My Misgivings as a Corporate Pet

My Misgivings as a Corporate Pet

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

After two years of searching for a job and encountering numerous dead-end internships, Klara Argot remained staggeringly unemployed. With a dwindling savings account and a massive debt load, she desperately needed a break. Her prospects appeared bleak until she received a strange offer that promised to save her from ruinous financial calamity. It was with a large, respectable company; the job carried huge potential for growth. But the offer also required "unique" commitments. Who really were the mysterious men behind the job offer and could she trust them? Will she take this deal of a lifetime or will her pride get in the way? (Note from the author: I am really new at this, so please feel free to offer me any advise or share any comments. I am not sure if anyone really likes this stuff. (Yea, I know it is pretty dirty and twisted stuff). I am working on another batch of chapters and I would like to figure out whether I should give up or not. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy the story! Thanks).

Summary

After two years of searching for a job and encountering numerous dead-end internships, Klara Argot remained staggeringly unemployed. With a dwindling savings account and a massive debt load, she desperately needed a break. Her prospects appeared bleak until she received a strange offer that promised to save her from ruinous financial calamity. It was with a large, respectable company; the job carried huge potential for growth. But the offer also required "unique" commitments. Who really were the mysterious men behind the job offer and could she trust them? Will she take this deal of a lifetime or will her pride get in the way?

(Note from the author: I am really new at this, so please feel free to offer me any advise or share any comments. I am not sure if anyone really likes this stuff. (Yea, I know it is pretty dirty and twisted stuff). I am working on another batch of chapters and I would like to figure out whether I should give up or not. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy the story! Thanks).

Chapter1 (v.1) - As Interviews Go

Author Chapter Note

After two years of searching for a job and encountering numerous dead-end internships, Klara Argot remained staggeringly unemployed. With a dwindling savings account and a massive debt load, she desperately needed a break. Her prospects appeared bleak until she received a strange offer that promised to save her from ruinous financial calamity. It was with a large, respectable company; the job carried huge potential for growth. But the offer also required "unique" commitments. Who really was the mysterious man behind the job offer and could she trust him? Will she take this deal of a lifetime or will her pride get in the way? <br />

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: September 21, 2012

Reads: 3473

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: September 21, 2012

A A A

A A A

Chapter One

As Interviews Go

As interviews go, this had clearly been the strangest one yet. By now, I was used to, nay, conditioned to rejections and dishonesty. I was even prepared for downright hostilities. Just last week, I was interviewed by someone who had to find herself a(n) (and in her own words, “younger and perkier”) replacement. Needless to say, she was given the corporate heave-ho shortly thereafter; as you may imagine, that went very unpleasantly. But I had never come across anything like this before. And I wasn’t about to stick around to “work out the details.”

Tumbling over the row of velvet ropes and metal stanchions, I bolted back to the parking lot for my trusty, albeit battered, 1987 Toyota Cressida. As I ran, I hurried away with a set of renewed convictions: 1) that I would develop a more discriminating palate for online job postings and 2) that I would need to drastically increase my cardio regiment (as questions concerning my fitness had become laboriously apparent in this pathetically short jaunt thus far).

I wended around a garden pathway and spotted a paralleling row of columns in the distance. The gaudy structure drew away from my single-point perceptive with exacting symmetry. And I couldn’t help but appreciate the artistic fidelity, having graduated as a history and classics major only two years ago.

But my fears took precedence; I slipped off the ankle straps of my black closed-toed pumps and traipsed bare foot across a giant, well-manicured lawn towards the structure. I remembered seeing it from the parking lot, and I suspected that my car was nearby. Ducking under the classical Greek portico or stoa, I once again noticed further instances of general exactitude.

The exquisite stoa structure was a beautiful reclamation project. Clearly, it had been imported from some exotic archeological site and retrofitted into this location, offering stunning architectural repletion—eye candy to any beholder. The fillet columns posed resolutely below the identifiable curvatures that burst out from the volutes, which were themselves sandwiched below the surprisingly intact abacus slabs. This was an excellent example of a stoa from the Ionic order.

WFT! I thought to myself. Who buys and refurbished antiquities like this?

The elongated stoa stretched out for several hundred feet before opening up into the parking lot on the other side; I sighted my car as ran towards the end. I knew I should’ve been more suspicious when I pulled up into this empty parking lot in the middle of nowhere. But I was desperate; I was looking for a job. In fact I had been doing so for some time now. And I was ready to take just about anything. Well, almost; all I wanted now was to leave.

Relieved to see my car again, I scampered down the last steps and slipped my black dress pumps back on. I approached my car, wrenched opened my door, and turned the ignition. I was still in a state of panic. No way was I going to take this job. It was absurd, offensive, and preposterous. I didn’t care how much they paid. I was willing to do a lot of things; but this was just too weird. I looked down at my dashboard. My odometer had registered over 300,000 miles long time ago. Now, I needed several more.

I kept a wary eye alert for any problems as I released my car breaks; no one appeared to intervene with my departure. Within minutes I hurled away down the private road. My GPS navigation system struggled to find a signal for some reason, but I was glad just to be leaving. Exiting the massive compound, I tried to calculate in my head when I would be getting back home. It was barely after three o’clock in the afternoon. With any luck, I thought I could get home before sundown.

It took some forty minutes before my GPS navigation system eventually found a signal. Finally? I thought as I hastily flipped on the switch for my onboard computer driver. “It’s a good thing I got this,” I said to myself, “instead of a new car stereo system.”

I puttered into my driveway later that night, exited my car and slunk past my boarded up windows. Once inside, I straggled into my bedroom, and jimmied off my interview dress. I reemerged back into my living room, and collapsed onto my couch. Even though I knew I should’ve been searching online for work again, I was exhausted and eager to binge-watch some television. The interview earlier today had rattled me.

At inception, it had seemed innocuous enough. The online job post was seeking a personal assistance for some international business type. I figured he would probably be some trust fund idiot of some sort. I had already prepared for a variety of possibilities. The job post referred to the ideal candidate as a “she.” So I was under no delusions of what the prospective employer was potentially seeking; if they just wanted some young eye-candy, then so be it.

Over the course of a few emails exchanges, I had built a rapport with Cairn, whom identified himself as my potential interviewer. His emails were inordinately stuffy and formal—almost archaic in his language. But I figured he was merely some underling, weeding out the email replies for his boss. I had agreed to drive out to the northern-eastern edges of Santa Barbara County for the interview, trying to demonstrate some initiative. The drive up the interstate took a while; I had to slalom up and down a private road that curved ceaselessly through hilly country for over thirty-plus miles. And then I spotted the ranch, which was a ridiculous outcropping of fancy buildings. It was a spectacle—like a part of Las Vegas had splintered off and relocated here.

On top of that, the job offered was brazenly bizarre. They were seeking to hire a young woman to entertain their corporate bigwigs—but not in the traditional sense. The offer was so undignifying. I was willing to do some exotic dancing; something that I had considered only recently, even though I would’ve been too ashamed to tell anyone. But Cairn had calmly detailed a much more expansive arrangement. An arrangement that shot well past the scope of exotic dancing. These desperate times called for desperate measures. But their proposition was too much, completely beyond the bounds of my imagination.

As I fired up my bit-torrents to see what shows my computer had downloaded in my absence, my cellphone rang. It was my boyfriend, Tom.

“Klara-Bear,” he said, “I’m online and I noticed that your facebook account still doesn’t list me as your boyfriend.”

“I know,” I said. “It only a stupid setting; I don’t even know how to set that up.”

“Well,” he said, “right now the world still see’s us as just friends. What’s that say about us?”

Actually, I felt pretty guilty about it. Tom had been bugging me to update our status for over the past half year, but I simply hadn’t got around to it.

“Tom, I’m sorry,” I apologized. “It’s just…I’ve been busy. I had another interview today, but I’ll get to it.”

“So how’d that interview go, Klara-Bear?”

I took a long sigh. “It wasn’t what I had expected.” I replied, offering what I believed to be the understatement of the year.

“Was it another internship?” he asked. “Because it’s okay, if you take another one of those.”

“No Tom,” I replied. “And for the record, I’ve already taken four internships in the past two years and I’m not taking another one of those. I can’t afford them anymore. I can’t work for free.”

I’d grown increasingly desperate to find work, but withheld the gravity of my despair from Tom. I didn’t want him to know that I’d been frustrated in all my efforts; I didn’t dare tell him that I’d even considered exotic dancing. I was too deeply ashamed.

“That’s okay babe,” he said. But it wasn’t. I could tell in his voice—the subtle pause and the inflection in his tone. Tom was trying not to sound too discouraged, but he was. “But, you need to get health insurance at some point.”

“Yea,” I said. “And another internship isn’t going to get me any of that.”

“Well, you gotta do something,” he said. “The bank’s not going to keep letting you live in her mother’s foreclosed home much longer.”

“I know that,” I said under a strained breath.

“Klara Argot.” Tom said. “It’s been three years since your mother died. How long do you think they’re going to let you just live there?”

No shit! I thought to myself with a flush of anger. Thanks for stating the obvious, asshole.

“So listen,” I said, not wanting to argue with him, “I gotta go.”

He could sense my irritation, but could not deduce the underlying reasons (further boggling the mind that he was the one employed in this relationship). “Okay,” Tom said. “So I’ll call you later? Maybe I can come by tonight?”

His tone irked me more than it should have; I simply hung up without answering him. It took me several minutes to calm down.

We’ve been together since we both graduated from college two years ago. We both attended a small engineering school: Verne Institute of Science and Technology. Verne Tech was built on a quondam farming operation in Ventura County. The school was named after Jules Verne, the famed science fiction writer by the original founder who was an avid fan as a child. The school had rapidly risen into being one of the most selective schools in the nation, possessing a seventeen billion dollar endowment to help shape its fortunes. With a student population of over 2,400, the school paid for every student’s tuition—as long as you graduated with a core degrees; so, about that—funny thing happened along the way.

In my junior year, my mother had suddenly become stricken with a very aggressive form of brain cancer. We didn’t know what to do. My father was never really in the picture and we didn’t really have any close relatives. The doctors had caught it too late; perhaps it was for the best. She went quickly, passing away within a month of the diagnosis.

Now cue the violins: the bank started to foreclose on the house not too long afterwards. Since then, they’ve graciously allowed me to live here as long as I paid them my monthly rent.

Don’t you hear the roiling building-up of the dueling violins? No? Too soon? Well, there’s more! After my mother’s passed away, I moved back home and commuted to school. With the added distance, I was unable to maintain my course load and research commitments. During this time, I suffered a nervous breakdown, and promptly switched my major. I went from being a Mathematics and Applied Science major to becoming a History and Classics major. That’s right. I studied the past and western antiquities at a school that specifically trained people to think about the future. Good job me!

With my increasing debt, and dwindling savings account, I have since sought employment in every nook and crevice of the internet. My standards have evolved throughout my search. At first, I was looking for something “with insurance and benefits.” Next, I drew a line at “respectable” and “with potential.” My line has since slid below “with pay” and “with safety.”

My urgency has also been renewed since I received my most recent correspondence from the bank. Apparently, the “market fundamentals had “fundamentally changed.” (I not even messing—I lifted that word for word). In any case, I was to vacate the premises within sixty days. That letter came a month ago.

I looked down at my computer screen and saw that another episode of the ‘Blind Bachelor’ was nearly downloaded. Tom would have ridiculed me had he seen a screen shot of my downloading torrents—whatever. Don’t judge me, I thought to myself.

By the time I was in my pajamas, the episode was completely downloaded. I knelt down near my couch and fired up my facebook account. My ever religious friend, Wendy had just posted her usual, nocturnally optimistic forecast.

Wendy Angela Watford

I just wanted to thank god for all that is good in my life…and the proliferation of cute kitten gifs that powers the internet. (both hands flapping wildly in front of my face…trying not to cry as I cue up another kitten video…) –five minutes ago…

For no good reason (perhaps other then my impending homelessness), I bent over my couch and began to pray. I clasped my hand and closed my eyed. My prayer was more of the, Dear God as Santa Claus variety.

“Dear God, all I want is financial security, medical insurance and my boyfriend to not be such an asshole…” I began. But then I tried to pay homage to the bright side of life as well. “Thank you for all that is good and right. I especially wish to complement you on the bountiful and endless episodes of the ‘Blind Bachelor,’ and for my neighbor’s superfast internet connection that I’m currently using. I don’t doubt the fact that their thirteen year old son’s vile online surfing habits will eventually clog it all up. But until then...” And then I became un-cynically solemn for a moment. “Hey, so I don’t know what you have in store for me. Things haven’t worked out too well, but if you could give me a glimmer of hope, I’d appreciate it. Thank you.” To conclude my prayer, I did that thing where I kissed my hand and then tapped my chest twice before pointing up into the air, like I’d seen athletes do on television.

I arose and shuttered my computer, realizing that I was too tired to watch any television tonight. But I stopped as I heard a sound behind me—a single pair of clapping hands rang out through my house.

“Nice prayer by the way,” the intruder said, with a slight hint of an unidentifiable foreign accent. He stood in the darkened recesses of my tiny foyer, blocking the front door, right next to the hallway.

I looked back and spotted him. The adrenaline immediately kicked in; my mind filled with terror. I simply reacted. I picked up a nearby lamp and threw it at him. Then I grabbed a coffee mug from the corner table and hurled it as well.

The lamped smashed right over the intruder’s shoulder, breaking into a million pieces. The projectile mug also bounced chin; I heard the hallowed ringing sound of the ceramic cup, impacting off his face.

“Stop! Stop it,” he said, while ducking and bracing himself. “Just stop, I only wanted to gi—”

“Yea, I know what you want,” I shouted, winding back a coffee table book in my arms. “Isn’t that pretty obvious?”

Then he slumped out of the corner. Pieces of my lamp sprinkled down his pined stripped Alexander Amosu suit; I recognized it, much to my horror.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, struggling to stand up. “At least sorrier than I thought I’d be. It wasn’t my intention to frighten you. But your front door lock is broken. It just swung open when I tried to knock on it.”

I was petrified. It was Cairn from the interview earlier. And he was right; my front door lock no longer worked. But why was he here?

“Well Cairn,” I said, as I slowly backed away, “my landlord isn’t so much into maintenance these days. They’re more into the trying-to-kick-me-out aspect of landlording. Now, what do you want?”

“You left in such a rush earlier today,” he said, extending something out in his hand towards me. “And you dropped this back up in Santa Barbara. I thought I’d tried to return it to you.”

I immediately recognized my dangling necklace in his hands. But I tried not to show it. I slowly reached over and grabbed my necklace from him. I simultaneously touched my neckline and realized it had been missing and I'd forgotten about it all this time; it had been my mother’s.

“Please, before I leave I wish to just finish explaining myself,” he said. “As I mentioned earlier in the day, you obviously don’t have to take this job. It’s definitely a unique proposition. And you must think that I’m just some dumb rich, trust fund kid. Well you’re right, partially. But what I’d proposed earlier still stands. Here’s my card. That’s what I wanted to leave you. I apologize for the intrusion.”

I had sized him up earlier at the interview—an impeccably well dressed, medium built man. He possessed a light, swarthy complexion and a deep gaze. Obviously he was older than me, but I couldn't tell by how much.

“How did you find me?” I suspiciously asked. He answered by placing the application that I had filled out earlier today on my living room table.

“Oh right,” I said, feeling stupid. “I wrote it down. Yes, that’s how that works.”

“Also you’re facebook account,” he said. “It has like, everything about you on it. You should really be more careful about that.”

Just great, even mysterious men are admonishing my online practices.

By the way, sorry about the lamp and mug,” I said, realizing that I may have destroyed his expensive suit.

“That’s alright,” he replied. “It happens.”

Just then, a tiny drip of blood trickled down his chin. I gasped in apology and quickly offered him a bandage. I guided him to my bathroom sink in search of my first-aid kit. As I calmed down, I began to feel more remorseful for my actions. I tried to chit-chat with him, while I applied a small dash of anti-infection ointment onto his cut chin.

“What’s your full name, by the way?” I asked

“For corporate security reasons,” he said, “I don’t give that out.”

“Then since I don’t really care for the ‘job’ anyway,” I continued. “I’m just going to ask—what’s with the girl’s name?”

He looked at me inquisitively, and without remark departed, closing my front door behind him. I peered out of my front window as he slipped into the backseat of a sleek black, luxury sedan. It silently pulled away. I reclosed my front door, this time, wedging a seat against it.

"Well Klara," I said to myself, "so much for making a good first or second interview impression."


© Copyright 2018 musings of ebs. All rights reserved.

Chapters

Add Your Comments:

Other Content by musings of ebs

More Great Reading

Popular Tags