Chapter Three –
The Crawford & Co. building towered over me like the illustrious, swanky business empire it was, conquering the North American industry of fashion in the '10s and earning them a permanent spot in Forbes lists. The modish, twisted skyscraper stood about fifty stories tall, its curtain walls constructed of spider-black, polished stone, the scintillating windows trimmed with scarlet. My shoulders shrunk spontaneously. The “small-town” girl in me shuddered in anxiety, grossly intimidated, immediately probing at my self-worth and ability. I took a deep breath, shaking off my qualms and pestering negativity. I'm an excellent, hard-working, Jesus-loving, karma-wary, decent, human being. This hoity-toity, big-named corporation would be lucky to have me on their team.
I scooted towards the speckless, glass commercial doors with unique, spiraled handles, smiling courteously at the sharply-dressed, burly gentlemen who opened the door for me. I cringed, my brand-new, silver pumps cheeping noisily under my weight. Making sure to tread lightly, I silently rebuked myself for not having broken them in sooner. As I wandered through the establishment, I inspected the fancy, gold-plated signage and directed myself towards the elevators.
Crimson flooded my lightly-rouged cheeks. I kept a straight, fixed look at the slim slit between the elevator doors, a complementary shade to the black of the building. From the corner of my eye, I ineffectively ignored the catty stage-whispers of the barely-clothed, Amazonian women to my left. My nose twitched. They were clearly discussing their less-than-impressed notions of my carefully-chosen interview attire.
With all the forbearance I could muster, I kept a straight face, but inside, the feathers of my confidence were ruffled, slowly being plucked, one at a time. I glanced down speedily, sighing as I examined my outfit. I stood out like a quarter in a stack of needles. My weighty, buxom chest could hardly be restrained despite the number of safety pins I'd fastened between the stubborn closings of my blouse. The women's glitzy, glamorous tops draped over them effortlessly, shaping their slinky silhouettes, reducing me to an insecure schoolgirl.
The elevator dinged, detangling me from of my jumbled, precarious thoughts. I boarded the elevator, decked out with floor-length mirrors, secretly grateful the disparaging divas were heading south. The tile floor underneath my feet buzzed to life, steadily creeping upwards.
The elevators doors glided open, the bustling activity of the forty-second floor spilling into the small room. I made a beeline towards the receptionist, easing my guard at the affable smile on her approachable features. She edged around her table, extending a warm hand, her fingers garnished with large, flashy rings.
“You must be Cleo. My name's Shannon. Mr. Crawford is expecting you in five minutes – come on, I'll show you to his office.”
“Bless your soul,” I grinned appreciatively, “Thank you – I'd probably still be roaming these halls tomorrow if it weren't for you. This place is –”
“Insanity?” Shannon piped up hopefully as she navigated, “I'm drowning in work and overtime – but I do it for Crawford. He's got unbelievable vision, I mean, I don't have to tell you that –”
“He's an international magnate,” I agreed.
“I'll just put it this way – Crawford & Co. is by far, the best company I've ever worked for. Trust me, you'll want this job. Don't hesitate – just take it. Thousands of people would kill to be in your shoes right now – and, we're here. Good luck.”
I knocked lightly with the back of my knuckles, firming my jittery kneecaps as I pushed open the door. My tightened lips unhinged, a tingling sensation flowering on the tips of my fingers.
Kane Crawford sat behind a desk, the wood painted completely black, seemingly the running theme of the enterprise. He was a veritable Don Draper in his immaculately-tailored, three-piece suit, a striking shade of cobalt blue. He raised the corner of his mouth slightly, beckoning me forward with a masculine, but neatly-manicured hand.
I obliged, seating myself across his desk. He cocked an eyebrow, the intensity of his gaze sizzling into my skin. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, finally remembering the resume clenched firmly in my grasp. He accepted the resume, his hooded, blue eyes darting from side to side, skimming through my type-written achievements.
“I know I don't have a lot of –”
Mr. Crawford interjected, cocking an eyebrow, “Like I said – experience isn't crucial to your employment. Can you type?”
I nodded enthusiastically, “Yes, I've got a 103 WPM –”
“Show me.”
“What?” I blinked, furrowing my brows, “Right now?”
I rose from my chair, meeting his unwavering stare. My heart pounded in my ears as I teetered towards him awkwardly in my heels, my confined breasts swinging heavily. Did I just notice his eyes lingering on my heaving chest? A rush of exhilaration coursed through my veins.
Mr. Crawford dragged away his leather throne, pulling up a plain, sturdy wooden chair in its place. I slanted my head to the side in confusion. I shivered, catching a hinted whiff of his brisk, cognac-inspired cologne, the back of his hand delicately brushing against the small of my back. My toes curled inside my pumps.
“Bend over.”
I gasped, crinkling my forehead, “Excuse me, sir?”
He leaned in close to me, his hot breath tickling my earlobes, “You heard me. Get up on the chair and bend over, ass up.”
I glanced at the blank document on the screen of his desktop. My eyes fell to the leather-bound Bible next to his computer, displaying a highlighted passage. In a trance-like state, I heaved myself up on the wooden chair, resting my elbows on his desk, wobbling until I gained balance. I turned to him for his approval.
“Like this, sir?”
“Good girl. Start typing.”
I swallowed. Beads of sweat collected in the creases of my palms, dampening his keyboard. I froze, his fingers crawling up my thighs, slowly hiking my skirt over my waist. An icy blast blew past my unsheltered skin, the thin, white cotton of my high-cut briefs clinging to my ample cheeks.
“Sir?” I squeaked, “What are you –”
“I want to see how you fare under distraction. Now, type.”
My eyes widened at the irony of the verse I had become well-acquainted with over the years – 1 Corinthians 6, verses 18 to 20. I propped my trembling fingers upon the keyboard, my thumping pulse accelerating in my wrists as he grabbed a handful of my left cheek, melting at his touch.
I feebly clicked away, “Flee from sexual immorality...Every other sin...”
Mr. Crawford opened his bottom drawer and brandished a black, seven-inch scourge with leather fringes. I hunched my shoulders, a cold, frigid fear gripping me motionless. He yanked my panties down to my ankles. I glimpsed at him behind my shoulders, his eyes hovering over the diamond on my ring finger. I curled my fists.
Without warning, he cracked his whip violently against my bare cheeks. My back arched, a pained shriek trilling out of my lips. The skin of my jiggling cheeks numbed, a faint, reddish stain blossoming from where he struck me.
Mr. Crawford grunted through gritted teeth, grabbing a fistful of my hair, “I didn't ask you to stop. Keep typing.”
The room around me hazed, my heart pounding in my ears as my eyes snapped back to the screen. My knees quavered, a thin stream of my juices trickling between my legs. God forgive me.