No Fashion without Passion

This story contains themes of non-consent/reluctance, workplace power imbalance, lesbian sex and BDSM

As with all my stories, this is purely fantasy.

No Fashion without Passion

I stood just outside her office, heart in mouth, stomach feeling about a foot lower than it should. The summons had come unexpectedly, and I couldn't shake the mix of anticipation and nervous energy that pulsed through me. With a deep breath, I knocked lightly on the door, awaiting the invitation to enter.

"Come in, darling," came a familiar, sharp voice from within the office, as elegant and precise as her fashion choices. I took a steadying breath, smoothed the invisible wrinkles from my outfit, opened the door and stepped inside. The door closed behind me, leaving me alone with the woman who held the keys to the fashion kingdom, the keys to my career, to my life.

Passion magazine was the biggest name in fashion. Passion was fashion, they said, you just can't have fashion without Passion! The magazine had ingrained itself into the industry. It employed the best photographers, writers, designers, make-up artists, hair stylists, booked the biggest models, had shoots in the best locations. The magazine's full name was London Passion and Couture - it had been founded during the Swinging London era, when Twiggy was a fashion icon and Mary Quant's miniskirt was a sensation - but everyone just called it Passion.

It had all been down to one woman -- Valarie Campbell -- a Brit who strolled into the fashion world with a vision and someone made it a reality. Well, a vision and her aristocratic father bankrolling her. Nevertheless, starting as a junior copywriter at Vogue, she worked her way up to the top.

When she became editor, almost twenty years ago, Passion was a joke, penniless and lagging deep in the pack, behind Vogue, behind Vanity Fair and Harper's. Nobody gave a shit, but she made it work. It was dominant now, pre-eminent. That's why everyone wanted to work for her, including me. She made things happen, made careers happen. Or didn't. She could just as easily ensure you didn't have a career. Working at Passion was high risk, high reward and if you failed nobody in the industry would hire you.

The high priestess of this sartorial temple, Valerie herself, was a force of nature, leaving terrified interns and shamed workers in her wake. Her hawkish gaze could seemingly pierce through anything and anyone, and her demeanor exuded a condescension and snobbery that, fittingly, rivaled the most exclusive fashion houses. An upper-class English accent dripped from her words like liquid silk, full of icy disdain and condescension each syllable, each breath a testament to a lifetime of privilege and getting exactly what she wanted.

Valerie acted as if she was the center of the universe, and in these offices she certainly was. In this building, and many, many more spread across the globe, her word may as well have been the word of god. I found myself inexplicably drawn to her from the very first time I saw her. She had this commanding presence, so magnetic it felt like the air shifted to accommodate her.

She barely looked up when I entered the room, sparing me a quick glance as she spoke into the phone. Was it a power play? I don't know. I wasn't sure why she had called me in.

Her office was sleek and modern, with floor to ceiling glass windows on one side and crisp, white walls on the others. She didn't live in a fishbowl like some editors, she was already queen of the hive -- she didn't need to keep an eye on her workers, they were already in line.

Stacks of magazines sat neatly on a chest of drawers on the left side of the room, underneath a print of three women posing. It had been taken for the Passion Spring 2008 shoot, a particular favorite of Valerie's. She'd only been editor a few years then, it was one of her first big successes.

"One moment, Tim, darling!" she called out, before holding the phone to her shoulder and whispering to me. "I'll be with you in a minute."

The door clicked shut behind me and I jumped. Valerie didn't notice, she was already turned back around, staring at the skyline out her window.

"Sorry about that, my darling! Do continue," Valerie said laughing. "Oh no! I don't have to grab a pen, my PA's just come in. Yes, the new one! She's pretty isn't she? Lovely eyes, abso-lute-ly."

I couldn't help but feel a warm flush for the compliment, but it was soon gone.

"She's a little sour, yes," Valerie continued, clicking her tongue. "Should smile more. Could do with a new wardrobe, I agree. Homely, yes."

I felt my heart sink. This is what she thinks of me? She put the phone to her shoulder and grinned at me. I smiled and averted my gaze.

"Oh, he loves you, darling," she whispered quickly, before speaking back into the phone. "So, let's say Tuesday at 5, maybe Le Bernardin? You know I simply adore seafood, Tim. Until then. Bye-bye, darling!"

Valerie had been a stunning woman in her youth and had aged gracefully. She was a tiny creature, slim and elegant, with long, luscious hair that she kept in a tight bun most of the time. She let it out when she was at events, and it always caught everyone by surprise. There'd always be a down pager in some gossip magazine about her hair, and who her stylists had been. They were stylists who, for people like me, cost so much they didn't bear thinking about. Hairdressers who thought of themselves as artists first and foremost, and charged accordingly.

Point being, Valerie was beautiful. She had an elfin, otherworldly elegance -- like Galadriel, but with darker hair and a few more lines on her face. I liked seeing her, watching her in action. Even when she was barking orders at some hapless employee, or eloquently shredding a photographer's complaint that she chose a different photo for the front. I liked having a front row seat, from my little desk outside her office.

The click of Valerie slamming down the phone jarred me. She never did anything quietly. Even her simplest movements, a wave of the arm, shifting in her chair, were accompanied by the rustling of expensive fabric, or the jangling of priceless jewelry. She was always immaculately made up, always flawless, never a hair out of place. Like every part of her life was curated. She embodied the industry she dominated.

"Ugh. I fucking hate seafood," she sighed, before regaining a toxic smile. "That was Tim Lincoln. You remember Tim? He's going to tell me about his new collection. Or his new show, I can never tell which. To be honest, I don't really care. Did you get all that? Tuesday, 5 o'clock, Le Bernardin?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I croaked in reply.

"Good girl. Pop it into my schedule when you get back to your desk, thankyou darling."

"Of course, ma'am. Will that be all?"

"No." Valerie huffed, inspecting her nails. They were painted Prussian blue, with a gold stripe down the center of each one. "I wanted to ask you a few questions."

"Of course, ma'am." I nodded. There was a pregnant pause as Valerie took a breath. A subtle tension hung in the air, thick, as if summer rain was on its way, a storm brewing on the horizon. Little did I know, our professional relationship was about to take a turn I never saw coming.

"Have you always wanted to work at my magazine?" she said, almost absent mindedly. Even with a casual remark, she held the room.

"I... ah, of course. It's an institution, and a big step up from the little periodical I was working at previously. I minored in fashion for a rea-"

Valerie gave a short, barking laugh. A false laugh. Superficial, but sharp. It was one of the ways she stopped someone mid-thought.

"Uh, uh. No," she said. "You misunderstand me darling. I didn't ask for your little resume. As far as I care you have no experience. None. Zip. Nada. No degrees, no previous workplaces. I asked..." -- she held a dramatic pause -- "If you'd always wanted to work for my magazine."

"Of course! P-Passion is the-the pinnacle, it's the biggest magazine in fashion, it's a dream come true, I..."

"Uh huh, I see. I see," she said. She sounded utterly disinterested, like she wasn't even listening. "And how long, exactly, have you been my personal assistant?"

"Three weeks."

"That's right."

"Is this-am I doing an acceptable job? Am I doing something wrong?"

"No, no. You're doing a perfectly... adequate job. As I said, I merely invited you in to ask you a few questions."

"Okay, ma'am. I'm happy to answer any question you have."

"What do you want, dearie?"

"Pardon?"

"You heard me. What do you, want?" Valerie's gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, a spark of something unspoken passed between us--a desire that dared not speak its name but pulsed beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed. I swallowed nervously.

"A career in fashion," I said.

"I'll stop you there," Valerie interrupted. "What do you want to get out of this job? Are you ambitious or content? Some girls want status, influence. They want to work their little selves all the way up, up the chain. Some girls just want a steady job. Others just want tickets to the Met Gala.

"Maybe some girls just really like the work. I don't know, and for the most part I don't care. But what do you want to get out of your time here? You've been here for, how long now?"

"You-you just asked...I..."

Valerie shot me a look. I gulped.

"Three weeks."

"That's right, three weeks. So, all in all, you're doing rather well. We've had girls last ten hours in this job. I go through more girls than a billionaire living next door to a brothel."

"I..." I had no clue what to say to that.

"How old are you?"

"I...I'm twenty-six."

"Twenty-six," Valerie mused. "Look, Zoe. I see potential in you. But you don't seem to see the same in yourself. You have no fashion sense to speak of. And you have no style at all-"

"I have style! I dress pre-"

"No, no that wasn't a question. Don't you ever interrupt me again."

"Sorry ma'am."

Valerie sighed. "Good girl," she said. I felt warm with those words. "Nonetheless, I see... a talent in you. You can certainly write beautifully, and I suppose you've written fashion for some other... lesser titles. My question is, why did you apply for the position of my personal assistant, and not as a say... junior copywriter? Or even pitch as a freelancer?"

I didn't reply. I didn't know what to say. Silence hung in the air. I stared at Valerie. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was a reason Valerie chose me out of all the applicants for the job. After all, she must get hundreds. She was the most powerful woman in fashion, the most influential magazine editor since Anna Wintour or Helen Gurley Brown. I had wondered; what did she see in me, beyond my professional abilities? I was sure I wasn't the best resume that came across her desk. More than that, I longed to understand the woman behind the intimidating exterior.

"The talent's there, darling. What is it? A lack of ambition? A lack of belief? Either way, it is... disturbing and unacceptable. A million girls would kill for your job. I have to know you want it."

"I-I do want it," I stammered. Valerie smiled, leaning forward in her chair.

"Prove it," she said firmly. "I mean, am I reaching for the stars here? I need employees who want to be here. Give me a spin."

Without a word, I did as I was told, I did a spin... with all the grace of a newborn deer. Valerie bit her lip.

"That's quite a nice body you've got there. Nice legs, peachy ass. Have you ever modeled?"

Blushing profusely, I shook my head.

"Of course not," she laughed. "Let me guess, parents wouldn't approve?"

I nodded, my blushing intensifying. I didn't like that she could just pick things out like that.

"I thought as much," Valerie said. "Do you approve? Because I can't have someone working for me who looks down on the models. Those girls are the blood of this industry. Magazines like mine are the brain... or the mouth -- depending on who you ask -- but we all need blood to survive."

"I... I love the models. They're so nice."

"Well I'm glad you think that way. It's always awkward when girls don't. I mean, do they really think they're going to get far in fashion if they think they're better than the models?"

"Ah... no?"

"Good. Because you're not better than them. Not at all, darling. So take off your clothes."

There was a pause. It took a moment for what she'd said to sink in. My eyes widened in shock at the unexpected request. I'm sure my jaw dropped too. Surely I must have misheard her.

"W-what?" I finally stammered. "I mean pardon?"

"Did you hit your pretty little head? Don't just stand there dumbstruck. I told you to strip."

"I'm sorry," I spluttered. "Did you say strip?"

"Yes, that's correct," Valerie replied calmly. "I want you to take off all of your clothes. Preferably quickly."

"I... I don't think that's appropriate, Valerie..."

She sighed and looked at me intently. I shivered.

"Zoe, I thought we were beyond these childish games. Do you want this job or not? I can replace you like that, okay honey?" Valerie laughed, clicking her fingers. "In this business you have to make choices, and you have to make choices quickly. I don't have time for stalling. I'm having lunch with a few designers in..." Valerie checked her watch. "...an hour. So take off your fucking clothes."

Every logical cell in my body was screaming. I knew I should run away, get out of there, call HR, call a lawyer -- file a billion dollar lawsuit. But, truth be told, I didn't want to. There was something so thrilling about being told to strip naked by that woman. Something kept me there in that office, and it wasn't her threats about my job. Something I couldn't explain. An impulse, perhaps? Desire?

As I stood before Valerie, I couldn't help but recall the years of hard work that led me here, fueled by admiration for her. But beneath that admiration lay a deeper longing, one I hadn't dared to acknowledge until now. I was under the shadow of Valerie's authority, I found myself questioning the boundaries of consent and control. Did I have a say in where this was headed, or was I merely a pawn in her game of power?

The truth was, I hadn't actually expected to get the job. I'd applied half as a joke, and a large part of it was because of my attraction to Valerie. I'd always felt it, since I was a lonely college student with a room full of fashion magazines, pouring over pictures of the Met Gala or Passion's celebrity after-parties online. It was one of those stupid celebrity crushes, and I never thought it'd amount to anything.

People thought she was intimidating, and she was, but to me there was something more. I don't think I would have ever admitted my little crush to anyone, just buried it deep inside until it was forgotten - just like my crush on a cheerleader I met at a tournament that I never saw again. One day I'd move on, and my attraction to Valerie would be a footnote. I had a hot boss, so what? As long as hot people have existed, people have had hot bosses.

What I didn't like was how little control I felt over my attraction to her. She was twice my age, old enough to be my mother. It was ridiculous, wasn't it? The logical thing was just to put my head down and get on with it.

But here I was, in her office, and she was asking me to take my clothes off. Perhaps I was dreaming?

"Wh-what if somebody walks in?" I said, blushing and glancing nervously around at the door behind me.

"Nobody's going to walk in!" Valerie laughed. "Was anybody on my schedule?"

"No?"

"Well then you know that nobody comes into my office unless it's in my schedule, or I've asked them to."

"I guess so."

"So what are you going to do?"

"T-take all my clothes off," I said, swallowing.

"That's better."

There was a sense of authority in Valerie's voice that left little room for argument. To be honest, I found it incredibly attractive. I could feel a warmth brewing between my legs. Hesitantly, I slipped my arms out of my sweater's sleeves and slipped it over my shoulders. Valerie was smiling at me, and I swallowed and put the sweater on the chair in front of her desk.

I began to unbutton her blouse, my fingers trembling with each button I undid. As I peeled the shirt off and let it fall to the floor, I couldn't help but feel a mix of fear and arousal coursing through my veins. I didn't know what was worse, how nervous I was or how turned on.

"God I love watching women undress. It's so erotic, watching you strip away those layers," Valerie said.

I didn't reply, just kept undressing. Next came my skirt; I unzipped it and let it drop around my ankles before stepping out of it. I felt more and more exposed, but strangely, the more I stripped off, the less nervous I became. It was thrilling, more than anything. The cool air in her office marking my skin with goosebumps, hair standing on end. A thought popped into my head: was I... enjoying this?

"Now the bra and panties too," instructed Valerie matter-of-factly, with a flick of her wrist, a jangle of jewelry. "That outfit's gotta go. All of it. That god-awful sweater. It all has to go. I'll send you to wardrobe when I get back from lunch, and then we're going to put that outfit in the garbage."

"My grandmother knitted that sweater," I squeaked. It was a bit ugly, but it had a sentimental value. It was my fault for wearing it to the office, I really shouldn't have, but I'd spilt coffee on the sweater I'd planned to wear as I was rushing out the door.

"I don't give a fuck who knitted your sweater, sweetheart. It's never going to see the sun again, do you understand? It's simply atrocious, and when I have clients coming to my office I can't have the third world sitting just outside the door, can I?"

"No Ma'am." Any earlier thoughts of enjoyment were clouded by a sense of shame that washed over me like a thick sludge -- heavy and cold, oozing into every corner of my body and soul. But I kept undressing.

With shaky hands, I unclasped my bra and slid it off, exposing my breasts. I could feel heat rising within me again as I stood there, almost completely exposed before my boss. My nipples were hard, harder than I'd like to admit. It was pleasantly cool in her office, but not cold. I could sense how wet I was, and dreaded taking off my panties.

Valerie cocked her head to the side, admiring my chest. I felt an urge to cover my breasts, but I resisted. Valerie seemed to notice and softened slightly.

"Perhaps I'll let you keep the sweater, but you're not to wear it out of the house, got it?" she said.

"Yes Ma'am." I nodded. Valerie gave me a look and I knew she wanted me to keep going. Taking a deep breath, I hooked my fingers around the waistband of her panties and began to slide them down. Torn between conflicting emotions, a deep sense of shame mixed with an undeniable excitement that sent shivers down my spine.

Now, I was standing in front of the most influential woman in the fashion industry, completely naked. She'd made countless models' careers, molded supermodels; I couldn't imagine how many women owed their career to her. Women with much better bodies than mine - svelte where I was soft, tall where I was short. Elegant, where I was slightly tomboyish. I couldn't help but feel self-conscious as Valerie's gaze roamed over every inch of my body.

She had this old-school air to her, like the Golden Age of Hollywood. Glamorous, sophisticated. She was a rare breed, whose numbers were dwindling. Like Galadriel. Or Cate Blanchett in any movie, really. Especially Carol - that was the movie that made me realize I might be bi. Before then, I thought perhaps I was so invested in Valerie because I wanted to be her, then I realized, no, I actually just wanted to fuck her.