tells you to wait. You stand nervously. You see the secretary looking at you. Seeing her eyes take in the hip hugging material of your skirt, and the outline of your bra pushing into the blouse. You see the judgement on her face. Bzzzzz. "You may enter" she says, but despite the phrase it is clearly an instruction. There is no option for you.
In you go, closing the double door behind you. He sits behind a large mahogany desk. Not looking up from the papers he has on his desk. You cautiously approach, not sure if you should speak. You approach, as though he's a tiger, you don't want to make a rapid movement in case you startle him and he lashes out. You place the file on the desk, hoping he'll just sign them and you can be on your way.
"Wait" he says without looking up. He reaches out and pick up the folder, opens it and starts flicking through the invoices, initialling each page as he goes. You count the sheets as he goes, counting down to one you fabricated on 8th of he 12 sheets. 4, 5, 6, 7, each sheet quickly scanned and initialled. He turns over to page 8. And then your stomach drops, your heart skips as he turns over to page 9 with no initial. You stand there as he goes through the other pages, initialling. What's happening, has he noticed, does he know. The torture going on. And then he closes the file and looks up to you. This is it.
"Tell me about the credit-note for 'Office supplies'." Your throat dry. You try to think of a response. Double down and claim it as legitimate, or admit and throw yourself at his mercy.
"You have a choice. Think carefully. Every day we make decisions that have long lasting implications."
This is it. "I'm so sorry Mr Jones. I was desperate, I just needed a loan. I was going to pay it back. I AM paying it back, it's in the file. Please Mr Jones, don't report this to the police."
He pauses. For a few seconds. For an hour? That moment could have been either. "You made the right choice. I hope that this will be the first of several correct choices you will get today, otherwise your life may well become very different to that you hope. With a criminal record there will be no international travel. Your employment choices will be very restricted, so I hope you like cleaning toilets or working in noisy dirty factories. And I hope you like showering with 20 other women, all whilst watched by prison guards. As that's your next 5 years."
He let that hang out there in the air.
"But there is another option."
My heart raced. "Anything. I'm so sorry, I'll pay it back. I'll work extra hours for the interest. Anything."
He leant back and smiled. "Anything is a very strong word. But I will make you an offer." With that he slid across a folder from his desk. It had been sat there since I came into the room. "I will let you keep that payment. Consider it an advance. And each month for the next year, the 1 year duration of the contract I will make you an equal payment."
I was confused, why was he offering me more money when I had stolen from him. Yes, stolen, I was now admitting that to myself.
"The money is equivalent to an additional week's wages. In return, you will spend one weekend a month under contract. 5pm Friday until 8:30 Monday morning."
