Future Female Partner

Stepping into the cavernous lobby of Johnson and Wood, Lena knew she was in the right place even before she clocked the handsome sign. It was the peroxide-blonde receptionist perched atop a sleek black stool at the crescent reception desk. Opulent was the word that popped into her mind. If Lena had been a rich, middle-aged man, her cock would have twitched in her pants, she was sure.

The blonde looked up and delivered an expensive smile. "Good afternoon."

"Hello," Lena said in that awful apologetic whisper she slipped into when she was nervous. "I have an appointment with Mr. Owens."

"Lena," confirmed the blonde. "Have a seat."

Waiting to be called back she rehearsed in her head, but her perfect, prepared answers that less than 24 hours ago during her panel interview for the government internship came flowing out of her mouth without so much as a stutter now eluded her. The harder she dug, the less she recalled. Of course she would nail the interview for the job she didn't want. Fuck.

My greatest strength is my strong interpersonal--She was distracted by loud crinkling, the receptionist opening a bag. She watched her pop a candy into her mouth. Bimbo, she thought. Her whole look was calculated to look best on her knees looking up. "Optimize me for cum," she'd probably told the plastic surgeon. Too much botox, overkill on the lip fillers, and Lena was willing to bet that the swell beneath her thin cashmere sweater wasn't god-given either. If the receptionist thing didn't work out she could play Barbi's Mom in the inevitable live-action Barbi movie. Lena could picture her gifting Barbi botox for her 18th birthday to "seal in the freshness, dear" or helping Barbi navigate the labyrinth of womanhood with sage advice like, "Sweetie, if you don't give up the butt, Ken will move on to your friends--if he hasn't already."

The blonde looked up, catching Lena staring. Holding eye-contact she slowly uncrossed and recrossed her her legs, flashing Lena her shaved pussy. Even as it was happening Lena doubted herself. Maybe she's just wearing beige panties?

"Mint?" she said sweetly, holding up the package. Lena blushed and shook her head, embarrassed, as if her who just showed off her vagina in a professional context.

Lena spent the next forty minutes trying to run through her answers but mostly she just fretted about her increasingly damp underarms, willing the sweat back into her pores, cursing the liars that made her aluminum-free antiperspirant, praying she didn't soak through her grey blazer.

"Lena," the receptionist said finally, and when Lena looked up the blonde uncrossed her legs, smiling that perfect pearly white smile. Definitely a vagina. "He's ready for you," she said as she recrossed her legs.

The big man didn't get up when Lena entered his corner office. He didn't smile or bother making his face warm either.

"Hi I'm Lena," she said, extending her hand, hating herself for the too-high octave and the waver in her voice. Her hand disappeared in his, his warm dry mitt an unwelcome foil for her clammy little hand. He had the firm, practiced handshake you'd expect of a man in the corner office.

He motioned to the chair set in front of his desk. "Whiskey?" he said, already unscrewing the cap.

She tittered. "No, seriously?"

He poured himself a generous double and set down the bottle in front of the empty second tumbler glass. "Listen, Lindsay, we're both busy people, so I'm not going to waste your time asking about your five-year plan or a time when you demonstrated poise under pressure or whatever the fuck. No fake interview bullshit, you understand?"

"It's Lena--but yeah, sure, I get it."

"I'll learn your name when you start making me money." He took a gulp of his drink, leering over the top of his glass, taking in her tastefully made-up oval face, her naturally full lips, her swanlike neck, lingering on her oversized, god-given bust. She pretended she didn't notice, forcing a friendly smile as he ogled. "That you're sitting in front of me means you're qualified for this job--but are you a culture fit? That's what we need to decide. That's all this is--pass, fail.

"I'm sure you've heard stories about us. Most of them are bullshit, but it is true that we're... nontraditional. We work hard, and we play hard, often at the same time. And yes, JW is a demanding place to work because with the compensation we offer, we feel entitled to more than just forty hours; as long as you're collecting a paycheque, we own your whole life--body and soul." He paused and then in a lighter tone said, "It's certainly not for everyone. If you want a job that just a job, feel free to leave. You won't hurt our feelings. Shit, there's probably a dozen more qualified candidates who want this job more than you." As he spoke he poured a second glass, nearly filling it, and pushed it across the desk. "You understand?"

"Of course. Um... Yeah, I, uh, appreciate your candor." She hated herself for her clumsy mouth, feeling certain she saw ripples of disapproval under his neutral countenance. She saw herself through his eyes: sweating, stammering, awkwardly refusing his hospitality--not a culture fit. Probably the real test was her ability to handle powerful, domineering older men. And she was failing. Fuck, she couldn't afford to let him throw her.

In that moment she saw her future bifurcating. In one future she gets the government job, setting her up for a comfortable, unremarkable career as a civil servant. It was so concrete, so plausible. But in the other future, the one that was currently slipping through her fingers, she's a corporate baller, rich as fuck within a decade, maybe even a partner with an office of her own making interviewees sweat. It wasn't crazy; at the networking event she had a long, easy conversation with Candice, Johnson and Wood's newest female partner, and she was thirty at most. Now that was a future worth fighting for.

He didn't want fake interview bullshit? Fine. She would shed her shiny interview armor, slather on grease and return to the ring ready to kill with her bare fucking hands if that's what it took. Looking him in the eyes, she reached for her glass. Bringing it to her lips she had to beat back a grimace--those poisonous fumes right under nose. She tilted her glass, gulping it all down in one horrible swallow. Victorious, she slammed down her glass--but her body betrayed her: she grimaced and wrinkled her nose. Seeing him smirk, she said, "Yeah I'm not fucking Don Draper; normally I enjoy a mixed drink--or at least some ice."

"You don't drink whiskey with ice, at least not this quality."

"I suppose I'm nontraditional."

He smiled and raised his glass. Refilling her drink he said, "What's the least professional thing you did in a professional setting."

"Oh my god--honestly? OK, so I used to work at--I probably shouldn't say. A chain steakhouse. Everyone did cocaine all the time--and sometimes I would too. Oh my god, I shouldn't have said that." Her hand clapped to her mouth.

He waved away her concern. "Last year for Christmas the juniors got Candice a coffee mug that says, 'No coke-ee no no work-ee.'" He leaned back with drink-in-hand, giving her glass a meaningful look; she took another drink. Mollified, he continued. "A lot of fucking in kitchens. I paid my way through college bussing at Carters."

"I love that place!"

"You shouldn't--it's a shithole staffed with fuckups serving mediocre food. Fun place to work though. Everyone was on drugs and fucking each other. You know, that was the only job I've ever been fired from. The owner forgot something, paperwork or something, but when he came back what he found on his desk instead was the GM--who also happened to be his wife--with me and buddy Chet on either end of her."

Gross, she thought. She couldn't imagine degrading herself by letting two subordinates stick their dicks in her, especially not one named Chet. "That sucks. Bad luck, I guess."

"And every night before that we had good luck," he said, smiling wistfully. He took a drink, waiting until she followed suit again before continuing. "A steakhouse, eh. Were you a waitress?"

"Host."

"Tight black dress?"

"It's the law."

He chuckled. "It certainly oughta be. Shit, I think we should make it the dress-code here. It makes men feel rich--among other things. Gotta watch out for stains though. I remember one time at Carters this fat old bitch lost her shit at one of the waitresses Alexa--dumb but fun, you know the type--because, well I guess her and Tom and Jay and D'Angelo had just finished up a quick fuck in the supply closet, and when she pulled down her dress she inadvertently scooped up a huge wad of cum onto the back of her dress. And when she brought out the food to the fat bitch's table, she bent over in such a way that her cummy back was right in the old bat's face--close enough to smell the scent of "foul masculine bleach', apparently."

"Wow..." She knew he wanted more of a reaction from her. He'd trotted out another sex story on the heels of the whole boss-wife fuckscapade; it was clear he expected tit for tat. But with the alcohol already fraying the edges of her mind, all she could think of after hearing his story was Ben, her old scumbag boyfriend. Ben and his proclivities. He always wanted to cum on her face--fine--but without fail he also wanted to take a picture after. And not with his phone either. "Don't touch it, don't move!" he'd bark as he scampered away to dig out his DSLR, deflating boner flopping stupidly. Minutes she had to wait there on her knees, smelling his cum drying on her face. Fucking gross. She was on the fat old bitch's side--foul masculine bleach.

"Wow," he echoed in a soft falsetto, mocking her, yes, but also prodding: your turn, bitch.

"I'm just surprised the server didn't notice is all," she said, buying time while she struggled to think of a better anecdote than her thrice-a-week humiliation.

"It was end of the night; she was wasted."

An expectant silence followed. She took a drink, but of course that wasn't what he was after this time. Still, she couldn't get the remembered smell of drying cum out of her head.

He stared, disproving and then rapped the desk with his hairy knuckles. "You know who else was a waitress? Candice. Boy does she have stories she could tell you if you worked here." His tone was light, but she knew what he expected and knew too that from his perspective, if she couldn't pick up what he was laying down and toss it back to him, she was of no use. "I had this boyfriend named Ben..."

His laughter at her embellished imagery of Ben's flopping ding-dong as he frantically ransacked drawers looking for his backup battery was over-the-top, and he rewarded her with a topping up of her drink and a bevy of invasive follow-up questions. In relaying her story, she was careful to keep the focus on Ben and his ridiculous photography, but her effort was undone with these new gross, probing questions. ("A guy like that has a small dick guaranteed. What was he, four inches?" and, "He always came on your face? Never those big tits? Never inside you?" and, "He must've been posting them, right? No? That you know of.")

When he'd exhausted his curiosity about Ben's cum, he surprised her by refilling her glass. Surprising because she hadn't realized she'd even been drinking--but there it was, her empty glass. He filled it to the brim. And then came more questions. Unprofessional, dirty questions. She found herself telling him about Zach's crazy parties in first-year, all those Jello shots and the "dance contests". She tried to steer the conversation elsewhere--("I learned more backpacking across eastern Europe than I did in my first three years at university...")--but he was relentless. Hostel sex? Red light district? Sexually aggressive Polacks?

She understood the questions were designed to make her squirm, to test her, and so she refused to crack. She laughed off the questions when she could, and when she couldn't, she gave just enough to make him move on. See, I can hang, she screamed in her head.

Certainly the booze helped, buoying her confidence, lifting her above shame. She hoped she wasn't revealing too much or opening the door to something she would later wish she hadn't, because as fuzzy as the whiskey was making her, it was coming into focus that this was going to be her future boss--so long as she could avoid disappointing him.

Was it too much to reveal that she'd had a devils threesome with two guys who didn't even speak English? Or that she didn't come from just intercourse. ("I need the clitty," she'd said, knowing but not caring that sober-Lena would rather masturbate with a belt sander than recall saying such things in a job interview.)

It was not the interview she would've chosen, but then again Candice had certainly endured a similar gauntlet, and now look at her: filthy rich, glamorous female partner. Me too, please!

She was so lost congratulating herself on her future partnership that she missed his next question. "Sorry, what?" she asked, suppressing a rogue whiskey giggle. He repeated himself. "I..." she realized she was starting to slur. Best to shut things down while she still had her wits about her; he would respect her for having boundaries now that she'd demonstrated that she was a good sport. "I will not answer that question," she said firmly, over-enunciating. "My asshole is my business," she said, this time unable to suppress the giggles.

But not wanting to disappoint, she got hold of herself and followed up with, "Right now. Maybe when I'm a part of the JW family I'll feel more comfortable." She was proud of her quick thinking, her powerful mind sure-footed even under the increasing burden of his heavy pours.

When he didn't immediately respond, she worried she'd pushed back too hard, but then he smiled. "Of course. I seem to recall Candice saying something similar in her interview." He swirled his drink. "Well I suppose we'll have to get you into our family then."

She leaned forward. "Holy shit, I got it?!"

"Nothing is for sure yet. After the interviews are all finished, the partners will meet to decide together. That said, I see myself putting your name forward."

She leaned back in her chair, beaming. She wanted to squeal, but instead she nodded coolly, contorting her face into what she imagined was the confident, genuine smile of a future female partner.

"Alright," he said, knocking on the table with the universal secret knock, "just a few final bits as we wrap up. Stand up."

She stood too fast, and the world span; she stumbled but caught herself. "Whoopsie! Haha."

"Let's see fifty jumping jacks."

"Pardon?" she said, certain she'd misheard.

He let his disapproving silence stretch uncomfortably long before repeating slowly, "Fifty. Jumping. Jacks."

"I can't--I'm not--Um... Why?"

The warmth had gone from his face now, and he left another stretch of frosty silence before replying. "It's the obligatory fitness test--for our insurance. Do it."

His command hung in the air. She looked over her shoulder, as if perhaps there was someone behind her in workout clothes ready for their calisthenics that he was talking to, but they were alone in his office behind the heavy wood door. She just stood there, dumb.

"Suit yourself. Sorry, Laura, you didn't get the position. Thanks for coming in, and--"

"No! I'll do it, I'm sorry. I just--If I had known, I would have brought a change of clothes is all. I'm sorry."

She stepped into the open space in middle of the office, awkwardly kicked off her heels, and then, for the first in a decade, she did jumping jacks. She avoided his eyes, picking a point on the cream wall behind him to fix her gaze as she jumped. In the ten-plus years since she'd last done jumping jacks in middle school gym class, she hadn't improved; she was as uncoordinated as ever, and the booze wasn't helping, except to put her at some foggy remove from the embarrassment.

"You have to clap your hands above your head for it to count," he said. "So far you're at zero."

She tried to follow his instruction, but her tailored blazer was better suited to flattering her silhouette than aerobics. Pausing, she unbuttoned it and flung it to the floor on top of her shoes.

"Good," he said with the first smack of her palms coming together over her head. "That's one."

It was much easier without her constraining brand-name armor, but now, to her horror, her heavy breasts were also unconstrained and flopped about pornographically. What little exercise she did, she did wearing expensive, perfomant sports bras that allowed her to lope along on the treadmill at the gym without feeling too self-conscious. But that morning she'd chosen a black lacy piece because it made her feel as sexy and confident as the mannequin she'd seen modeling when she bought it impulsively the previous day. It had no hope wrangling her tits. Her eyes flicked to his, but he wasn't looking at her face. She looked away, burning with humiliation.

But soon the physical challenge overwhelmed her propriety and it was everything she could do to keep drawing breath. At twenty she was gasping for air, at thirty she thought she was going to pass out, but somehow she managed twenty more.

"Fifty," he said at last, and she collapsed into herself, bent over, hands-on-knees, panting. Strands of hair were plastered to her red face, and large dark-blue rings of sweat ballooned outwards from under her arms. Only when her breath returned to near-normal did she finally look at him. Sitting behind his desk, whiskey in hand, he had a look on his face she recognized. It was the same one Ben got sometimes after losing big at online poker. He was not a good man.

She cast her eyes to the floor. "Can I go now?" she asked in a small voice.

"Almost," he said, refilling his own glass. He took a sip, savouring his victory. "Crawl under my desk."

She looked up at him, her doey brown eyes saying, Surely not? Please sir, I'm a good girl, I don't want to do bad things. But he knew how innocent brown eyes lied. "It's to test your earthquake preparedness--condition of our insurance--so stop wasting my fucking time and crawl over here."

But still she hesitated, stealing a look over her shoulder back at the door. "I'm sorry," he said, affecting a mocking voice of faux-concern, "are you uncomfortable?" Her eyes brimmed with tears. "Well this is nothing. On my second-round interview for manager, I was held over a balcony by four drunk partners who were laughing their asses off. Imagine that. Look at the size of me--and I wasn't much smaller back then--and I've got four giggling drunks who don't lift anything heavier than the glass to their lips. And you're blubbering because earthquake safety embarrasses you? The big one is coming, Linda; I don't joke about plate tectonics. But again, you're free to leave. Maybe you're should; maybe you're just not a fit."

She made the mistake of looking at him again, the naked lust on his face sending a fresh wave of humiliation through her. She lowered herself to the carpet, noticing the asymmetric pattern of faint red lines against the grey. Crawling towards the tunnel of darkness under his desk, she felt as if she was moving in a dream, her limbs sluggish, responding to cues outside of herself. She squeezed her eyes shut, all of it just a dream. She opened them again in surprise when her palm came down on something. The tip of his oxfords.

She looked up at him from under the desk, those brown eyes sensing rather than seeing the grotesque lump in his pants.

He unzipped his fly but paused with his hand snaking through his boxer-briefs when Lena whispered, "No."

His hand gripping tight, he felt the throb in his cock. "Lena," he clucked. "There are many laudable 'ists': activists, altruists, feminists--but at JW we prize realists above all. Are you a realist? I can tell you first-hand that Candice is."