The Control Strap

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  THE CONTROL STRAP

  By

  ROD HARDEN

  ISBN 978-1-60089-046-8

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2006 Rod Harden

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information contact:

  SizzlerEditions.com

  Sizzler Editions/B&D

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  CHAPTER 1: BRENDA GETS A JOB OFFER

  At 35,000 feet, the drone of the twin Pratt & Whitney PW2043 jet engines seemed barely a whisper from within the cabin of the Boeing 757-300. Standing at the very rear of the cabin, Brenda Alexander stared intently across the sea of heads toward the front of the aircraft. She focused her crystal blue eyes on the patch of dark brown hair visible above the seatback of 16C.

  Petite, with a model's build, Brenda was nothing less than stunning in her form fitting flight attendant's uniform. Its deep navy color offered a striking contrast to her light complexion and shoulder length blonde hair. Beneath the jacket and blouse, her pert breasts filled out the bust line with an understated yet unmistakably feminine swell. The tailored skirt hugged her hips and thighs to just above her knees. Shapely calves extended beyond the hem tapering to delicate ankles. Her tiny feet were clad in practical slingbacks with wide two-inch heels.

  Behind her, her fellow flight attendant, Anne, gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

  "I saw what that jerk did,” whispered Anne.

  Brenda didn't turn, but nodded to acknowledge Anne's sentiment.

  "You know what I'd like to do to guys like that?” continued the older woman. “I'd like to yank them out of their seat, kick ‘em where it hurts and toss ‘em out the emergency exit."

  "We'd lose pressure,” said Brenda, matter-of-factly.

  "I know, silly. I was just, you know, fantasizing."

  Brenda turned and managed a weak smile. “Sorry Anne, I was just lost in my own thoughts. You're right, of course; that's what he deserves."

  "Well, you handled it very smoothly, Bren. Better than I would have."

  "I suppose,” Brenda murmured with a shrug. In fact, Anne would have handled it exactly the same way. They were trained to minimize such incidents; to not make a scene over them. For some reason, though, she found it hard to look her colleague in the eye, shifting her gaze downward and to the sides.

  "Don't be embarrassed, Bren. It's happened to all of us, I assure you. Well, the flight must go on, and I have to take this pillow to 22B. You are okay, right?"

  "I'm fine, Anne. Really."

  Brenda watched the older, matronly woman work her way down the narrow aisle. Biting her lip, she wondered again why she didn't feel the outrage Anne felt, the outrage she was supposed to feel. She'd just been groped by a total stranger, after all. He had boldly thrust his hand between her legs, reached upward and clasped her thigh.

  And yet she had felt no desire whatsoever to kick him, and certainly no wish to toss him out of the plane. In fact, in a way, she actually sympathized with him. She knew she was beautiful. It wasn't boastful to think so; it was simply the truth. And she knew her looks inspired such urges in men. Why did she seem to be the only woman to feel such attentions were complimentary? Even ... exciting?

  Anne returned wearing an odd expression on her face. “Your ‘friend’ with the roving hands would like to talk to you,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  "Huh?"

  "He got my attention while I was up there and said he'd like to apologize. Frankly, I think he just wants another shot at the jackpot."

  "Well, I think it's sweet,” said Brenda trying unsuccessfully not to blush.

  "I figured you would,” shrugged Anne.

  Brenda slipped past the other attendant and headed forward. Unlike her more generously proportioned colleague, she glided down the narrow aisle effortlessly, her svelte form barely brushing against the seats on either side. As she neared row 16, she grew anxious, wondering if the man would in fact make another attempt to touch her. And if she would mind it if he did.

  Leaning over the man, she spoke in a hushed tone. “The other attendant said you wanted to talk to me?"

  He looked up and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I did.” But instead of apologizing, he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a polished silver business card holder. He retrieved one of the cards and held it up for her.

  "I'm the CEO of Haller Airline,” he said by way of explanation.

  "Haller Airline? I never hear of it,” said Brenda, suspiciously, and pointedly not accepting the card.

  "The company's named after our founder, Harry Haller. We offer exclusive, charter-only service, and we're in need of new flight attendants."

  Brenda listened to him politely, then said simply, “Anne said you wanted to apologize."

  He smiled and let his eyes roam down and up her body. “Now, why would I want to apologize for something we both enjoyed?"

  "How dare you!” she said, still keeping her voice lowered. “I—I did not enjoy ... You ... You..."

  As she babbled her objections, he quickly jotted something on the back of the card and offered it to her again. “That would be your starting salary with us, Brenda,” he said, indicating the number he'd just written.

  This time, Brenda took the card. She looked at the figure he'd written and caught her breath. The amount was more than double what she made now. “This is some kind of joke."

  "I assure you, Brenda, I'm not joking."

  "Wait! How do you know my name?” she demanded.

  The man simply laughed and shook his head. Blushing anew, Brenda realized she was so flustered that she had forgotten the entire crew was introduced at the start of the flight. Not to mention the nametag on her lapel.

  "Okay, dumb question,” she admitted. “But ... Why me? Why not Anne?"

  "Because, Brenda, I know what I like, and I like you. I want you to serve on one of my planes."

  That sure sounded suspicious, but she persisted, unable to stop thinking of how much fatter her paycheck would be. She turned the card over to examine the front and read the man's name. Thomas Sanders. “So...” she muttered, letting herself think out loud. “Mr. Sanders ... Suppose I decide you're on the level. And suppose I'm interested. I should call you directly?"

  "Yes."

  "You don't have a personnel director or something?"

  "We're a small operation, Brenda. I make all hiring decisions myself."

  "I see..."

  "Think about it, Brenda. That's all I ask. I look forward to hearing from you."

  She slid the card into her pocket and returned to the rear of the plane. Anne was glowering at her. “Looked like a pretty lengthy apology from here."

  "He was very nice,” insisted Brenda, choosing not to mention the job offer to her coworker.

  The rest of the flight was uneventful. Mr. Sanders said nothing more to her. In fact, as far as she could tell, he never even glanced at her again. By the time all the passengers had deplaned and she was headed for the hotel, she'd begun to wonder if he had changed his mind about her. Perhaps she hadn't been enthusiastic enough about his offer.

  That night, she had trouble sleeping. It wasn't ju
st the possibility of landing a much better paying job. More than that, the memory of his touch made her toss and turn. Of course, she'd been felt up plenty of times before. That wasn't so unusual. In fact, it was almost considered normal working conditions up there in those cramped cabins, confined with all those lonely traveling businessmen. And the occasional businesswoman.

  But Mr. Sanders’ touch was ... different. She couldn't quite put her finger on how it was different, though, and it was that that kept her awake. But as she lay there staring into the dark room, it finally hit her. All the other gropers she'd come across were pathetic losers, no matter how professional they may have appeared. They either thought they could actually score with her, or they were merely perverts who got a thrill from sneaking a surreptitious grab. Either way, losers.

  But Sanders was not like that. Indeed, all he had really wanted was simply to talk to her, to get her attention. He could very well have said, “Excuse me, Miss, here's my card” to accomplish his purpose. And yet he hadn't. It was almost as if he'd been testing her. Seeing how she would react to his effrontery.

  As she thought about it, went over the moment again and again, it even seemed as if he had been ... inspecting her.

  Eventually she did fall asleep, and she awoke feeling remarkably refreshed in spite of her mental turmoil the night before. And despite her misgivings about Mr. Sanders and “Haller Airline” she found herself calling the number and making an appointment to see him that very afternoon.

  She dressed in her most professional, non-flight attendant suit and spent more than the usual amount of time making up her face and getting her hair just right. The suit was pale blue in color and the jacket was cut tight in the waist, showing off her narrow midriff to best effect. She never failed to turn heads in that suit, and today, having made the decision to interview for the job, she was determined to make a big impression and walk out of that office with a salary she couldn't even dream of the day before.

  The airline office was on the fourteenth floor of a thirty story building in the heart of Dallas. It baffled her that she had never heard of it before. The door had a very plain sign with the name of the business on it, but there was no logo or any other distinguishing mark. It was almost as if they didn't want people to know they were there.

  She stepped through the door and found herself in a reception area. There were photos on the walls of jets which bore a logo that resembled a stylized wolf howling at the moon. Several chairs were placed along one wall opposite the receptionist's desk. Beyond the desk was a hallway with office doors on both sides, and one door at the very end.

  The girl at the receptionist's desk looked up and smiled pleasantly. “Miss Alexander!” she said, making it a statement, not a question. “Mr. Sanders is expecting you. He's on the phone right now, but he should be available shortly. Have a seat, please."

  Smiling, Brenda sat down, taking care to smooth out her skirt. She leaned back and crossed her legs. Wishing to strike up a conversation with the receptionist, she glanced around for a nametag of some kind on her desk, but saw none. Undaunted, she plunged ahead.

  "Excuse me, Miss? You know my name, so, um..."

  The girl looked up from her computer and cocked her head questioningly, as if she didn't understand that Brenda was asking for her name. It was only then that Brenda noticed that the choker the girl wore was made of leather. It almost resembled a ... collar.

  But she still didn't say her name. Perhaps, thought Brenda, she doesn't “do” subtle. “You have a name, don't you?” she asked bluntly.

  The girl at the desk nodded.

  "Well ... Are you going to tell me what it is?” She was beginning to feel a bit annoyed at the strange attitude emanating from someone who was supposed to make her feel welcome.

  To Brenda's shock, the girl shook her head no. Then, immediately, the girl spoke up, but only to say, “Please don't cross your legs, Miss Alexander."

  "What?"

  "I said—"

  "I heard what you said. I meant, why? Why would you tell me something like that?"

  "It's unladylike. Girls should sit with their legs parallel, knees together smartly in front, and lower legs at a slight angle off to one side or the other. Unless told to sit differently, of course."

  Brenda stared at her as if she were speaking Chinese. Where did she get such a notion? And why did a receptionist think it was her job to instruct a job applicant she only just met on how to sit?

  Just then, the light that had been lit on the receptionist's phone went out. “Oh,” she said, “Mr. Sanders is finished with his call, so he'll see you now. His office is at the very end of the hall. There's no need to knock; just go right in, take three steps into his office and wait in silence until you're addressed."

  Bewildered, Brenda stood and walked toward the hallway. As she did, she wondered if the girl at the desk was his niece or something. The weird relative who needed a job...

  As she walked past the other doors, she thought, if nothing else, it had already been one of the most “interesting” interviews she'd ever been on. But any notion that it was about to become more “normal” vanished when she saw the plaque on the door at the end of the hall. She'd expected it to have Mr. Sanders’ name and title on it. Instead, it read, “Magic Theater: Entrance Not for Everybody."

  More confused than ever, Brenda took a deep breath and turned the knob.

  CHAPTER 2: THE INTERVIEW

  Brenda stepped inside the office, closed the door, and turned to face Mr. Sanders. He sat back in a large leather chair behind an expansive polished desk. A cigar stub still smoldered in an ashtray next to his right hand. She couldn't help but notice it; she thought smoking was prohibited in the building.

  Sanders nodded to her, but his face remained impassive. She guessed he was roughly twice her age, but he was fit and handsome, something she had somehow failed to notice during their encounter on the plane. Now the incident seemed safely in the past and she couldn't help smiling at him, eager to make a good first impression.

  However, he didn't smile back. For several moments he said nothing but simply stared at her. Brenda clasped her hands in front, then in back, then shifted her weight in the discomfort of the awkward, lengthy silence. The entire time, she forced herself to hold the smile frozen on her face.

  Presently, he leaned forward, picked up a pen and jotted something on a pad that lay on the desk. When he sat back again, he continued his stony watch over what she had hoped would be her big entrance.

  Eventually, she could stand it no longer and spoke up. “The, uh, the plaque on your door is quite unusual. I mean, it's interesting. Unusual, too. Um, both in fact. You know, interesting and unusual. For a CEO's office, that is. Not that I've seen that many CEO offices. I, um ... Does it have some kind of significance or something?"

  Her voice gradually trailed off as she realized she was blathering like the blonde that she was. She hated it when she found herself acting the stereotype.

  Again, rather than say anything, Sanders leaned forward and jotted a note on the pad. But this time, when he looked up, he finally spoke. “Did Number Twelve say anything to you before you came in?"

  "Who? What? ‘Number Twelve'?"

  "The receptionist,” he said curtly, as if that explained everything.

  "The recept—Yes, she, um...” The strange girl's last words flashed through Brenda's mind then. Take three steps into the office and wait until Mr. Sanders speaks, she had said. “Oh!” exclaimed Brenda. “I—I thought she was joking or something."

  "She wasn't. Now perhaps you would like to start over..."

  "Yeah. Sure. I can appreciate that."

  "So...” prompted Sanders, looking fixedly at the door.

  "You—You want me to actually go out and come in again?"

  "Yes."

  Brenda giggled at what she assumed was a joke, but Sanders’ expression betrayed no mirth. She stifled her grin, turned, and walked out the door. Briefly, she considered continuing down the
hall and out of this weird place for good. But something made her stop, straighten up and reenter the office.

  It wasn't the prospect of a much higher salary that kept her from walking off. In fact, the money hadn't even entered her mind. Instead, by now, the mere task of getting through this interview had become a challenge of sorts. One that she was determined to accomplish successfully.

  This time, upon entering the office, she immediately took three steps in and stood quietly. Sanders watched her the whole time. He smiled a half smile, and nodded again.

  "I'm pleased to see you here, Brenda. I give my card to only a select few. I realize all this may seem very strange to you, but as you will find, assuming you're selected for the position, Haller Airline maintains the strictest of disciplinary standards among its female staff. Now about that—"

  "Just the female staff?” said Brenda, interrupting.

  Her question was met with a withering moment of stony silence. “As I was saying,” said Sanders at last. “About that plaque on my door. It originated with our founder, who, as I believe I mentioned before, was named Harry Haller. He, um, died, by the way, unexpectedly last year."

  "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

  Sanders shrugged. “It's no matter. But it always intrigued him that he had been named, quite unintentionally, after the main character in a classic novel."

  "Really? Which one?"

  "Steppenwolf."

  "I thought that was a rock group."

  "Hm, yes. But before that it was the title of a novel. By Hermann Hesse. A very peculiar book. Never quite clear what's really real in it. But anyway, in the book, the fictional Harry Haller keeps coming across a door that says, ‘Magic Theater: Entrance Not For Everybody.’”

  "Just like your door!” exclaimed Brenda.

  "Quite. Anyway, once Harry goes into the so-called Magic Theater, he finds himself in a fantastical world where incredible, often erotic, sometimes violent, things happen. He learns to accept his dark, wolf-like, side. Et cetera, et cetera. There's more to it than just that, of course."