Chapter 2
Willowy, raven-haired Whitney Wilde put the telephone receiver back into its cradle and stared out the window of the mammoth skyscraper. So Tip Top Temps, Inc. was to have a brand new applicant. She pulled a pencil out of her desk. Rolf didn't send many applicants her way. Only those with that special quality. Only those who didn't make it as secretaries by the usual standard. But then, hers was not the usual standard. And Tip Top Temps was not the usual temporary job agency.
She swung her legs out from under the desk and glanced down at the tiny hole in her black mesh stockings. It was small now, but those things had a way of stretching out into ragged holes big enough to stick a fist into. She worked the high gloss fingernail of her right hand into it and pulled it away from her leg. It was a hole all right. She would have to change those stockings before that new one, what was her name, "Miss Pomeroy," got here.
Whitney stepped to the supply closet and pulled it open by the handle. It folded in fourths and she reached for the light. Then she stood back to look. Red mesh, blue mesh, silver mesh, leatherette, velour, silk, every damn color size and description of stocking hanging up there and not one single black mesh. She would just have to go out and get some. Later.
Then she eyed the rest of the clothing on the racks. Full-length black satin and leather corsets. Iron-maiden waist cinchers. Leather boots with stiletto heels. Lots of leather bras and camisoles of various styles and descriptions.
Whitney was proud of her wardrobe all right. It had taken a long time to accumulate it. A lot of the very heavy leather and metal gear had had to be special ordered. But it was worth it, every penny of it.
She grabbed a pair of black silk stockings with rosette seams and kicked off her platform shoes. Then she opened the closet door a little wider and gazed in the mirror. She had a body on her all right. Stacked, as they say. And she was proud of it. She dressed it in the finest satin, lace, and leather that money could buy. She had earned it.
Tip Top Temps, Inc. was her baby, after all. She had pioneered it. And it had paid handsomely for those who played along with it. Tired executive after bored vice-president, even president had gotten the benefits of Tip Top's unique customer service. They had learned discipline at some of the hands of the city's finest mistresses of pain and pleasure.
"Hello, Tip Top," she had heard countless chief executive officers say to her over the telephone, "could you send me one of your finest secretaries? I need a girl who can handle a particularly tough situation."
Of course, Whitney had sent over a young dominatrix, one who knew how to make those men behave.
How many private office suites had been turned into dens of discipline because she had the capability to run this kind of operation all by herself. How many thankful, appreciative executives were still smarting from the lessons they had received at the hands of her employees?
And it had started out so simply. Only ten months ago. She had been working at a job agency just down the street, she had met Rolf Drake there, and it had been okay, as far as those things go.
She was a strikingly tall and shapely young woman, never had trouble handling people. Never had all her life. And she liked handling them. She liked to get as much domination over them as she could as often as she could, as a matter-of-fact.
"I'm looking for a very special sort of girl," an aged, shaking voice had come to her over the telephone one day, "I do hope you understand."
Whitney hadn't. Not at that moment, anyway. But she found out in a hurry.
"My name is Kale Larson. I am the president of Larson China and Silver. I assure you, my credentials are unquestionable. Check on me if you like. I only recently lost my best secretary. She got married and moved out of town. I am so terribly afraid to call any of these sleazy houses of ill-repute."
At that statement, Whitney blanched. What the hell was this old codger after? Still something about his voice, his position, his money, made her listen on.
"I don't take my discipline lightly. Oh, dear, I hope I'm not coming on too strong. Please let me assure you, price is no object. No object whatsoever. Do we understand each other?"
Whitney nodded her head in silence. The man on the other end of the phone blotted his sweating forehead with his handkerchief and hung on. It was a long shot all right. One that might not work, but he had to give it a try. He was desperate. And he was afraid to call one of those places that ran ads in the newspaper for such things. He didn't trust anyone not listed with the Better Bureau of Better Business.
The black-haired beauty pondered a moment. Then she relaxed and spoke easily into the phone. "I think perhaps we can help you, Mr. Larson. But, of course, I would personally have to set an appointment with you, check out the surroundings and set a fee. You see, on such a sensitive and special assignment, I couldn't send just any girl."
"OH, no, no, no" the man replied, "I wouldn't want you to. By all means, come. I welcome the opportunity to meet you. I'm certain that if we can come to some kind of arrangement I can be of help to you in the future."
Whitney hung up the phone and checked herself in the mirror. She was in her tweedy conservative stage then, though her figure was not at all conservative. It was lushly, roundly, fully, hotly developed, with curves aiming out and up and around and over. She thought that she looked safe enough to fool anyone, though, and patted her huge black twist knot on top of her head. That was tame enough looking to fool anybody.
Mr. Larson's office was well-appointed. Carpets you could sink into, Italian Renaissance furniture. Nothing but the best. And Mr. Larson was nothing to sneeze at either.
From their phone conversation she gathered he was aged. He sounded so shaky. Probably from fright. He was a sizable man. Broad-shouldered and silver-haired. Handsome, well-muscles, and rich. Very, very rich.
"Won't you come right in, Miss Wilde?" he said, shocking the receptionist who had asked her to sit and wait her turn. Everybody wanted to see Mr. Larson.
She entered a posh, sparsely-furnished inner-office with a spectacular view of the city and several admirably good works of art on the walls.
"Have a seat, my dear," he said, guiding her to a high-back white upholstered chair. "I do hope we can speak frankly," he said, leaning back against his enormous desk top, "I am a man who-likes to come right out and say what's on my mind. At my age, I haven't time to play games."
"I appreciate that," Whitney said in the most aggressive voice she could manage. She may have been new to whatever Mr. Larson was proposing, but something told her to keep her chin out there. And keep her skirt up.
"Won't you step this way, I've something to show you. My dear secretary left these things here. I'm determined to keep them for her . ... uh, until she comes for them, of course."
"Of course," Whitney said, flashing her deep amber eyes and rising from her seat.
The two of them made for still another inner-office and Mr. Larson flicked on the lights. The place was well-furnished, tasteful, like all the other rooms she had seen so far. An enormous board room table filled this one. Huge, soft blue cushioned chairs surrounded it.
A board room Whitney thought, nothing too unusual here, so far.
As she glanced around, Mr. Larson had opened a closet and stuck his head in. He pulled out a suitcase and brought it down with a soft thud onto the board room table top.
"These have such sentimental value," the man said, as he flicked the clasp on the suitcase and pulled it open. "I do hope they'll come to mean as much to you as they do to me.
Whitney had no idea what the man had in store here. But she had been around a lot of demanding men, a lot of eccentric men, some even downright kinky. And she had been able to cater to each and every one of them. The only requirement, she had found, was an open mind. An open mind and little willingness. The desire for big bucks didn't hurt either.
"I have such a fondness for Florentine leather," the old man said, pulling out a full-length jump suit with a heavy industrial metal zipper and a very plunging neckline. The entire piece was studded with silver studs from shoulder to cuff. "I collect fine things. And this one, I'm especially proud of."
He withdrew a long, single strand of leather thong and tugged a bit to free the other end from under the pile of goodies.
Whitney tried not to flinch as a stout leather handle emerged. She knew, by then, that Mr. Larson was holding a whip. A long, black leather one.
He reached into the suitcase again and pulled out a pair of high-heel leather boots and a length of cord, some hand-cuffs, chains, and two C-clamps.
"Can you help me," he said plaintively to Whitney, "I'm in terrible need, and I've been such a bad boy."
He shook his head and cast his eyes down toward the carpet. He reached for a handful of the dominance equipment and shoved it across the top of the table to where she was standing.
Whitney took a long hard look at the stuff. It would be a challenge, no doubt. And, being as how Mr. Larson was an important client, she figured it best to come out square with him "I see no reason why we can't come to terms, Mr. Larson," she said quite forcefully. "I want you to know, however, right from the start, that I am a little . ... how shall I say it . ... new to this sort of business venture."
"Not to worry, Miss Wilde," he said, in a grandfatherly tone as he stroked the leather whip lovingly with his firm, sturdy fingers, "I'll be here, too. Nothing to worry about. And I think I can tell, from the way you carry yourself, that you'll be quite suitable to the task."
He smiled a devilishly little boy smile and brushed his hand over the black and silver pile of equipment.
"May I change somewhere?" Whitney said, feeling that she was quite ready to try anything, after his reassuring words.
"Ah, yes," the man said, indicating a little room off to one side, "there's a bathroom right here. Ah, you'll need a mask, too, I believe. Such lovely hair," he said, rubbing his hands together gently.
Whitney disappeared into the bathroom and took her dominance equipment with her. She slipped out of her clothes quickly and turned to the mirror. God, she loved looking at herself in the mirror, any mirror. And this was going to be fun. There was a full-length one right on the back of Mr. Larson's executive bathroom door.
She unsnapped her own pink satin bra and pulled it down over her tremendous air-born tits. They sparkled and shone out creamy ivory in the diffused light of the bathroom. Her nipples were dark circles of bumpy, reptile hide. They were the size of silver dollars and stood out so far it looked as though they had been fitted onto her enormous breasts.
She slipped her pink nylon panties down over her tight, curvy hips and slid them over her thighs. Her shiny black bush looked lustrous and inviting as it reflected itself in the mirror. Through it, she could barely make out her huge, thick pink cunt lips.
She left her own black garter belt on and unhooked her rather conservative beige stockings and replaced them with a thick, tight pair of black mesh ones.
Then she dug into the pile and pulled out a severe half-bra with wired cuand stays. She put it on and shook her huge tits into it by bending over toward the front as she hooked it in back. Then she looked at herself.
The effect was dramatic. Her tits rose straight up toward the roof in that thing and the tops of her nipple circles were quite visible. She became aroused almost immediately as she took in this picture of herself. Her black hair made a perfect match to the theatrically black under garments.
Then she found the leather jump suit and put it on. It fit her like a shrunk glove. When she zipped up the huge metal zipper which started down under her legs, she noticed how it pressed her tits strongly together in a forced cleavage fashion. She let the zipper down a little so that her tits bounced a little down into the opening. Still, they stuck together so hard it looked as if they had been glued.
The boots came on after. They were so tight they weren't easy to get into. They added nearly another six inches to her already above-average height. They were of finest black leather with a thick, wood and metal sole. The heel was a single blade of deadly-looking stiletto. She could have put somebody's eye out with it, she was certain.
She took in the whole picture and felt immensely satisfied with herself. She looked the part, the part she had seen displayed in movies and magazines, but never had the opportunity to try. Now, at long last, was her opportunity, the perfect opportunity.
She opened the door and strode importantly to the table. Mr. Larson was sitting in the corner with his eyes downcast. He wore absolutely nothing except a thick, french-cut leather jock strap. His body was in excellent form. His muscles were well-toned and enormous.
"All right," she said, just the way she did when she was an office manager at her last job, "Let's get to work."
Whitney remembered that incident quite well. She loved going over it now and again. It was good to be reminded of what had happened that day. And it had been less than a year ago. Mr. Larson had become her first client. Their session together had been immensely successful. He had even encouraged to start this business she now ran. Had helped her financially. He had been impressed with her gifts as dominatrix.
She smiled and closed the door of the closet. Then she returned to her desk and turned on the stereo. Some soothing music. That would make the young lady feel at home.
Mr. Larson had been so cooperative that first day. And he had never let her down since. Two and three times a week he called for a "special girl" to come and relieve his boring routine. Mostly he asked for Whitney, but was content with whomever she sent him. She trained the girls personally, so she knew they would be up to par. Executives expected the best. And Mr. Larson got the best. He said so himself. That first day.
"You'll need these, Mistress," he said, helpfully holding out a pair of handcuffs. He also gave her some shackles that she used to bind his feet to the legs of the board room table.
"Lie silent," she told him, finding her most authoritative voice to speak in.
He had obeyed willingly as she gagged his mouth with a black band and worked feverishly to cuff his wrists and tie the metal cuffs together under the table. She thought she had him pretty tied up and bound by the time she started for the whip.
That was one thing she was a little hesitant about. She had never whipped anyone, though she had slapped some girls around who couldn't seem to behave themselves in the office. Office managers had to be tough. But no whips, the boss wouldn't have allowed it.
However, it simply did not prove to be too difficult. She thought she had the hang of it quite decently, in fact. She simply brought the thing up over her head, cracked it, and brought it down on Mr. Larson's high spread-eagle ass cheeks.
How he had screamed in pain! "Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhh," he protested as she reared her arm up and again brought the leathery rein down to meet his quivering butt mounds.
"Oh, Mistress," the man said, "what did I do to deserve this?"
"You slimy, disgusting piece of office furniture,' she shouted, flailing that thing down hard again and actually reddening his ass this time, "you don't deserve to draw another breath."
Then she belted him again. By now, she was noticing red welt trails where she had lashed him severely. But he seemed to be responding well to this harsh treatment. And he took his punishment like a man, too. She had to admit. She also had to admit something else. She was starting to like doing this. It seemed the natural order of things, really.
Here was a man, completely helpless, bound and gagged and lying flat against the table, with his ass raised up to receive her cruel whip blows. She was in complete control, total power. What could be more right? She, the temptress of time immemorial, and he her willing subservient. After all, didn't she know best? She had always thought she did.
"Eat my whip!" she shouted and broke the still again with a piercing snap of leather as she brought the whirling thing down on his helpless backside.
Kale Larson shrank into the glossed table top and withered with ecstasy. He loved to break in a new young dominatrix. Especially one with this much natural inclination. She was regal and haughty and extremely beautiful. All the requirements necessary to make a full-fledged Class A mistress. And he had become her total slave. It hadn't taken her long to swing into high gear either. He winced as he felt the bite of the whip savagely slash his buttocks.
After five minutes of intermittent lashings, the man had become so imbued with pleasure and heightened sensations of lust, he begged to be let off the table.
Finally, when she was good and ready, she let him. She made him get down on all fours and rode him around like a trick pony. She beat his butt with an English riding crop and dug her boots into his stomach flesh as she pranced around the floor with him under her.
She had even adjusted a little harness, made specially to fit him, around his head and over his mouth and reined him in any direction she wanted him to go.
"Move, you lowly scum spot," she bellowed, kicking his ribs with her boot heel and forcing him to carry her this way and that, faster and faster.
Finally, after riding him hard, she let down the thick gold zipper in his kid skin jock strap eased his schlong out with one leather-gloved fist.
Then she beat his backside to a pulp as she forced him to jerk himself off in front of her. His face was a mass of weathered wrinkles and etched with pain. He begged her, he pleaded with her to let him go, to stop this insane charade once the gag was out of his mouth. But she whipped him so forcefully, so harshly, he finally controlled his tongue and bent to her wishes.
She let him kiss her boot tips as he jerked himself off with one hand. He had a long firm cock handle, too, and a steady gliding hand to service it with. The better to service her, she thought.
He whacked himself however she commanded. Slower, faster, harder, softer, whatever her pleasure was as she sat in one of the huge chairs with her feet up displaying her open wet cunt to his face. She wouldn't let him close, though. She forced him to continue jerking himself as she played with a long five lash leather whip along his flanks and down into his ass crevice.
From where she sat, she could see him perfectly articulating his massive cock up and down under his hand. She made him pull his balls out of the tiny zipper and saw him squint in pain as he did so. They must have pinched him terribly in that position. Then she made him masturbate at her feet, kissing her boot and licking him with the whip the entire time.
Kale Larson felt his balls being pinched so hard, he knew they must have been turning blue, but it was worth it. The excruciatingly delicious rush he was getting from this woman was worth anything. She was the complete mistress. His dream dominatrix.
He gobbled eagerly at her boot tip. He licked the sole of her shoe, demeaning position. So low, so brutally, unthinkably beneath contempt. And here he was, down on the floor, crawling in filth and debasement, and loving every putrid second of it.
"Lick you despicably unworthy worm!" the woman said, sounding like the Red Queen ordering Alice's head off.
Mr. Larson was whacking his hot, wet pickle as hard as she would allow him now and he felt very, very close to shooting his juice. But the long, slow build up to this moment had filled him with such longings and desires, he hoped he could hold out a little more.
"Not until I tell you," she commanded, bringing her free boot up to his cock and pressing every so firmly on his already-aching balls.
"Mistress," he wailed, "please, I'll do anything, anything to please you."
"You'll come when I say and not before," the woman spat down at him.
Whitney was feeling herself getting so hot by this time, she had to pick up that English riding crop and fiddle herself with the stout handle of it. She rubbed that hard leather core against her clit and felt it rise with the full pressure of engorged blood. It smacked and whomped against the leather thickness and pulsated and hissed against her cunt lips. The heightening of her own pleasure on her own time was giving her a power rush almost as fine as the one she was getting from dominating Mr. Larson.
"Oooohhh," she said, trying to control her volume. The sight of that man down on his knees, slurping on her leather boots, jacking himself like a pile driver, the feelings of arousal under her own hand as she stroked and massaged her hot hard clit with the leather crop, all these feelings added up to one giant tower of desire.
The man grabbed his pecker wood harder and dug his fist into it as the woman had commanded him to do. He beat it more savagely, waiting for her orders. He hoped they wouldn't be long coming. The pressure under his cock head, along his glistening hot shaft, all the way down to the base of his prick pole, was mounting like a tidal wave.
"Now," the woman shouted.
Kale stuck his tongue back in his mouth a moment and concentrated solely on plunging his big ringer hand down and up the full length of his wicked, willing cock stick. He plugged himself harder, harder with his whacking, wet hand. He fixed his gaze down onto his mistress's huge black boot and he struck his hot hand wad tight against his cock and worked it ever faster all the way up and down, down and up his slick wet shaft.
"Aaaahhh," he said as he let out a huge load of spunk from the top of his flagellating pecker. "Eiieeeeeeeee," he shouted as he shot his spunk bank up and onto his mistress's shiny black boot toe. He shot more of it up as high as the rim of her black boot and a little onto the soft leather of her jump suit leg. His spunk seemed interminable. His juice wouldn't stop. His bucket overflowed and sprang in every direction. His cup was running over.
"Come you Sucker!" Whitney cried, as she slashed her slave with the teasing leather thongs of the five-piece whip. She lashed him harder as she watched him shooting his white load up and over her boot.
Then she felt her hold on herself give way as the excitement of arousal touched her insides in a place she could no longer hide from. She ground her hips hard into the seat to keep herself impacted. She tried to hold back her come, but the excitement, the intense heat of the pressure were too much for her. She let out a huge, hopeless cry of lust and let go of herself. She shuddered and shook as she popped like a string of firecrackers in every direction. She moaned and groaned and tossed herself around the chair as she felt the waves of hot blinding orgasm cover her. She spent herself hard onto the seat cushion, she thudded up and down in a thousand tiny hot jolts of electricity as she let go of her insides. Her come burst forth from deep inside her. It wracked her whole frame as she beat her clit harder and harder to keep up with the pace of the onslaught of her climax. She was coming like a truck barreling down a hill and she couldn't stop herself. Furthermore, she didn't want to.
Whitney heard the buzz of her intercom and leaned forward to depress one of the call buttons. No doubt that was her secretary, Miss Schultz. Miss Pomeroy had probably arrived. That was good. She needed Miss Pomeroy. She needed a cute, sexy girl, the kind Rolf Drake had described to her over the phone. A girl who was hopelessly not cut out to be a secretary. A girl who was desperate. The girl was adorable. With sandy blonde locks that hung in curl clusters around her angelic-looking face. Those rosy cheeks, that teasing little smile. And those phenomenal looking knockers. Her legs were well-proportioned, too, with tiny, chiseled ankles.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Wilde," Sally said, looking around to see if anything was amiss. Nothing so far. And this woman, this Miss Wilde, was so beautiful.' For a moment there, she thought she had walked into a modeling agency.
"Make that Whitney," the woman said, rising out of her seat and going to pull a chair over closer to her desk for the girl.
"Oh!" Sally replied, feeling quite at home, despite the rather harsh sounding tone in the voice of the woman.
"Rolf told me you might be a suitable applicant for Tip Top," the woman said beaming across to her from the safety of her desk seat.
"I hope I'm a suitable applicant for something!" Sally said, her words rushing uncontrollably past her teeth and out her mouth.
She would have liked to hold back a little on this woman, would liked to have not revealed her pressing need for a job, her financial disability, the fact that she needed to pay her rent one of these months. She would have liked to act very suave, very aloof, very cool. But she had already blown it a little with those first few words. So why the hell not come clean and blurt out the whole horrible mess? The worst the woman could do would be to send her away and so many employers and agencies had done that already. She felt that she was walking around under a cursed rain cloud.
"Oh, Miss Wilde . ... uh, Whitney," the girl sobbed through clenched teeth, trying to control herself, "I'm so afraid."
"What's wrong?" the woman said, scanning the girl's entire body for any flaws, skin eruptions or disabilities. The customers didn't like such things.
"I don't know, exactly," she wailed, fumbling in her purse for a handkerchief. As usual, she couldn't find one.
"Here," Whitney said, offering her a large box of tissues, "take one."
Sally reached up and tried to smile through her tears as she grabbed about fifteen tissues out of the hole of the white box. She felt like she needed a good cry about now and she hoped the woman would be sympathetic.
"I can't seem to hold down a job," she said, wincing at the hard truth. It hurt not to be successful. It hurt not to be appreciated for your abilities. And it hurt to have to tell about it, too. But she felt like she was in the right place. At least the woman hadn't stood up and shoved her out of the office door yet.
"It happens," Whitney said calmly running a fingernail through her long winding hair. It was immaculate, but the girl was making her nervous.
"My mother told me I should have some kind of training, and I went to school." Sally revealed as she blew her nose. "Mavis Forrest. I'm sure you heard of it."
Whitney had, it was one of those secretarial schools that sent her dozens of applicants when she worked for a regular job finding agency. Their girls all acted like blown up dolls and continued to wear their skirts short long after that style had gone the way of the bustle.
"I did like they said," she whimpered, dabbing at her eyes, "I wore my skirts short. I even learned to type and file. Shorthand, you know all the things I'm supposed to know about. And I actually graduated. But it's been downhill ever since."
"Care to talk about it," Whitney ventured, knowing the answer full well by this time.
"I've just been from pillar to post and back again in the two years since I graduated," she said, fighting hard to control the tears again. "I tried all different kinds of agencies, ads, job-finders places. And the offices. Absolutely everything. Lawyers, doctors, veterinarians, loan sharks, gypsies, pirates, you name it. They all seemed so nice in the beginning. I really got my hopes up for most of those jobs. I tried to get along with the office personnel and keep my nose clean. But always, always, inevitably, I got the sack."
The tears had started to run down again and Sally found herself wiping her cheeks free of them as she tried to look up at Miss Wilde and give her the whole story.
"You've had quite an ordeal," the dark-haired woman said, opening a drawer and pulling out her nail file. It was going to be a long confession, so she figured it best not to waste time.
"The last man I worked for, Mr. Bevelton. I lasted three and a half days. He was a corker, all right. He treated me like I was a billboard for laxatives during working hours, but after five o'clock ... " the girl's voice trailed off and she shook her head, "he turned into the
Cassanova of Thirty-Fourth Street. He invited me into this huge play room, you wouldn't believe it. A bar, a revolving bar, actually and a waterfall. A waterfall! Now you would think I would have known that he didn't have anything on his mind other than you know what!"
Whitney filed her nails and blew at them a little. This girl obviously had an overactive imagination. That was all to the good. But she also talked too much.
"Miss Pomeroy, Sally, if you don't mind," she said, very motherly, very smoothly, as she grinned like a diabolical banshee, "I'd like to hear your story, but I trust you understand that I have other clients waiting to see me. I must say that it sounds like you have had the unfortunate circumstance that many young girls find themselves in. You're attractive, bright," she swallowed hard on that one and continued, "and in need of some specialized placement. And we here at Tip Top Temps are expert in specialized placement. We specialize in it."
"Do you really think you can find me a place, Whitney?" Sally said, staring hopefully into the woman's amber eyes.
"I think we can," the woman answered, "but it's going to take a little work. There's never a fee at Tip Top Temps, we prefer to take a percentage. Off the top."
"I don't care about the money," Sally lied, "I want a job."
"Now, now," Miss Wilde said, shaking a sharply-pointed finger at Sally, "don't be so anxious to sound humanitarian. There's nothing wrong with money. It's human to want to be paid for one's labors."
"How much would I make, do you think," she dared to ask, "provided, of course, you could place me?"
"More than you've been able to make through any other agency," the woman sat back and smiled as she swiveled her chair from one side to the other, "we guarantee it."
"I only hope I can live up to your expectations, Miss Wilde, Whitney," the blonde girl answered. She sniffled a little and-pocketed the remaining fistful of tissues.
"We will have to test you, of course," the woman said, sounding very officious all of sudden.
It was what Sally had been waiting for. She would test anywhere from average to dismal, if her past record could be trusted. She stuck her dimpled knees together and sat a little straighter in the chair.
"I'm ready," she said, bringing two fingers to her forward and giving a little salute.
Miss Wilde smiled patronizingly and stood up. "This won't be the usual kind of test, Sally."
"Oh?" the girl said, looking for signs from Miss Wilde's composure and movements as to what that might mean. She found none.
"We are looking for a certain 'Je ne sais pas quoix," a certain quality in our girls that will help them please our very demanding, very particular clients. So our methods of testing may seem a little peculiar to you at first."
"Mr. Drake told me they might," she said, feeling more confident than she had a right to.
"Yes," the woman said, in a voice dripping with honey and butter, "would you come right this way?"
Whitney steered the lost lamb over to her closet and opened it a crack. She flipped the mirrored door over against itself and Sally saw her whole figure reflected there in the glass.
"I'm going to give you a little test, now." Whitney cooed to her. "Let's see how you do."
Sally held her breathe and steadied herself. It might be tough, but she was going to give it her best shot.
Whitney reached into the closet and grabbed three separate outfits off their hangars. She walked briskly to the wide sofa along one wall of the room and laid them out along it. Sally saw her set down a frilly summer dress with a pair of white gloves and a flowered pocket book. Next she put down a slinky, satin sheath dress with a plunging neckline and silver heels with ankle straps. The third piece was a black patent leather mini skirt with a studded corset attached, full Wellington black leather boots with laces up the front, and a cat o' nine tails.
Whitney moved away from the display and paced up and down the room a few seconds before speaking.
"Sally," she said, sounding like a regal monarch about to issue a royal decree, "supposing a client calls you and wants you to come to work for him.He says he needs a nice girl who minds her own business and is able to type, file, take dictation and act very sweet to him. Under these circumstances, which outfit would you select?"
Without a moment's hesitation, Sally pointed to the frilly white smock dress.
"So far, so good," Whitney said, continuing her little pacing trip, only speeding up a bit.
"Now, supposing a client calls. He wants a smart girl who knows how to take care of business and doesn't mind working late. She need not be able to type, file or answer a telephone. Given these requirements, which ensemble here would you pick?"
Sally thought a moment. She wanted to make the right decision.
"Uh," she said, thinking it over very carefully, "that one." She had pointed to the tight black sheath satin thing.
"Excellent," Miss Wilde snapped. "Now Sally, for the third and most difficult part of the test." She brought her hands behind her back and continued to pace like a college professor giving a lecture on electro-physics.
"The telephone rings. It's a plaintive, yearning voice. A client. He wants a strong, clever girl. One who can mind her own business and everybody else's. She should be able to take charge. To give orders. But most of all, she should be able to discipline a man. Tell me, which costume would you wear on such an assignment?"
Sally began to pace, too. She bit her nail and scratched her arm. This wasn't as easy as it looked in the beginning. Now the questions were getting really tough. She would have to put the old thinking cap on if she were going to get this one right.
"There," she said finally, pointing her finger to the frilly flowered dress, "that one. I'd wear that one."
Miss Wilde stared at her like she was Mr. Stanley encountering Dr. Livingston in the jungles of Africa. "Why?" she asked crisply.
"Well," Sally said, twirling on one foot and feeling pretty proud of herself, "you said, 'discipline' and that dress reminds me of my third grade teacher, Miss Prendergast. Christ, could that lady wield a ping pong paddle!"
Sally looked up at Miss Wilde who was now walking with her back toward the window She said nothing for a few moments and then she turned to face the girl full front.
"Very well, Miss Pomeroy!" she said, firmly and loudly, "I think you're ready for the second phase of our testing. Let's hope you do better than you did on the first."