The New Job - 1

Disclaimer: This is a multi-part story that ran as a newsletter exclusive in 2016. As it was only ever on my site, and was password protected, it's possible even if you got the newsletter then you might not have access to it now.

More importantly, it's not finished, and I cannot guarantee I will finish it. (But I promise I'll look at it and think about it!) However, there's still some fun stuff in here, so hope you like. (There should be other stuff this week, too.)

I am nervous as hell. And not just because I’m wearing pantyhose, a skirt, heels and a realistic latex mask for my first day of work, instead of the suit and tie every other man in the building is sporting.

I am nervous because I know if I am discovered, I won’t be fired. I’ll be killed.

I shift a little in the opulent leather seat in the opulent wood-paneled reception area. It’s… well, it’s opulent. Ostentatious. Lavish. All the adjectives you associate with high-powered law offices. Especially ones that work exclusively for the mob.

My leg is itchy, right up the thigh, near my crotch. I scratch carefully through the fabric of my skirt, which still feels a little too tight. That somehow leads to an itchy nose, which I also scratch, which leads to me almost wanting to sneeze. I hold it in. The receptionist notices, and smiles at least.

“Ms Gagliardi will be along soon, I’m sure,” she says. I nod and smile back, feeling the fake teeth in my mouth shift ever so slightly. They’ll take a while to get used to. Lunch is going to be a bitch.

I uncross and recross my legs, feeling the hose slide back and forth. Despite myself, despite the job and the nerves, I get a little thrill. “Enjoying yourself?”

The voice is deep in my ear, coming through the earpiece that’s surgically implanted to avoid detection. A male voice. Throaty. Inviting. He knows I can’t talk back right now, and he’s enjoying it.

Well, two can play at that game.

Glancing at the receptionist to ensure she’s not watching, I uncross my legs again, then begin to move my hand towards them, ever so slowly. Even if the receptionist turns, my movements will look innocent enough. To the man seeing what I can see, through the micro-camera pinned to my jacket lapel? To him it’ll look entirely guilty.

Lock me up then, pal.

My fingertips skim around the edge of my skirt’s hemline, caressing the fabric there. My polished nails, ruby red after their application hours earlier, gleam a little in the soft light of the room. I watch them, feeling almost removed, as they scratch. Just a little. The smallest of moves. I can feel the hard acrylic rub against the nylon, and I smile.

“Knock it off.”

My fingers spread out now, each fingertip pressing against my leg, and I slide them upwards, pulling up the skirt’s hemline by a good inch, almost two. It falls naturally above the knee but now it’s much higher, much more provocative.

“You’re going to attract attention. She’s going to see.”

I drop the hemline, but not because I’m being told to. Instead my fingers move around to the back of my knee as I cross my legs once more, leaving my fingers ‘trapped’ between the back of my left knee, and the top of my right. I waggle and free them, then draw fingers down the side of my leg, a soft, warm jolt of excitement running through me as I feel the nail slide over the hose.

“I know what you’re doing - ”

The door opens and I half-jump, composing myself as best I could. It’s silent as a tomb in here, so I can be forgiven for some nerves.

“Ms Chopra?”

It’s a woman. Not Gagliardi. Not yet.

I smile and stand, concentrating on my movements - smooth and elegant, I repeat to myself. Smooth and elegant. I extend my perfectly feminine looking hand and smile, the same smile I’ve practiced for hours in front of every mirror in my apartment. “Yes,” I say. “But please, call me Amaira.”

“I’m Carmella Armstrong. I’m Ms Gagliardi’s personal assistant. Welcome to the firm.” Her grip is strong, but somehow evasive. “Can you follow me, please? I’ll show you to your office.”

I nod, lean down and pick up my briefcase. It’s heavier than it looks. Apart from the laptop inside, it’s packed with hidden surveillance tech. All I have to do is leave it by my desk, I remind myself.

The receptionist gives me a little wave goodbye as the front door shuts behind me, and my eyes adjust to the lower lighting in the corridor we’re standing in. Carmella waits until the door is fully shut before walking away, obviously expecting me to follow her.

“We’ve got a busy day ahead,” she says over her shoulder. “Lots of orientation. It’s the same for all new hires, but in your case, we really want to bring you up to speed quickly.”

“Thank you,” I say, keeping other comments to myself. Say only what’s needed, when it’s needed. First rule of any good con.

“Not every day we find a native speaker, after all. We’ve got so many more dealings out there now, it makes sense to have someone onboard. We all know how things can go wrong if you don’t speak the language… and Ms Gagliardi doesn’t trust many translators.” We come to another door. Carmella waves a card hung about her neck in front of a black panel, and it beeps. I hear locks pulling back. Serious security.

The door swings open, flooding the corridor with light. I blink a couple of times, not noticing the massive, thick-set doorman on the other side until I’m walking past him. I’ve seen enough concealed weapons to notice the pistol underneath his suit.

Carmella starts to give me the standard office tour, noting the essentials like the coffee area, restrooms, conference rooms and so on as we walk through glass-and-wood decorated corridors. There’s more light here, but it’s all artificial. I’m not sure I’ve seen a single window, and we’re on the 10th floor. I try to note most of what she’s saying, but between the heels, the skirt, the hose and the mask, I’m a little distracted.

Finally we arrive outside a door that I notice has my name on it. Well, my current name. I smile as I should. Carmella smiles too. “HR will be by in about fifteen minutes to start processing paperwork and the like. But this is you.” She produces a plastic card that looks the same as the one she wears and hands it over. “This gets personalized later, but for now - wave it over that panel.” I do, and with a beep, the door lock disengages. “Your office awaits.”

Carmella leaves without another word. I push open the door and step into my office. It’s spartan, but well appointed. Frosted glass next to the door which will keep things nicely private. High end, slimline iMac on the wide, white desk. Wireless keyboard, mouse. Expensive looking lamp. Complex looking phone. Nothing else on the desk at all. Not even a pen.

Picture frames are on the walls, complete with images of the firm’s founders, in case I wanted to look at really old Italian men. I assume I’m allowed to reframe and redecorate, although I hope I won’t be here long enough for it to be a problem.

I carefully place my briefcase down next to the desk, and slip into the leather-covered office chair behind it. It’s surprisingly fluid; I half-spin before I stop. There are stacked desk drawers on each side of me, so I check them out. The first set has some writing paper and the elusive pens. The second - and I wonder if this is standard issue for all desks here - contains something that shocks me.

A mirror.

It shocks me because I’m reminded again that I’m not looking at my own face. I’m wearing someone else’s, at least temporarily. It - she - is beautiful. Dark olive skin, suitable for her Indian background. Gorgeous, expressive eyes. Eyebrows that seem heightened, alert. Dark chocolate-brown hair that is styled to look professional, yet inviting. The overall effect is stunning. It makes a nice change from my own features.

I smile at her in the mirror, leaning slightly so my lapel camera catches the reflection.

“You look good,” the voice in my ear says.

“I know.”

I settle back in my new chair, feeling the leather embrace me, and place the mirror on the desk. Maybe this was another woman’s office before. Given the high number of women in this firm, it’s pretty likely. I adjust the angle slightly and smile - beam - at my reflection.

“Very good,” the voice says, laughing a little.

“Wish you were here?”

“Inside a mob controlled law firm? Not so much.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t seem so bad.” I angle my head a little, fingernail scratching a little at my neck. There’s a hidden seam there. The voice knows it, and I know he knows it. “Maybe I could get used to this.”

“Don’t. We’re in and out inside a week.”

“Let’s hope. Assuming everything stays on schedule.”

“It will. There’s no way this deal falls apart, this late in the game.”

“Fingers crossed.”

I let my head fall back a little, looking into the mirror with lowered eyes. I’m looking at the camera, really. Looking at him. “Happy so far?”

“You’re doing fine. Don’t get cocky.”

I laugh at his innuendo, probably unintended. “Not at work, darling. Maybe later. If you want, you can watch.”

There’s a pause. A very small one, but definitely… a pause.

“You’re a riot,” he says drolly. I can hear the mic click off at his end, but I know he’s still watching. He has to.

That makes me reach up, stretching my fingers, and press down on my throat. The skin I wear, darker than my own, flexes and reforms as my fingers move away. It looks real. It feels real. I know it’s not, and so does he. And I have a feeling….

I close my eyes, part my lips. My fingers continue to move, stroking and pressing, seeking some sort of flaw that they’ll never find. I let a low, slow moan in my practiced voice come up from my throat. I writhe. I perform. I imagine him, sitting somewhere, watching me.

My cock moves deep within my disguise, and I laugh to myself.

My head snaps back to normal. I stare into the mirror. All business. I wink once, just to let him know the show’s over; then place the mirror back in the drawer. As soon as I close it, the door opens.

“Hi there,” says a nerdy looking black guy, smiling from behind thick glasses. “I’m from IT. Did you bring a personal laptop in with you today?”

“Yes, I did,” I say, pointing at the briefcase. “Do you need to take a look?”

“I do. It won’t take long. I’ll just need to pass it by our security team, should be back in five, ten minutes.”

The voice is sudden, insistent. “Do not let him take that case. We can’t have a security inspection.”

I freeze, hand gripping the edge of the desk, my heart rate spiking.

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