Chapter 5: The Interview
The red blouse felt like a second skin, a damp, guilty secret. I hadn’t washed it. The stains from Marco’s spend, from my own drool, from Nicolle’s touch, were subtle shadows on the crimson silk. I could smell it all if I turned my head just so: the motel’s cheap perfume, sweat, sex, and underneath, the sharp, clean cut of Nicolle’s bergamot soap. It was my resume, printed in scent and silk.
Grant & Stiles occupied the top fifteen floors of a steel-and-glass monolith downtown. The lobby was a cathedral of muted wealth, all echoing marble and anxious silence. The receptionist, a flawlessly composed woman with eyes like polished chips of onyx, directed me to the 42nd floor without a smile. “Mr. Stiles is expecting you.”
The elevator was a mirrored tube. I avoided my reflection. I saw instead the ghost of Marco over my shoulder, Nicolle’s hands on my hips. The phantom sensations were a live wire under my skin. The ‘asset’ was humming, a low, hungry vibration.
The doors sighed open onto a different world. The air was cool, filtered to sterility, carrying a faint, chemical scent underneath the lemon polish. It smelled like money and secrecy. Frosted glass doors lined a silent corridor. At the end, double doors of dark walnut stood slightly ajar.
I pushed one open.
Alan Stiles’ office was a lesson in controlled power. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of the city’s concrete veins. The furnishings were minimal: a vast, polished mahogany desk that looked like a slab of obsidian, two severe leather chairs, a floating shelf displaying what looked like abstract sculptures but on closer inspection were intricate medical models—a spine rendered in titanium, a holographic heart pulsing with faint blue light. A large holographic display on one wall flickered with streams of data and rotating schematics of biomechanical implants. The hum of the city was a distant, muted roar sixty stories below.
He stood at the window, his back to me, a silhouette against the grey sky. He was tall, broad in the shoulders, his silver hair cut with expensive precision. He didn’t turn.
“Close the door, Samantha.”
The voice was a smooth, dark baritone, devoid of warmth. It wasn’t a request. I pushed the door shut with a soft, final click. The silence in the room was absolute, pressed under the weight of the view.
“Nicolle speaks highly of your… adaptability.” He still didn’t turn. “Said you were a quick study in new environments.”
I said nothing. My heels were anchors on the plush charcoal carpet.
Finally, he rotated. He was older than I’d pictured, maybe late fifties, but his face was taut, unlined by anything but will. His eyes were the pale, washed-out blue of a winter sky. They took me in, not as a person, but as a specimen. They lingered on the red blouse, on the way it clung to my breasts, on the undone button that revealed the hollow of my throat.
“Red is a powerful color,” he remarked, moving away from the window with a predatory grace. He stopped behind his desk but didn’t sit. “It says ‘look at me.’ It also says ‘danger.’ Or ‘desperation.’ Which is it today, Samantha?”
“I’m not desperate, Mr. Stiles.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
“Aren’t you?” A faint, icy smile touched his lips. “Nicolle implied your circumstances were… transitional. That you were seeking a role in client relations. A role that requires a certain… flexibility.” His gaze dropped pointedly to my skirt, then back to my face. “Walk to the window and back.”
A command. A test. I felt a flush creep up my neck. I walked, conscious of the sway of my hips, the click of my heels on the hard floor. I went to the window, the city sprawled beneath me like a circuit board. I turned. He was watching my legs, my back, the way the fabric pulled across my rear.
“Come here. Closer.”
I approached the desk. He came around it, circling me slowly. I could smell him now: a crisp, ozonic cologne over something drier, like old paper and clean, cold skin.
“You have the look,” he mused, stopping behind me. “There’s a hunger in the posture. A willingness in the way you hold your shoulders. Like you’re waiting for a weight.” His breath stirred the hair at my nape. “Turn around. Let me see your face.”
I turned. He was close, too close. His winter-blue eyes bored into mine, searching for the crack. He found it. He smiled, a real one this time, and it was terrifying.
“You reek of sex,” he said, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “Cheap motel soap, sweat, someone else’s come. And under that… my dear, departed piano teacher’ daughter’s particular brand of jealous rage. Interesting perfume for a job interview.”
My composure fractured. He saw it, reveled in it.
“I… I…”
“You wanted to make a statement.” He reached out, not touching me, but his fingers hovered near the stained silk over my breast. “This is your statement. It says, ‘I am not above this. I am this.’ Correct?”
I swallowed, nodding mutely. The clinical analysis was more exposing than any touch.
“Good. Honesty is valuable. We work with sensitive technologies here, Samantha. Bio-augmentation, neural interfaces, proprietary gene therapies.” He gestured idly at the shimmering schematics on the wall. “Our clients are powerful, paranoid men. And some women. They have needs that extend beyond quarterly reports. They require discretion, companionship, and absolute release. My client relations team provides that release. It is a sacred, somatic trust.”
He stepped back, leaning against the edge of his desk. “The job is simple. You will be assigned to a client. You will anticipate his needs, his whims. You will accompany him to dinners, to meetings, to his hotel suite. You will listen. You will smile. And you will fuck him, in whatever manner he requires, to ensure his satisfaction and his continued commitment to Grant & Stiles. The compensation is, as Nicolle no doubt told you, obscene. The alternative is poverty, irrelevance, and the slow death of your very pretty transition. Do you understand the terms?”
The words were delivered with the calm precision of a surgeon outlining a procedure. My body was the subject. My function was outlined. There was no euphemism strong enough to cloak it.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I understand the terms, Mr. Stiles.”
“Good.” He straightened up. “Then let’s evaluate your practical skills. The theory is only half the battle.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket, shrugged it off, and draped it neatly over his chair. He loosened his tie, a slash of navy silk. His eyes never left mine. “Kneel.”
The command hung in the sterile air. This was the interview. This was the only interview.
I sank to my knees on the dense carpet. The position was now a familiar liturgy. He unbuckled his belt, the leather sighing through the loops. The zpper’s rasp was obscenely loud. He pushed his trousers and tailored boxers down just enough to free himself.
His cock was thick, uncut like Marco’s, but paler, cleaner. Veins corded the shaft. It was already half-hard, an arrogant, fleshy fact in the muted office light.
“Show me what Nicolle was so impressed by,” he said, his hand settling on the back of my head, not forcing yet, just a promise of anchorage.
I leaned forward. The scent of him was different—soap, star
I leaned forward. The scent of him was different—soap, starch, a hint of expensive sandalwood cologne—overriding the base mammalian musk. It was clean, corporate. I opened my mouth.
My lips closed over the head. The skin was smooth. I used my hand, making a tight ring at the base, just as I’d learned. I began a slow, twisting slide, my tongue pressing along the thick vein on the underside.
“Eyes up,” he commanded, his voice cool.
I tilted my gaze to meet his. He watched me with detached interest, a man assessing a machine’s calibration. I deep-throated him, relaxing my jaw, letting the head nudge the tight ring of my esophagus. I swallowed, opening the passage.
A slight hitch in his breathing was my only reward.
I established a rhythm, steady and wet. The office was so quiet I could hear the slick sounds of my work, the faint hum of the holographic display. I lost myself in the mechanics, in the weight on my tongue, the ache in my jaw. This was a test I could pass. This was data I could process.
His hand tightened in my hair, not guiding, just possessing. “Faster.”
I increased my pace, my head bobbing, saliva beginning to drip. I gagged once, reflexively, and tears sprang to my eyes. He held me down for a three-count when I was at my deepest, my nose buried in the crisp cotton of his shirt. My throat fluttered around him.
“Good,” he grunted. The clinical detachment in his voice was fraying. “Very good. Nicolle wasn’t exaggerating.”
He began to fuck my mouth in earnest, his hips pistoning forward to meet my strokes. His grip on my hair became brutal, controlling the depth and speed. I surrendered to it, letting my mind go blank, existing only as a warm, wet hole for his use. The polished mahogany of his desk leg was a blur in my vision.
“You’re hired,” he stated, the words strained.
A hot, bitter pulse flooded the back of my throat. I swallowed convulsively, taking every salty, spurting jet until he was spent. He held himself there, softening, for a long moment before sliding out. I stayed on my knees, catching my breath, wiping my chin with the back of my hand.
He tucked himself away, zipped his trousers with a crisp finality. He didn’t offer a hand up. “Stand. Turn around. Bend over the desk. Hands flat.”
My legs trembled as I rose. The order was so blunt, so devoid of any erotic pretense. I turned, placing my palms on the cool, impossibly smooth surface of his desk. My reflection was a pale ghost in the dark polish. I felt him lift my skirt, bunching it around my waist. The office air was cold on my exposed skin.
He didn’t touch me, didn’t prepare me. I heard the tear of a foil packet, the brief rustle. Then the blunt, slick pressure of him, sheathed now, at my entrance. I was already wet, a confused slickness born of humiliation and practiced response.
He pushed in.
The fullness was immediate, a stretching occupation. He was larger than Marco, more unyielding. He didn’t thrust. He seated himself to the hilt and paused, letting me feel the complete invasion. I could see the skyline through the window, the indifferent city.
“The job requires availability,” he said, his voice calm again, as if discussing a contracts clause. He pulled out slowly, then slammed back in. The impact drove a grunt from me. “You will be on call. You will be discreet. You will be exceptionally compliant.”
He set a ruthless, measured pace. Each drive was a punctuation mark. My body jolted forward with every one. The desk was solid, immovable. He fucked me with a cold, focused intensity that felt more violating than Marco’s rough trade or Nicolle’s furious possession.
“You are a tool,” he stated, his hand coming down to clamp on the nape of my neck, pressing my cheek to the wood. “A beautiful, specialized tool for client tension-release and corporate espionage. You will listen in hotel rooms. You will report what you hear. Your body is the conduit. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I gasped, the word vibrating against the desk.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I understand!” The pleasure was building, a treacherous wave rising from the depths of the degradation. It felt like a system failure, a reward for total surrender.
He fucked me harder, faster, his rhythm finally breaking into something hungry and raw. The slap of skin, the creak of the desk, my own choked cries filled the sterile room. “You’re a filthy, perfect little whore,” he growled, the profanity shocking in his boardroom mouth. “Aren’t you?”
“I am!” I screamed, and it was true. It was the truest thing I’d ever said.
My orgasm ripped through me, a seismic convulsion that milked his cock inside me. I saw stars against the dark wood grain. He followed with a stifled roar, pushing deep, his body stiffening over mine.
We stayed like that, locked together, breathing hard. The holographic schematics continued their silent, rotating dance. Eventually, he pulled out. I heard the condom being disposed of in a metal bin.
“Get up. Clean yourself. The ensuite is through that door.”
I pushed myself up, my arms shaking. I straightened my skirt with fumbling hands. I could feel his spend, trapped inside the latex, beginning to leak out of me. I didn’t look at him as I walked to the door he’d indicated.
The bathroom was mirrored marble, blindingly white. I cleaned up with a towel, avoiding my own eyes. The woman in the reflection was a stranger, her lipstick smeared, her hair a wild tumble, her eyes holding a hollow, shattered light. I fixed what I could, splashed cold water on my face. The stain on the blouse remained.
When I walked back out, he was seated behind his desk, perfectly composed, as if the last twenty minutes had been a scheduled teleconference. A crystal decanter and two glasses sat before him. He was pouring a deep amber liquid into one.
“Sit,” he said, not looking up.
I took the leather chair opposite him. It was still warm from where he’d been leaning against it.
He slid the glass of liquor toward me. “Drink. You’ve earned it.”
I took it, the crystal heavy and cold. I drank. The whisky was smoky, complex, burning a path of expensive heat to my stomach.
“Your first assignment is in seventy-two hours,” he began, his tone all business. “A biotech VC from Zurich. He has a particular fondness for… instruction. For what he calls ‘blank slate responsiveness.’ He likes to teach. You will be an eager learner.” Stiles swirled his own glass, studying the liquid. “There is a preliminary step he requires for all his long-term companions. A show of commitment to the… educational process.”
I took another sip, waiting. The warmth in my gut did nothing to thaw the cold knot of dread forming there.
“He has developed a compound. A neural calibrant, he calls it.” Stiles’s winter-blue eyes met mine. “It temporarily reduces cognitive processing speed, lowers inhibitory filters, enhances sensory perception, and promotes a state of profound, blissful suggestibility. It makes the subject more receptive, more pliable, more… open. The effects are fully reversible after twelve to eighteen hours.”
I set my glass down. The click of crystal on wood was horribly loud. “A drug.”
“A tool,” he corrected smoothly. “Like you. A synergistic tool. His particular fetish is the careful, guided education of a beautiful, simplified mind. He finds high intelligence… distracting. Threatening, even. This levels the playing field. It allows him to be the sole source of structure, of knowledge, in your universe for a night.”
My mind, my analyst’s mind, screamed in silent protest. It was the one thing I had left, the engine that had driven my transition, that had parsed my own desires into geometry and theory. To willingly sabotage it…
“The fee for this engagement,” Stiles continued, “is equivalent to your annual salary here. One night. The compound is safe. Tested extensively. It’s merely a key to a certain… state of being.”
“What does it lower it to?” My voice was a dry whisper.
“An IQ of approximately 76,” he said, as if quoting a spec sheet. “The upper range of what was once termed ‘borderline intellectual functioning.’ Enough to follow basic commands, to experience sensation vividly, to be sweetly compliant. Not enough for complex doubt or troubling introspection. A perfect, happy vessel.”
76. The number echoed in the hollow of my skull. It was a measure, a verdict. It was the final sale. I had sold my body, my history, my sex. Now he was asking for my mind. The last piece of the architecture that was Samantha.
I thought of the money. The obscene money. I thought of the looming abyss of rent, of surgical debt, of existing in a world that had no place for me unless I carved it out with my own flesh. This would carve it out in one night. This would buy security. This would be the ultimate application of my theory—the mind itself made a tool for pleasure, a sacrificial component.
I looked at the holographic spine rotating on the wall. A piece of engineering. I was just another system to be optimized, even if the optimization was a deliberate breakdown.
“Will it hurt?” I asked.
“Not at all. It’s quite euphoric. The transition is like… slipping into a warm bath. Thoughts just slow, then simplify, then float away. You’ll feel wonderful. Empty and wonderful.”
I finished the whisky. The fire in my gut was now a pyre for my intellect. I saw Nicolle’s pitying fury. I saw Margaret’s phantom love. I saw Marco’s disinterested grip. They were all layers of a shell. This would hollow out the core.
“Okay,” I said. The word was ash.
“Excellent.” He didn’t smile. He opened a drawer and placed a small, opaque glass vial on the desk between us. It contained a clear, viscous fluid. Next to it, he placed a slim, sealed syringe. “He prefers intravenous administration for immediate effect. You will do it here, now, under my supervision. To prove your commitment. Your first client meeting is tomorrow evening for a… preparatory dinner. He will want to see the results for himself.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, doomed bird. This was the real interview. The fucking was just the pre-screen. This was the final exam.
I stared at the vial. My hand didn’t shake as I reached for it. It was cool. I picked up the syringe, my fingers moving with an automaton’s precision. I drew the plunger back, pierced the vial’s rubber seal, filled the syringe with the clear liquid. It looked innocent, like water.
I am asked to drink a potion that will lower my IQ to 76. The thought was a final, coherent spark. But it wasn’t a potion to drink. It was an injection. A direct line to the bloodstream, to the brain. A voluntary lobotomy in liquid form.
I pushed back the sleeve of my red blouse, the stained silk. I found the blue vein in the crook of my elbow, a river of me under my skin. I tied the tourniquet from the kit around my upper arm. The vein plumped obligingly.
I didn’t look at Stiles. I looked at my vein, at the syringe. I brought the needle to my skin. The point was terrifyingly sharp. A tiny bead of the fluid welled at the tip.
I took a breath—a last, deep breath of complex, painful, analytical air. And I pushed the needle in.
A brief, sharp sting. Then nothing. I depressed the plunger slowly, watching the clear liquid vanish into my body. I withdrew the needle, pressed a cotton ball to the pinprick.
For a moment, nothing happened. I sat there, feeling foolish, feeling the cold dread of anticipation. Then a warmth began in my chest. It wasn’t like the whisky. It was a soft, glowing warmth that radiated outward, to my limbs, up my neck, into the base of my skull.
The hard edges of the room began to soften. The sharp, analytical fear in my mind… blurred. It was like a lens losing focus. Stiles, watching me, seemed to shimmer slightly. The worries—the money, the debt, Margaret, Nicolle, the motel, the desk—they began to recede. They didn’t feel urgent anymore. They felt like stories I’d heard about someone else.
A slow, sweet smile pulled at my lips. My muscles relaxed into the soft leather chair. Oh. This was nice. This was so nice. The light from the window was pretty. Gold and grey. The hologram on the wall was so pretty, spinning around. Colors and shapes. So nice to watch.
My head felt light. My thoughts… I tried to grasp a thought. It was like grabbing smoke. It felt so much easier to just… not. To just sit and feel the warm, heavy, happy feeling soaking into my bones. Everything was soft. Everything was fine.
“Samantha?” His voice came from far away, a gentle rumble.
I turned my head. It moved slowly, like it was underwater. I looked at him. He was handsome. Nice hair. Silver. Like a shiny coin.
“Hi,” I said. My voice sounded slow, melodic to my own ears.
“How do you feel?”
I considered the question. It was a big question. I had to gather the feelings. They were all soft and warm. “Good,” I said, smiling wider. “I feel really good. Warm. All… floaty.”
“That’s perfect.” He stood up and came around the desk. He loomed over me, but it wasn’t scary. He was just big. “Stand up for me, Samantha.”
Okay. Standing up. That was a thing to do. I put my hands on the arms of the chair and pushed. I wobbled a little. He took my elbow. His hand was steady. Good.
“Can you count backwards from ten for me?” he asked, his voice kind.
Counting. Numbers. I liked numbers. Ten… then… the one before ten. “Nine,” I said, proud. Then I had to think. The number before nine… it was… “Eight!” I said it louder. This was fun. “Seven… six…” I slowed. Five. Five came after six? No. Before. “Five?” I looked at him to see if it was right.
He nodded, his eyes assessing, satisfied. “Very good. And what is my name?”
His name. He had told me. It was… it started with an A. Alan? That sounded right. “Alan,” I said, beaming.
“And what are you?”
That was easy. “I’m Samantha.”
“And what else are you?”
I thought hard. The warm feeling made thinking like swimming through honey. I remembered a word he’d said. A word that felt true in my body, in my happy, empty body. “A… a tool?” I offered, hoping that was the right answer.
He smiled. It was the first real smile I’d seen from him, and it made my warm feeling glow brighter. “Excellent. A perfect, beautiful tool. Come with me.”
He led me by the hand, like a child. I went willingly. The room was so pretty. The big window was so big. He stopped in front of the holographic display. The spinning, blue heart pulsed.
“Look at that, Samantha. What do you see?”
I looked. The colors moved. Blue light. It pulsed in a rhythm. It was beautiful. “A heart,” I whispered in awe. “It’s a beating heart.”
“It is. And what does a heart do?”
I placed my own hand on my chest. I felt the thump-thump. “It… it loves?” I said, the concept simple and pure.
“It pumps,” he corrected gently. “It’s a pump. A biological tool. Just like you are a tool for pleasure, for listening, for taking instruction. Do you understand?”
A pump. A tool. I looked at the beautiful blue heart-pump. I looked at my own hand on my chest. It was the same. It was all just… machinery. Beautiful, simple machinery. “Yes,” I sighed, the understanding a warm, accepting wave. “I’m a tool.”
He led me back to the chair. I sank into it, the soft leather hugging my slow, heavy body. He picked up a file from his desk and opened it. Inside were pictures. A man with grey hair and kind eyes. “This is Mr. Hartmann. Your client. You will call him ‘Sir.’ You will be very sweet for him. You will do everything he asks. He will teach you wonderful things. Do you want that?”
I looked at the kind-eyed man. He looked nice. He would teach me things. My mind felt so empty and clean, ready to be filled with whatever he wanted to put there. “Yes,” I said, nodding eagerly. “I want to be a good tool for Sir.”