The Bamboo Ceiling Ch. 12

This story contains dark, graphic content and potential trauma cues for sensitive readers. This work is purely fiction, by and for consenting adults. Any resemblance to real people or entities is unintended and purely coincidental.

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Chapter 12: Training the Bitch

When we stepped into the elevator, James pushed the button for the twelfth floor. The rickety metal box gradually pulled us upward. Jetlagged and exhausted from our flight, I had to blink repeatedly to keep myself upright. That I still wore the same restricting dress from the flight didn't help my composure. As the elevator ascended, James habitually pulled out his phone to check his work emails.

"I almost feel bad leaving Raj in charge of my portfolio," James muttered. It wasn't clear at first whether he was speaking to me or simply musing out loud. I assumed the latter, as I had no idea who this 'Raj' was. But then James addressed me directly. "Raj is our newest associate. We just hired him to replace you after your demotion. He's a hard worker, but not the most talkative. I'll probably just have him crunch the numbers but forward correspondence to me."

So, this 'Raj' was the new associate that the firm hired? I had wondered who James's bosses had selected to replace me. Back when I was James's 'colleague,' my technical skills and attention to detail surpassed James's greatly. I regularly caught James's mistakes in his calculations and in his drafting. In a technical sense, I was always the better associate.

Nevertheless, James's cool-cat persona was the X factor that won over our bosses and his clients. It also won over my clients after James had pushed me out. Over the last year, James's 'confidence of a mediocre white man--as the saying goes--had propelled him far beyond anywhere I could have dreamed. James had been awarded a work-from-home secretary; one who had originally been his colleague. His bosses put him in charge of accounts that were much too large for an associate with his experience. And now, he was being sent abroad to 'build business' for the firm.

Notwithstanding his success, James's technical skills hadn't grown over the last year. Nor had his work ethic. Not by a damn sight. By contrast, the time he spent at golf courses 'networking' and 'relationship building' had likely dulled his technical skills. So how did the firm solve this problem? Easily. Hire an underpaid Indian man on a work visa. Keep the money and power pipelines flowing toward the under-competent but overly confident, attractive white guy. But make 'Raj' do the real work.

I shuddered in rage when I realized that, less than a year ago, I had been James's Raj. The firm never hired me expecting that I would make partner. Indeed, the powers that be probably expected me to spend my career under James and his counterparts' thumbs. Though they didn't likely anticipate just how 'under' James I would find myself.

The rickety metal box that shouldn't have passed for an elevator screeched to a halt. A garish buzz vibrated along the walls. As the doors creaked open, the sight that opened before me tore me from my angry rumination. James placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me out from the elevator.

I knew very little about Frank. I knew that he was James's business associate. I knew that he owned a brothel here in Bangkok. And I inferred that his methods to attract and to maintain his 'workforce' veered outside the realm of consensual business relationships.

The room was dark. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed that the primary light source was red stringed mini lights that lined the ceiling's edges. They looked like something that a western family might hang around their house in December. The stringed lights ran along the ceiling's corners in the large, square room. Likewise, two longer strings ran diagonally between each opposite corner. The red lighting's intended vibe was obviously sex and seduction. But the low quality combined with the rest of the room conveyed only hostility and predation.

As the elevator doors closed behind James and me, I took note of my surroundings. I knew deep down that if I became separated from James, then I would be completely fucked. And not just figuratively. Memorizing my environment provided me with a sense of agency. Even if it was a false sense.

The two elevators--the only two exits that I could identify--came in on the room's south side. A lengthy, red cushioned bench lined the room's east side. Scattered tables abutted this long bench, each of which was partially surrounded by heavy, cushioned chairs. The chairs and tables were various shades of red and purple. Frank had, intentionally or not, furnished that entire area like a cheap diner.

A dozen girls were scattered about, lounging on either the bench or chairs. These Thai girls wore an assortment of brightly colored but cheap outfits. Their tops ranged from lime green, to bright yellow, and to glossy silver. For bottoms, they mostly wore pencil skirts and yoga pants. One wore a plaid, pleated skirt. With her white crop top, she was clearly coded to look like a schoolgirl.

Though their outfits varied, each girl wore heels. While their heel lengths appeared to differ, I doubted that any of the pumps were lower than six inches. Further, despite the ostensible variety in outfits, each outfit looked profoundly cheap.

I wondered whether Frank just made occasional trips to a department store and grabbed whatever cheap garments caught his eye. Either way, Frank was not a man of taste. The clothes that these girls wore were wrinkled, thin, and bore obvious signs of wear. I was, by far, the best-dressed girl in this room.

But perhaps this was my newfound 'cattiness' speaking.

As I looked closer at each girl, I noticed that each wore a black choker. I exhaled and dropped my shoulders when I realized that the chokers were identical to mine. Frank had really gone beyond using consensual means to maintain his 'talent.'

While they were hard to make out in the lighting, each choker had a word on the front made with white, glittery letters. I couldn't make out the writing on most of the chokers, but I saw the words 'Candy,' 'Gingersnap,' and 'Honey' on the girls who sat closest to the elevators.

Clearly, Frank liked to name his girls. I knew that James stopped using my given name to, among other things, dehumanize and exert control over me. If you want to detach someone from their identity, then their name should be the first thing to go. Thus, when I was in James's home, I was not 'Jung.' I was 'Kimmy,' 'China Doll,' 'Bitch,' or some variant.

Likewise, my childhood friends who migrated from Asia to the U.S. described how dehumanizing it felt to lose their original names. For example, their well-meaning parents knew that 'Jing,' 'Min,' or 'Guó' would subject their children to a lifetime of mispronunciation and marginalization. Thus, they renamed their children to things like 'Eva' or 'Janet.' Likewise, the girls here had been renamed to something Americanized, albeit less humanized. That these dehumanizing names were in English exemplified who was in charge and was the target clientele. Specifically, white western tourists.

Finally, I noticed that each girl shared the same blank, glazed-over expression. Half stared at phones or tables, while the rest appeared to stare blankly ahead. Were these girls on drugs? If so, was this something that they took to dissociate from their reality? Or something that Frank 'encouraged'?

I wanted to stay and study this scene, but James's gentle but commanding grip on my lower back guided me toward the room's west side, away from the girls and the tables. I squinted as my eyes continued to adjust to the darkness, allowing me to take in the rest of the room.

A bar filled the room's northwest corner. Shelves, each adorned with expensive looking bottles, lined the wall behind the bar. Behind the bar, a girl--who I assumed to be the bartender--leaned forward with her elbows on the counter. Her hair was separated into two braids that looped behind her ears, flaying out down to her shoulders. The braids were tied at the end with thin, black ribbons.

I could tell that she applied makeup heavy handedly, but skillfully. Her skin looked flawless, and her face was contoured to be rounded near the jaw but sharp toward her eyes and cheekbones. Deep eyeliner framed her eyes, which complimented her dark pupils. I typically preferred not to line my lower eyelids. But somehow, the thick lower liner looked tasteful on this girl.

She wore a scarlet, lacey blouse with a deep V down her chest. This top, combined with her posture as she leaned forward with her elbows on the bar, further accented her already massive chest. As we made eye contact, she smiled. But this wasn't a warm or welcoming smile. Her smile looked crooked and menacing, only flashing the teeth on the right side of her face. Her head tilted as she glared at me with her strangely hungry expression.

As she tilted her head, I caught a glimpse of her neck. I was surprised to see that, rather than the black choker that the other girls wore, this bartender wore a short, silver necklace. A small, silver bell hung from the necklace.

As James continued leading me to the room's west end, the bartender's eyes followed me. I couldn't put my finger on why, but shivers rocked my spine. Eventually, James brought me to the room's southwest corner and knocked on a nondescript, wooden door.

An angry, gruff voice shouted through from the other side. "What?!"

James guffawed and squinted at the door. "Seriously?" James mumbled to himself. He took his hand off me to straighten his shirt and compose himself.

The voice shouted through the door again, "I told you bitches once, and I won't say it again. If you need something, you bother Frieda. You don't fucking talk to me unless I talk to you!"

The accent sounded like a person from U.S. Specifically, from the east coast. It could have passed for a stereotypical Brooklynite accent. James laughed, louder this time. We both realized that the man door thought that we were one of the girls.

"That's less than five-star customer service," James shouted back through the door, "I thought that you were expecting me!"

I shifted my weight uncomfortably during the long, awkward pause that followed.

"Ahh!" The voice through the door seemed to have an epiphany, "'John'? Or was it 'Jim'?"

"It's James," Sir looked annoyed now. "I'm here from the Firm. We had a meeting scheduled for today, in which you were going to give me that talent acquisition data."

"Aahhh, shit. I forgot all about that. Please, come in!"

"Of course, you moronic, pig of a man," James muttered under his breath as he reached toward the doorknob.

As we walked into the office, I took in my surroundings. A large, mahogany desk filled the middle of the office. The leatherbound chair behind it was unnecessarily high-backed for the plump, short, balding man that sat in it. The man appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties.

He wore only a white tee shirt under a gold-trimmed robe. The robe, albeit expensive looking, was lined with gold and red tiger images. Frank, as I assumed this swine of a man to be, exemplified American tourism's trashiest facets.

"James!" With Frank's accent, it sounded as if he inserted several Ys into James's name. "Good to see you, Bud! Please, sit down!" Frank motioned broadly toward two small chairs in front of his desk.

The chairs were set much lower than Frank's high leather-back office chair. I assumed this relative furniture arrangement to be a trite attempt at asserting posture power over Frank's guests. The more I saw of Frank, the more contempt I felt for him.

As James and I sat in the two low chairs, Frank looked at his lap and shouted, "I didn't fucking tell you to stop! Did I fucking tell you to stop?!"

Wait--was someone under his desk?

A weak, feminine voice squeaked something from under the desk. I didn't understand the language, but I assumed it to be Thai.

"I don't FUCKING care if you heard someone come in! You finish when I say you're finished. I'm FRANK! And I'm the man! My guests don't mind if you finish up down there--ain't that right, James?"

I stared with wide eyes at the pig of a man who sat across the desk from us. What the fuck is wrong with this guy? He seemed--in every possible way--to exhibit the opposite qualities of a dominant that James exhibited. James rarely yelled. James was private and subtle in his domination. Even on the one occasion that James made me blow him in public, he went to lengths to make sure that nobody noticed.

Frank clearly took a different approach.

I looked over at James with narrow eyes, as if to nonverbally communicate, 'What the fuck is going on here? Is this guy serious?'

James ignored me, looking calmly across the table at Frank. "Of course, Frank. Don't let us interrupt your girl. Would you prefer we come back later?"

I was baffled by James's nonchalance at the slob across the table getting head while ostensibly taking a meeting with James. James was reacting as if Frank had asked, 'Do you mind if I eat while we chat,' or, 'Do you mind if I have a drink?' Not, 'Do you mind if I blow my load into this girl (or ladyboy, more likely) who is currently kneeling under my desk?'

I leaned forward to see that, indeed, between Frank's legs knelt a dark-haired girl facing down into his lap. As she turned to look up at James, I saw the same blank, expressionless gaze as several of the girls outside. She wore a black choker with the word, 'Cinnamon,' emblazoned on the side. Was this normal in James's circle? How could he be so unfazed by this?

James leaned back in his chair and spoke as if nothing was the matter. "As I was saying in our email thread earlier, I'll be in town for business for a few weeks. You don't mind if I take a room, do you?"

"Nah, nah!" Frank waived his hand vaguely in James's direction, still looking down at the action in his lap. "Friends of Frank don't pay here! Especially friends like you who've helped my business! Mi casa es tu casa!"

Frank was apparently the kind of gentleman who referred to himself in the third person. He was also the kind of gentleman who mispronounced common Spanglish cliches. Was I disgusted? Yes. Was I surprised? No.

Frank snapped his fingers and tapped on his desk. A petite little Asian girl scurried in with an envelope. She was extremely thin; her torso, arms, and legs looked like they would break if the wind blew too forcefully. She wore nothing but a silver bikini top, mismatched with a rose-gold skirt. The skirt barely covered her ass cheeks. Indeed, I could see a black thong as the skirt billowed with her walk. Her ass wasn't particularly large, but it looked solid. I could tell that her glutes, though petite, had tight musculature.

By contrast to her relatively anemic frame, two massive globes hung from her chest. Her implants looked to have expanded her chest to at least double-D cups. Possibly larger. I inferred that Frank cared little for realism in his 'girls.'

The girl stood next to my chair, turned to James, and handed him the manila envelope. As she turned toward us, I could see a tiny bulge poking out from her panties. This confirmed my earlier suspicions; this was an establishment for tourists who had a taste for 'ladyboys.'

As she faced us, I could more clearly take in her features. Her hair was dyed a cheap, platinum blonde. It was also thin, with little volume. I assumed that Frank never thought to have her take the usual hair dye precautions for blonde dying. Her cheekbones were high, but her jaw was round. Her cheeks looked surprisingly full, in contrast to her boney body. I wondered whether this feature was genetic or the product of Frank's 'craftsmanship.' Around her neck sat the usual black choker. This nondescript device was the same 'attitude adjuster' that Frank's girls (and I) all wore. GPS tracking, biometric monitoring, and an electric shock 'punishment' feature kept its wearers in line. In glittery print, the choker read 'Sparkles.' Classy.

"These are the contacts you promised?" James opened the envelope and peeked inside.

"The very same!" Frank leaned back in his chair. As he did so, his shirt slipped up, revealing a hairy, bloated gut. Hiding my disgust was difficult.

I didn't have to hold back my expression long. Without warning, Frank's arms flew up, further exposing his gut. He looked down angrily at the dark-haired head that had been bobbing up and down in his lap.

"What the fuck?!" Frank shouted, "What did I tell you about teeth?! Be careful down there, goddamnit. Do I need to turn on your shocker?"

I was so startled by Frank's sudden outburst that I barely noticed a small bell softly jingling from behind us. The bartender had entered the room and approached the desk from behind James and me.

"There's no need to turn on her shocker, Daddy," the bartender interjected in a smooth voice.

Her voice had a high pitch, but a powerful resonance. The bartender spoke slowly, each word dripping like honey from her lips. Despite the obvious power imbalance between her and Frank--Frank was clearly the person in charge here--everyone in Frank's office hung onto the bartender's every word.

"Cinnamon here is a good girl," the bartender continued, "And a good girl knows that no matter how tired her jaw might be, she keeps her mouth wide open when she's sucking her Daddy's cock."

As the bartender walked around Frank's desk, both Cinnamon--the girl blowing Frank--and Sparkles--the girl who had just brought in the envelope--trembled in fear. Both girls looked at the bartender with such quivering terror, that one would think that this woman was death and hell itself.

As the bartender approached Cinnamon, she knelt down and placed her hand on the back of Cinnamon's head. Contrasted against Cinnamon's dark hair, I could see that the bartender's long, crimson fingernails were filed to a point. She dug these ominous nails into Cinnamon's cranium as she turned Cinnamon's head to look up at her.

The bartender wrapped her other hand--which sported the same menacing nails--around the base of Cinnamon's jaw. Cinnamon's empty gaze from earlier was completely gone. It was replaced by a wide-eyed, horrified look. Why were these girls so terrified of this bartender?

The bartender dug her thumb and middle finger into the sides of Cinnamon's jaw, forcing her mouth open.

The bartender brought her face to just a few inches from Cinnamon's ear but spoke loudly enough that the rest of the room could hear. "Cinnamon here is going to be a good girl and keep her mouth completely open when she's pleasing Daddy. Isn't she?"

Still gripping Cinnamon's head and jaw, the bartender moved the poor girl's head up and down in a nod.

The bartender continued speaking. "Because a good girl is grateful when a white man gives her his white cock. Isn't she?"

The bartender nodded Cinnamon's head again. Poor Cinnamon looked too frightened to move on her own volition, much less coherently respond.

"And a good girl's mouth is meant to take a white man's white cock. Isn't it?"

The bartender nodded Cinnamon's head again.

"So, if this girl can't keep her teeth away from her Daddy's cock, then she won't need those teeth anymore. Will she?"

The bartender shook Cinnamon's head left and right, signaling a nonverbal, 'No.'

I gulped and looked over to James. As poised as James typically was, even he looked uncomfortable. Something about this woman brought terror to those around her.

Slowly, but intentionally, the woman released Cinnamon's head and stood back up. She leaned over to Frank, caressed his cheek with the back of her hand, and leaned in for a kiss. After they broke off their kiss, she whispered loudly enough for us to hear.