The Control Strap Page 2

  "Yes, of course,” agreed Brenda, nodding.

  "Which bring us back to this office. It used to be our Mr. Haller's, and it amused him to have that sign on the door. After he died, and I took over, I left it there as a sort of tribute."

  "How sweet of you!” said Brenda. She was feeling much more relaxed by now.

  "Hmph,” he muttered, and then went on. “Well, now. Having answered a question of yours, I have just a few questions of my own for you. You're about five foot four, maybe five. Is that right?"

  "Yes. I'm five-four in my bare feet. Is that important?"

  He ignored her and jotted another note on his pad. “And your weight?” he asked.

  Brenda was taken aback at the second, highly personal question. He certainly was blunt! “I'm, um, well, about a hundred and ten."

  "Yes, yes, good...” He marked his pad once more, then looked up and stared at her with keen intensity. “Turn to your right!” he barked. Though he continued to speak at a normal conversational volume, he snapped the words at her like a drill sergeant. She turned briskly, like a new recruit. “Good,” he said. “Arms at your sides. No, don't look at me. Eyes straight ahead."

  Brenda did as he ordered, ending up standing at attention and staring at the blank wall of his office. She fought the urge to turn toward him. She could almost feel his eyes as they scanned her profile. Her lips quivered with the rising sense of ... anticipation. This just kept getting more and more weird. What was next?

  Presently, he spoke again, but without the drill sergeant tone. “I'd say you're a ‘C’ cup. Is that right?"

  This time, she decided she wouldn't stand for any more such personal questions. She turned to him, placed her hands on her hips and glared. “You can't ask me that!"

  "I can, and I did. So just tell me your measurements, Brenda."

  "But, you're not allowed to ask ... I mean, that's not...” Her face flushed. She knew such questions were off limits in job interviews, and yet ... She also knew perfectly well her appearance had got her the interview in the first place. And the fact that she was here was her tacit agreement to it. Swallowing her indignation, she blurted out, “34-24-34. And yes, a—a ‘C’ cup!"

  For the first time, Sanders allowed himself a true smile. “Excellent, Brenda. You're catching on quickly. Remember, it's not your place to ponder the meaning or appropriateness of my questions, but simply to answer them. Do you see how simple it is, Brenda?"

  "I—I suppose so."

  "Good.” His expression became serious again, and he leaned over his desk. “Now place your hands upon your shoulders,” he said with a glint in his eye. “No, no. Don't cross your arms like that. Right hand to right shoulder and left to left."

  Bewildered by his bizarre request but reminding herself not to question it, she obeyed, ending up with her arms folded in half, as if she were about to do an imitation of a chick flapping its wings. She felt foolish, but her interviewer seemed perfectly serious.

  "Turn to your right again, Brenda,” he instructed her.

  She complied, again permitting herself no thought as to why.

  "Good girl. Keep turning now, so you face the door."

  She did as he told her. She could no longer see him, but again knew all too well that he was eyeing her from head to foot.

  "Now ... Bend over,” came his voice.

  Still keeping her hands on her shoulders, she shuddered at the command. “M—Mr. Sanders, I really don't think—"

  "Bend over!"

  "Okay!” she cried out as she quickly leaned forward. She had to spread her feet a bit to steady herself. Panting with indignation, she stared down at the small patch of gray carpet. Her cheeks burned. This is crazy, she told herself. What am I doing? He can't order me around like this. He can't make me pose in ridiculous, revealing positions.

  And yet, despite her misgivings, she held the pose. Held it, knowing full well how prominently her shapely bottom was displayed for his inspection, a virtual stranger, someone who had felt perfectly at ease reaching under her skirt aboard a crowded airliner.

  The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she had to call a halt to this shameful farce of an interview. But just as she was about to stand up anyway, she heard him say.

  "You can stand up now."

  "No!” she said defiantly, before she really thought about it.

  "Fine then. I'm still enjoying this angle."

  At that, she did finally stand upright, and spun around to face him. “This—This is—It's outrageous! That's what it is!” she fumed. “I've never been so humiliated in my entire—"

  "Are you wearing panties, Brenda?” he asked. His voice was calm but firm, apparently oblivious to her outburst.

  "Am I wear—You can't ask—How dare—"

  "It's a simple question, Brenda. Are you or aren't you? Most girls do, but some don't. Surely you must know. So which is it?"

  "Well, of course I'm wearing panties. What kind of girl do you think—"

  "Remove them."

  At this, she became so overwhelmed by the sheer audacity of his request that she could barely breathe. She stood there for countless seconds, huffing and puffing and blustering and blushing as Sanders sat forward and drummed his fingers on the desk, waiting.

  A thousand retorts formed and vanished in her mind. At long last, she found her voice. But, incredibly, instead of a snappy comeback, she heard herself ask a simple, one word question. “W—Why?"

  "Just do as you're told, girl."

  She glanced around nervously.

  "No one else is watching,” said Sanders as if his reassurance made everything right. “Recall, Brenda, as I explained on the plane, that we offer a very exclusive service. Our clients have specific needs as they travel. You must be prepared to follow any order without thought or hesitation."

  "You—You think I'm a prostitute!"

  Sanders chuckled. “A prostitute? Goodness no! Rest assured, I do not think you're some cheap whore. And on Haller Airline, no one can so much as touch you without consent."

  "But you touched me without consent."

  "That was merely to get your attention, Brenda. And it worked, too, didn't it?"

  Reluctantly, she nodded.

  "All these matters are addressed expressly in our standard employment contract. You have my word."

  Brenda bit her lip and shifted uncomfortably.

  "Now...” said Sanders, his voice soft yet urgent. “Obey my instruction."

  As a battle within her raged, Brenda's hands crept downward as if on their own. Slowly, her slender fingers grasped the hem of her skirt and lifted it, inch by inch. When she realized that she was actually about to comply with his command, she started to turn away, to preserve some semblance of dignity.

  "No,” he said. “You're to face me as you pull them down. That's right. Eyes up. Don't look away, Brenda."

  Brenda did as he instructed. She lifted her head and looked straight into his dark, piercing, possessive eyes. If her cheeks had felt warm before, now they virtually blazed. She could feel her pulse throbbing in her ears, its drumbeat growing more and more intense as she continued to raise her skirt, groping blindly for the top of her panties.

  The door was only a few feet behind her. Stop this nonsense, she told herself. Tell him what he can do with his humiliating interview and walk out of here! But even as her internal argument seethed, she wiggled her hips slightly and slid the delicate material slowly downward.

  She noticed Sanders’ gaze dart downward and she knew her panties had become visible below the hem of her skirt. He had glanced away for only a fraction of a second but it was enough. Now when he looked up again, his stare bore into her, knowingly. At the lower periphery of her vision, she saw what her saw: a pair of lacy thong panties, white as innocence.

  "Stop right there,” he said suddenly.

  She was just about to slip the panties over her knees. Startled by his unexpected command, she faltered somewhat but quickly gained her balance.
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  "Touch them,” he commanded her. “Touch the material, front and center and tell me what you feel. Don't look down! Keep your eyes on me."

  Near tears now, she let her fingers trace the elastic band toward the middle. She felt the fabric as she struggled to steady her trembling lip. “They feel ... warm,” she whispered huskily. “Warm and w—” She couldn't bring herself to say the next word.

  "And what?"

  "Warm and ... and ... wet!” Where had that come from? she asked herself, genuinely confused.

  Sanders’ face beamed with steely satisfaction. “Yes, wet,” he said simply. “Now, straighten up. But keep your legs spread just wide enough to keep your panties from falling to the floor. There's a good girl. Put your hands up to your shoulders again, like you did before."

  She did as he told her. And it was only when her hands touched her shoulders again that a single fully formed tear finally spilled from the corner of her right eye. It meandered lazily down her cheek. She was surprised it didn't sizzle with the heat of her shame.

  In an instant of searing comprehension, Brenda saw how completely she had been transformed in only a few minutes. Having entered the office a confident and secure woman, eager for advancement and reward, she was now the shamed and obedient servant of a cruel and wicked lecher, her panties lowered to half-mast like a naughty schoolgirl from a previous age waiting to be spanked.

  Presently, Sanders looked down and began making further notes on a different sheet of paper, this one covered with small print. Brenda watched him for a while as tears now streamed freely down both cheeks.

  At last, unable to endure the silence any more, she asked in a pitiful, squeaky imitation of her normal voice, “Can I at least pull my panties up? Please?"

  Sanders didn't even blink to acknowledge her. Instead, he finished writing on the paper, then turned it around so she could read it.

  "You're hired,” he announced. “Your training has already commenced, but will continue in earnest as soon as you sign the contract."

  "B—But my other job..."

  "Your former employer will be informed. We'll take care of all the details. Now step forward and sign."

  "But my panties—"

  "Will stay right where they are. You may have to shuffle a bit, but you are not to let them fall!"

  "Please, Mr. Sanders, this is so humiliating!"

  "Yes,” he said simply. He watched her then, seemingly impassive, as she abjectly approached his desk. He pointed to a line at the bottom of the page and slid a pen across the desk for her to use. “Sign there and date it."

  She picked up the pen and leaned down. Her eyes were misty with tears. What was she doing? She couldn't seem to stop herself. Had he hypnotized her somehow? In a last ditch grasp at sanity, she forced herself to at least glance over the page in front of her.

  She saw that he had entered her name and other relevant information in the appropriate blank spaces, but she also noticed the paragraph dealing with her rights and something called her “consent to treatment".

  "Th—This says I consent to be treated in accordance with the ‘attached’ ... What attached?” She lifted up the paper, but saw no others beneath it.

  Sanders reached into one of his desk drawers and pulled out a thin booklet filled with tiny, almost unreadable type. “Our standard statement of consent, which is included in full in the contract, by reference. All perfectly legal I assure you. Of course, you're free to read it if you want."

  He turned it around so she could read it. Her eyes darted all over the page. “Subpart A, Section 1...” “Party of the first part...” “Assignee...” “Obligar...” “Insofar as..."

  Brenda couldn't get her mind to focus long enough to make any sense of it. “I—I guess it's all right,” she murmured.

  "Indeed it is, Brenda. It's been honed by our lawyers like ... like a fine, razor-sharp blade."

  Brenda nodded. “All right,” she whispered. Then she lifted the pen, gritted her teeth, and scribbled her signature on the contract.

  CHAPTER 3: BENEFITS PACKAGE

  As soon as Brenda set the pen down, it seemed as if she'd just snapped out of a trance. The words on the page in front of her came into focus and suddenly made sense.

  "Wait,” she said, pointing to one of Sanders’ handwritten entries. “Isn't this date wrong? It says I don't get paid for three years?"

  "That's correct. The amount quoted here—” he pointed to another entry “-is payable in a lump sum at the end of your three-year agreement. Provided you fulfill all your obligations, of course."

  "But ... That's not how it's supposed to work! I thought this was an annual salary amount! And I'd get paid every other week, or monthly, or whatever. How am I supposed to live if—"

  "All your expenses will be taken care of during the term of your contract, Brenda. Food, clothing, shelter ... Accessories..."

  "No ... No!" she said, backing away. In her haste, she forgot that her panties were still positioned at her knees, and took too big a step. She stumbled clumsily, catching herself just as the office door opened again.

  "Damn,” she muttered. Ignoring the sound of the door, she shook the panties all the way down and then kicked them off her leg. Silently she cursed her inexplicable decision not to wear pantyhose, as she would have any other day. It was almost as if she had come prepared for exactly the form of humiliation Sanders had planned for her.

  "She signed, sir?"

  The voice came from the person who had entered the office. It was an odd voice, vaguely male, but almost high enough to sing alto.

  Brenda spun around, and found herself staring at the receptionist again. Only now, the peculiar young woman was dressed in a man's business suit. In fact, it was the same style suit that Sanders wore.

  Brenda eyed the girl-in-drag from head to foot. If she actually intended to convince anyone she was a man, she'd done a lousy job of it. Her bosom and feminine hips were all too obvious. But at least she'd pulled back her black hair, making that appear somewhat more masculine.

  "Yes, Twelve,” came Sanders’ voice, now from behind Brenda. “It was no problem."

  Again, Brenda turned quickly around to face the speaker. She felt like she in the middle of game of verbal keep-away. But before “Twelve” responded again, she realized she could simply step to the side and observe both of them at once.

  She glanced at Twelve and saw that she had spotted the crumpled pile of lacy fabric on the floor in front of Sanders’ desk. “So I see,” said Twelve, grinning and stepping forward.

  Brenda watched wide-eyed as the girl stooped down and picked up the still damp panties. When she stood again, she turned and approached Brenda. She held up the scanty bit of material and balled it up in her fist.

  Aghast at the girl's behavior, Brenda said, “What are you doing with my pant—"

  "You didn't heed what I told you, did you, Brenda Alexander?” said Twelve. The girl continued trying to make her voice sound like a man's, with little success. “I saw you come out of the office and go back in. Tsk, tsk. But these...” She rubbed the fragrant panty-ball against Brenda's cheek. “These tell me you can be very obedient. Mr. Sanders has yet to be wrong about a new hire.” As she spoke, she pressed herself bodily against Brenda, forcing her to back up until she was against the wall.

  "Stop that!” protested Brenda. “Take those away from my face. Wait! Wha—What are you do—No-mmmph!"

  Still grinning, Twelve shoved the panties between Brenda's complaining lips while keeping her pinned against the wall, limiting her ability to defend herself. At the same time, Sanders came around from behind the desk. He had a strip of clear packing tape in his hand. Before Brenda could spit out the panties, he had the tape smoothed out over her mouth and across her flushed cheeks.

  "Mmmph!” Brenda tried to shout through the makeshift gag. She reached up to pull off the tape, and to her amazement, neither of the pair made any effort to stop her. Instead, Sanders leaned down, pulled Twelve against himself, and
kissed her. The girl-dressed-as-a-man kissed him back, and with such passion that Brenda momentarily forgot her own dilemma and simply ... watched.

  It was a little creepy, as if he were kissing a female mirror image of himself. But it was also strangely arousing.

  When the kiss finally ended, Sanders said, “Good boy."

  Brenda, still mesmerized by their kiss, was unprepared when they each snatched one of her arms and twisted them behind her. Screaming into her gag, Brenda felt the cold metal of handcuffs click snug against her wrists.

  "There,” said Sanders. “That's better. Now, be a good girl, Brenda, and stand in the corner while I discuss something with Twelve."

  Panting through her nose, Brenda fought back her panic and glared from one of her captors to the other. The cuffs were tight and unforgiving, and hurt her delicate wrists. And she hated having the panties trapped in her mouth. The very thought of it was vile and disgusting.

  Who are these crazy people? she asked herself desperately. Why are they doing this to me?

  "Brenda!” snapped Sanders. “Never make me repeat a command."

  She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  "The corner, Brenda. Go. Now!"

  In shock, she nodded numbly and stumbled toward the corner of the office. What else can I do? she told herself. When she got there, she turned and stared back at them.

  "Uh uh. Face the corner, Brenda,” said Sanders. He frowned in disgust, as if she was supposed to already know this.

  Slowly, Brenda turned and found herself gazing into the blank shadow of one wall meeting the other. Trying not to cry, she worked her jaws in an effort to get the soaked ball of lace as far to the front of her mouth as she could. At the same time, she tugged at her wrists, as if her slender arms could snap links of steel.

  Behind her, she could hear Sanders return to his seat. “Make sure that's noted in her file."

  "Yes, sir,” replied Twelve.

  "Did the Harper transaction go through?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "So ten is available?"

  "That's correct, sir."

  "Perfect timing,” he chuckled to himself. There was a brief silence, and then he added, “That'll do for now, Twelve. Bring in the trunk."