An Old Building

As we walked at a rapid pace toward the address she had been given, Clara broke the silence. Her voice, usually confident, betrayed a subtle tremor.

—Hey... I really appreciate you coming —she said, glancing sideways at the building facades—. A friend from the faculty got me this job opportunity. She told me it was a private catering job for very high-level corporate events. They pay an absolute fortune for a single night, but they required me to bring someone I completely trusted so we could go through the interview together.

I nodded silently, trying to calm my own nerves, assuming they would interview us in some formal human resources office. However, when Clara stopped at the address, my heart did a wild somersault. It was an old building, with discreet offices and poorly lit hallways in an almost deserted part of the city.

We went up in an old elevator that creaked with every floor. When we reached the indicated office, Clara pushed open the wooden door. What we found upon entering looked nothing like what we had expected.

The room was large, with thick, heavy curtains that blocked out the daylight. In the center, behind an imposing dark wooden desk, sat a man of about fifty, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, smoking a cigarette whose dense smoke floated in the air. But what completely froze my blood was the second man standing beside him: a stocky guy with a cold stare and an automatic pistol holstered visibly on his belt. The nervousness we had brought with us instantly transformed into paralyzing panic.

The man at the desk scanned us with a slow, calculating gaze, lingering especially on me, trying to guess what I was hiding under my giant sweatshirt. Then he fixed his eyes on Clara.

—Good afternoon, ladies. Have a seat —he said in a deep, raspy voice, though neither of us dared to move—. Your friend from the faculty told me you were completely trustworthy, Clara. And that your companion was too. Is that true?

—Yes... yes, sir —Clara responded, her voice broken by fear, swallowing with difficulty.

The man smiled, an expression devoid of warmth that made the hair on my arms stand up. He leaned back in his leather chair.

—Excellent. I run a very exclusive business, for select people from high society —he explained, drumming his fingers on the desk—. I need waitresses who are not only discreet, but extremely reliable so as not to make my clients uncomfortable... and, of course, to entertain them if the night requires it. That's why I ask you: do you know how to keep secrets?

Before we could answer, the man standing beside him drew the weapon from its holster with complete composure and began to play with it, weighing it in his hand and spinning the magazine with a metallic sound that resonated like a sentence in the room. My breathing became erratic.

—Yes —we both said in unison, our voices choked by the panic of seeing the weapon so close.

The man let out a dry laugh, leaning back in his seat.

—Excellent. You'll do for the position. But before I officially hire you, I need to do a quality test. We don't accept imperfections here. Undress.

—What? —the whisper escaped my lips, feeling the floor move beneath my feet—. Please, we only came for the waitressing job...

The guy with the gun stopped playing with it and stared at us, resting his hand on the grip. The message was direct and brutal. Clara, trembling from head to toe, began to unbutton her shirt. Seeing my friend give in forced me to do the same. With fingers completely rigid from terror, I stripped off my giant sweatshirt and my jeans, left in basic underwear that did nothing to disguise the opulence of my curves.

When I removed my bra, the contrast between Clara and me was devastating. She had a slim, stylized silhouette, but my large breasts fell free, swaying slightly from the trembling of my body, with my nipples hardening instantly from the cold of the room and the intense humiliation.

The man rose from his desk and approached us slowly. He walked past Clara and stopped right in front of me, evaluating the abundance of my curves with evident lasciviousness. He stretched out his large, rough hands and began to examine my body. He squeezed my large breasts firmly, weighing their volume and brushing my stiff nipples with his thumbs, making me let out a stifled moan that I tried to suppress. Then he forced me to turn around and, without warning, gave me a couple of loud spanks on my rear, making the flesh of my buttocks vibrate under the firmness of the blow.

Absolute terror at the presence of the weapon dominated me, but the direct contact of his forbidden hands invading my intimacy provoked a treacherous reaction in my body: a wave of violent heat and a clandestine excitement ignited my belly, moistening me between my legs.

The man returned to his desk, wiping his hands with a handkerchief.

—For now, that examination will do. You have excellent material —he dictated, looking at us with implacable coldness as he indicated that we could get dressed—. I'll expect you tomorrow, Sunday, first thing at the address I'll send you to start working. And one last thing... —his voice became notably lower and more dangerous—. I expect, for your own good, that you are as reliable as they say. If you don't come back tomorrow, my associate will go looking for you at your campus. You won't like discovering what happens when I'm made to waste my time.

We dressed with frenetic speed, our hearts pounding against our ribs. We left that office in a sepulchral silence, with the weight of a death threat on our shoulders and the memory of those lascivious touches burning on my skin, knowing that Sunday morning our lives would change forever.