A long walk to a job interview

Geraldine Swit took one last look at her reflection in the glass door and, seeing nothing amiss, pulled it open, stepping through into the large airy foyer of the insurance office. Six months ago, standing on stage waiting to receive her Ph.D., she would never have dreamed she would be so anxious to ace an interview for a junior clerical position, but it turned out there wasn't much call for experts in late medieval French romantic poetry. The smug bint with a job for life at the careers service had made it clear (with the help of a two-tongued tawse) that Geraldine needed to adjust her expectations and warned that if she failed to obtain gainful employment before their next meeting, she would be mercilessly flogged at the whipping post.

Walking across the foyer towards the reception desk, smart heels clicking on the marble tiles, Geraldine shivered at the memory of passing the line of nude women hanging from their wrists, exhausted by screaming into the ball gags they wore while their backs were lashed relentlessly by their careers advisers. She definitely didn't want to end up like them, even if the alternative was to apply for a job for which she was entirely overqualified.

"Are you over forty?" The heavily made up receptionist's frankly insulting question shocked Geraldine from her reverie and she **** a polite smile. With her hair in pigtails and the wrong clothes, she could still be mistaken for a teenager, although today, her brunette tresses were confined to a sensible bun and she was wearing a professional-looking white blouse, charcoal grey pencil skirt and black court shoes with a four inch stiletto heel intended to give her extra height and hence confidence.

"No, I'm twenty-five," she replied evenly.

"Oh," the pretty, tanned teenager behind the desk seemed to lose all interest in the newcomer, lazily pointing one manicured and painted acrylic nail at the sign standing in a plastic frame on the desk, depicting the silhouettes of four items of feminine footwear (mule, pixie boot, stiletto sandal and ballet flat) in a red circle with a line through it. "No shoes until you're forty," she elaborated languidly.

Geraldine flushed with embarrassment. This wasn't a good start and she could only hope that her ignorance of the office's dress code wouldn't result in her being punished by the security guard patrolling conspicuously by the lifts. Quite apart from the pain that would entail, it might make her late for her meeting. She quickly bent down and slipped off her shoes, holding them awkwardly in her hand and wishing she'd brought a larger handbag. The young woman was no stranger to being stripped for a punishment, but there was something uniquely humiliating about having to go barefoot while men and older women were allowed to dress normally. She noticed for the first time that the cool marble beneath her naked soles was slightly rough and decidedly uncomfortable, although at least it wasn't slippery.

"I'm here for a job interview with Mr. Rajagopalan." Geraldine tried to regain control of the situation, but couldn't resist peeking over the desk at the receptionist's feet which were, sure enough, bare, toes painted to match her fingers. She was a petite thing, standing on a box to give her the height that Geraldine (as something of a shorty herself) was sure she normally achieved through heels. The box was wooden, the top consisting of square slats on an angle so the girl was standing on the edges. Geraldine winced inwardly at the thought of how uncomfortable that must be all day.

"Do you have an appointment?"

Geraldine **** herself to remain patient and respectful, even if the younger woman was not.

"Yes, I have an appointment with Mr. Rajagopalan for a job interview."

The receptionist studied her computer for a moment and then pointed at a set of double doors off to her left.

"Along the corridor to the end and turn left. Room two see."

The prospective employee said her thank-yous and set off, shoes dangling conspicuously from one hand. The doors were not the same size, the one on the left considerably narrower than its counterpart. Distracted by the unaccustomed (and decidedly unpleasant) sensation beneath her feet, she failed to notice the sign above the doors indicating young women to the left and all others to the right. Swinging open the larger door, she was about to pass through when a heavy hand descended upon her shoulder.

"Where do you think you're going, young lady?" The security guard was lighter on his feet than he looked; Geraldine hadn't heard his approach at all.

"I have a job interview with Mr. Rajagopalan," she explained. "I was told it was through here."

The heavy-set man glowered at her.

"That doesn't explain why you thought that gives you the right to use the men's entrance. Come with me."

Geraldine looked about in shock, but didn't struggle when the much larger man guided her to the (thankfully deserted) waiting area off to one side of the foyer, keeping a firm grip on her shoulder until they arrived at a bench that resembled a sun bed without the sun lamps and with holes at one end to enable her feet to protrude. Tears prickled at Geraldine's eyes. It wasn't just the punishment, although it looked like it was going to be bastinado, which she'd heard was terrible, but now she was sure to be late for the interview. With a sigh of resignation, she lay face down and the guard lowered the lid, effectively trapping her flat against the base and exposing her soles to the coming torment.

The guard unhooked the heat gun, similar to those used for stripping paint, from its holster under the bench and directed the scorching jet of air at his prisoner's instep. The effect was immediate, her feet jerking away as far as they could, which wasn't far at all in their current restraints. The bench was ingenious, holding its occupant securely so she didn't injure herself struggling, without the need for straps or shackles, whilst simultaneously muffling her inevitable screams. He hadn't had much interest in women's feet before starting work at the company, but he couldn't deny that whoever had come up with the no shoe rule and the associated punishment regimen had been on to something. Torturing a pretty girl's soles was now often the highlight of his day.

He continued to apply the heat implacably, revelling in the muted shrieks of agony as the captive's skin turned bright pink and shiny. He made sure the whole of her soles, including toes and heels, were thoroughly roasted, but stopped expertly, just before the skin blistered. He returned the heat gun to its place and waited for the howls to subside before opening the lid and letting the girl out. No point in endangering his eardrums, after all.

For her part, Geraldine was distraught. She knew she had to stand up, but couldn't imaging putting any weight onto her feet in their current state. She couldn't even bring herself to look at them, sure they were damaged horribly. Not wanting further chastisement, she pushed herself up onto her knees, blouse soaked by tears which couldn't be absorbed by the bench's waterproof vinyl covering (though at least she hadn't wet herself, despite the agony) and thanked her tormentor, apologising profusely for using the wrong door.

The guard wasn't cruel and helped the young woman to stand, although he couldn't hide a smile at the sight of her turning white when she touched the rough floor tiles for the first time. He steadied her until she was able to stand unaided and then watched step by excruciating step as she hobbled back over to the doors, going for the correct (left) one this time. Surreptitiously adjusting his manhood within his pants, he wondered when the receptionist's break was, because he could do with some relief sooner rather than later and ever since the first time he'd had to discipline her for being late to work, she'd shown herself to be more than happy to give him a quick shag or blow job in the toilets when she was off duty. Not that he would ever let it affect his responsibility to punish her if she broke the rules again, of course.

For Geraldine, the dozen or so paces to the doors tested her endurance to the limit. Every step threatened to overwhelm her and she pressed a knuckle to her mouth to keep from screaming loudly enough to disturb the office workers. She could barely see through her tears, but she **** herself onwards until she reached the corridor, needing a moment to brace herself before swinging open the door, which caused extra pressure on her soles. She was about to step through, when she recoiled. The corridor was separated in two by a waist high hand rail and on the young women's side, her side, the floor was missing, replaced by a trench filled with sherds of broken glass. She stared at the scene with horror, momentarily unable to comprehend the sheer cruelty of the mind that had decreed the company's loyal employees would walk on broken glass every day, let alone the torment it would inflict upon her own helpless soles. Then, drawing on reserves of determination she didn't know she had, she moved forward, across the threshold.

As her foot shifted on the jagged sherds, she reflected that maybe not getting the job wouldn't be the worst result, after all.