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    Gainful Employment
    Gainful Employment
    Gainful Employment
    Ebook94 pages1 hour

    Gainful Employment

    By Anya W Vossand

    ()

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    About this ebook

    I would do anything for a job, and I mean anything. Dress a little slutty? Check. Let the CEO make me into her plaything? Check. Film myself in my most intimate of moments? Yes, yes, yes. I'll do whatever it takes, and the Aries Corporation might not accept any less.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAnya W Vossand
    Release dateJul 11, 2019
    ISBN9781386002185
    Gainful Employment
    Author

    Anya W Vossand

    Anya W. Vossand lives and writes near Boston, Massachusetts. When it comes to romance and erotica, her philosophy is that each story should be beautiful and moving, with an emphasis on clever and engaging characters with relatable motivations. As a nonbinary and bisexual person, she enjoys crafting inclusive stories with a wide variety of LGBTQ representation and believes that everyone deserves love, acceptance, and their own fairytale ending. When not writing, Anya enjoys heavy metal, BDSM fashion, excellent coffee, and spending time with her spouse and their two familiars, Susi and Lily, who some mistake for regular cats.

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      Book preview

      Gainful Employment - Anya W Vossand

      Chapter 1: The Interview

      It's four in the morning and my alarm won't go off for hours yet. But I'm awake, lying in my bed and looking out at the reluctant gray light that chills everything before dawn. The city's quiet right now, largely because it's too cold for much activity. Even in my studio apartment on the third floor, with all the heat rising up from my neighbors, I have to dress in two layers of shirts, leggings, pajama pants, and two pairs of socks to keep warm. I'd worn a beanie cap to bed, but in my typical tossing and turning the hat had come off, which left my straight black hair to tangle and splay on the lumpy pillows. My bed takes a beating, but not because I'm a social butterfly. I have nightmares often, and vivid dreams that are confusing even when they aren't troubling. Half the time I wake up with my sheets kicked off and my heart beating painfully hard.

      But not today. Today, I was allowed out of sleep, I suppose you could say, without a panic attack. I'm not sure why I'm unusually serene today. I have an interview in about five hours, at a building I thought I'd never set foot in for such a thing. One Franklin Square. It sounds like an address, but it's the name of the actual building located on 1301 K Street NW, right in the heart of Washington, DC. This place is one of the tallest buildings in a city of height restricted opulence, and its facade dominates one entire city block between 13th and 14th street. I had to reconfirm with my rep at the staffing agency that this was really where I was supposed to go.

      The morning creeps by, and I get up, shed my sleepwear, shower, and huddle over a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal. The heat is cranked and I'm still cold. I'm small at 5'2" and weigh barely a hundred pounds soaking wet. My metabolism is so high that I burn off most of what I eat, and don't save enough to even keep warm in the winter. So while I sip from my coffee mug, my hands are wrapped in fingerless woolen gloves. The heat from the ceramic gets my fingertips to an almost hedonistic warmth that I rarely feel in my day to day. Right now, my day to day is job searching, occasionally interviewing within the city, and cooking for myself - which can be a maddeningly difficult chore, given the metabolism.

      Today, however, is different. I'm wanted at One Franklin Square bright and early, so I take the metro there to arrive at eight and temporarily roost at the Soho Cafe and Market on the ground floor. It gives me an hour to go through all the stages of pre-interview jitters: being anxious, calming down, fidgeting, and needing a coffee and then a toilet, and finally settling down. With this body comes a lot of energy, and buzzing in my chair during the interview just wouldn't be appropriate.

      Because of the weather, I've dressed in several layers. Knee high leather boots, which had been given a quick polish at my table, cling to my slender legs, and after that a pair of black leggings take over. A white tunic in high-quality linen covers the shape of my ass elegantly, and is belted about my low hips with a white satin cord. A long, well cut black suit jacket rests on top of that, and over all of it is my even longer black woolen duster. Red eyeshadow blends in and darkens towards my black eyeliner, giving my large and gray eyes a bit more depth within my narrow, angular face. Some call it elfin. I call it annoying. I'm in my late twenties and everyone still thinks I'm nineteen. My lips, which I can play up to really look hot or downplay to simply look demure, bear a dusky pink tint to be professional without crossing the line into the salacious.

      About twenty minutes before I'm due for the interview, I find my way to the elevators and make for the eleventh floor. Nestled in between Hines Interests Limited Partnership and Reed Smith LLP is a nondescript office suite with a door plaque that notes the suite beyond belongs to the Aries Corporation in officious block lettering. It's the place I've been instructed to go to, with the general rundown of the job being something secretarial. I have the information saved on my tablet, which is neatly nestled into the leather messenger bag that hangs at my right hip. I've looked for information on the Aries Corporation, but there is very little to find.

      It's one of those entities that's behind the scenes of all the other players who are behind the scenes. The lack of any kind of presence on the New York Stock Exchange, the NASDAQ, the Tokyo Stock Exchange, the London Stock Exchange Group, or the Euronext is evidence of that. They don't need money from the public, and yet it's not obvious just what they produce in terms of goods or services. It's been as if wherever I looked for the Aries Corporation, I found an abyss – and it looked back at me, taunting. Really, it's kind of concerning. This is the kind of place that's either a marketing scam (and it can't be, with an office in this building) or the sort of place that's a front for something. Either way, I'd have to sell my soul to work here – and luckily for them, I'm desperate enough to do it.

      Yet for all that mystique, the suite I walk into is well kept and disappointingly ordinary. A few cubicles fill an open space to my left, and a few blocked-in offices occupy the space to my right. Potted plants are placed here and there, and running my fingers across one of the leaves proves that they're real. The lighting is bright and pedestrian, not meant to comfort, but rather to help workers find paperclips that they've dropped on the floor. It smells like coffee, the ozone from a fax/printer, and carpet cleaner. The furniture looks rented and durable.

      I seek out someone and let them know who I am and why I'm here. My rep said that I'd be interviewing with a man named Reginald, but when I'm asked to sit and wait - and offered coffee that I decline - I'm informed that I'll be interviewed by a woman named Susan. Alright, shit happens, I suppose. When 9am rolls around, I see a woman walking down the central hallway that leads to the door I'd entered through. I have about five seconds to take her in – a few inches taller than me, fit but curvy, black and curling hair that's pinned up into a bun, thick and nerdy-chic glasses that perch on a button nose, pouting lips tinted a bubblegum pink, and an outfit that I unfortunately can only think of as Office-Slutty. Her ankle boots click their heels on the pebbly carpeting, and stockings that are sheer and lovely ride up her legs to her short black pencil skirt. A white, trim blouse is tucked into the skirt, and a silver necklace dips down into her shirt, with the top two buttons undone to make it obvious how that chain disappears into her cleavage.

      My eyes flick back up to her's when she comes to a halt in front of me. As I stand to be polite and shake her hand, she just pulls her glasses down her nose a little to look at me from over the frames. Hmm. Take your coat off. Her voice holds a bubbly London accent that's demanding in a way that both is and isn't flippant, and I slowly take off my coat. And the jacket. Let's have that off, too. I really don't think this is appropriate, but I slip

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