Go With The Flow!

You follow her through a hallway until you come to a large metal door. She pulls a wallet out of her rear pocket, flips it open, and sifts through. She finally produces a black and white splotched card, and, putting the wallet in her teeth, holds the front of the card against a small black panel above the door handle. The panel flickers green for a moment before returning to black.

“ID Authenticated”

She pulls on the door with both hands, propping it behind her foot. She slips the ID scanning card back into her wallet. She returns the wallet to the pocket from whence it came. She pushes against the door, throwing it completely open. She turns back at you and signals you to follow her.

You quickly fall in line behind her. She takes you into a hall but quickly turns into a small doctor’s office and before you can analyze the hall very much, you have to follow her into the office to circumvent the risk of falling behind. You walk in to the room to see her waiting for you. The door *clicks* behind you as it closes.

“So, Mademoiselle Deschamps, we are honored that you selected our humbled facility for your retirement to a life of pleasure and peace. Now, I must ask that you remove your clothing so I may grade you.”

You pull your blouse over your head, as well as kicking off your high heels. You unclasp your bra, letting it fall to the ground, and begin to peel off your shorts. You shimmy out of your cargo shorts, and fling them with your foot into a heap near the wall. You grab ahold of your panties and crouch, sliding them down along your slender legs. You lift each foot, sliding the undergarment from beneath each, then lifting it with your index finger. You bunch it up into a ball and toss it against the wall, landing on top of your shorts. The cold, dry air of the office causes your nipples to become erect, protruding outward.

“Rather obedient. A great sign. Well Mademoiselle Esmé Deschamps, I must say that you are off to a rather impressive start.”

The tall, gorgeous brunette steps towards you. She looks at your face, and you proceed to stare straight ahead. She gives a slight nod and mutters

“Well. Your parents graced you enough with a pretty face. Doe eyes, plump limps, nice complexion. Not exactly runway level, but still worthy of moderate respect. Platinum blonde hair, too. An uncommon sight amongst the French.”

Her eyes fall to your pert breasts. She lifts one up, feeling its weight. Her thumb falls to your stiff nipple. She rolls it around in her finger, thoroughly examining it. She observes the areola, and does similar to the other breast.

“I’ll be honest with you, Mademoiselle Deschamps, I have seen pretty French girl after sexy French woman, and time and time again, the bust is usually lackluster. However, Mademoiselle Esmé, you are one French woman that does not fit that bill. Your cleavage is enough to make a man’s mouth water.”

Your cheeks flush red with the compliment, but you bite your tongue and hold your silence. She slides her nimble, feminine hands down your sides and across your toned abdomen. Her hands glide across your hips. She walks around and looks at your rear for a period of time. She takes your buttocks in her hands, throwing you off guard, and she seems to be measuring by eye. She walks back to you, smirking.

“You like that, don’t ya? Well, there will be plenty more from where that came. You hind quarters weren’t anything to write home about, but they will certainly suffice. I must say, your hips are near perfect. Nice and broad, that’ll make you a great breeder!”

A thought of worry and doubt flashes in your mind. Breeding? As in impregnating? You have big plans for your life, and having one, or God forbid, multiple children, will dash those aspirations. ‘Daphne Tilla’ won’t be household name if you’re breaking your back raising children!

Deep in thought, a sudden intrusion expels a gasp from your lips. You quickly look down to see that the secretary has inserted two fingers inside your clitoris.

“You like? You looked pretty tight, but I had to check. Vaginas can be more deceptive than you’d think!” She retorts.

She spreads her fingers, rotating them in your vaginal cavity.

“Hmmm. A virgin, no?”

You purse your lips and nod.

“Hah! That won’t be the case for long - I can tell you that much!” She guffaws.

Again you stand nervous, thinking about how this may affect your life. But then again, you do want to strike it big, and this book could be the key to that. As you ponder, the secretary returns with a clipboard and contract.

“Mademoiselle Esmé Deschamps, I present to you a contract feel free to read it through. If you want a brief overview, you forfeit your rights to the company. That sounds rough, but you receive food, water, shelter, companions, and, other services. Take your time.”

You look over the contract. By signing, you are essentially agreeing to become company property, a slave essentially. No way! But then again, you could really use the experience. Then, it strikes you. The ultimate loophole. This secretary believes you to be a French woman, retiring early to this life. If you sign as Esmé Deschamps, she will let you proceed, not suspecting a thing. Then, the contract won’t hold up in court. Esmé Deschamps forfeited her rights, but Daphne Tilla never did! You allow yourself a slight smile. You really are a genius.

Now, you think about what you should do. You can void the contract should you choose to go through with it. Then again, you come out clean now as a journalist. Or, you could leave, having gotten some experience.