Interview With the Dom

by Rylee Swann

  Through bleary eyes, I look at my screen. Oh my gosh. It’s from Glam!

  Inhaling deeply through my nose, I click the email. Thank you for your submission. Yada. Yada. Yada. I breeze through the part where they spout all the wonderful things about themselves and get to the good, or bad, part.

  It’s good! They want to get to know me further. Would I be available on Thursday at two p.m. for an interview?

  My fingers fly over the keyboard then hover over the “send” button.

  If I send it right now, will I seem too eager? In a city where fashionably late is king, will I look like the court jester trying to people please?

  I force myself to wait half an hour then click send, spouting out a little prayer for it to have safe passage. Then force myself to get up and do something productive instead of stare at the screen for hours.

  In my closet, I start sorting through my clothes and pull on one of my favorite skirts. Inhaling deeply, I manage to get the zipper up, the button closed, but it’s like a snakeskin on my ass.

  Close to weeping, I pull out my fat skirt with promises to sew my lips together if it doesn’t fit.

  It does. Barely. It curves around my ample butt just on the right side of decent. I pull a white silk blouse off a hanger, then a red jacket over that. I look… like a flight attendant.

  Disgusted, I pull the jacket off and then strip down to my underwear. I don’t even know what’s in fashion anymore. Heading back to my laptop, I do a quick search.

  Oh dear lord.

  Strappy pretty much sums it up, which would be fine if it wasn’t winter in the North East.

  Going back to my closet, I find a birthday tank I bought myself years ago and layer it under a cream, hip length jacket — never would have thought about pairing them up but it works. After adding nearly every chain in my jewelry box, I decide I look fairly close to the picture. Deciding it’s too cold for sandals, I pull on a pair of knee high boots.

  Scrutinizing myself in front of the mirror, I decide I look pretty good.

  ***

  I look like a schoolmarm.

  An old schoolmarm.

  An old, out of touch schoolmarm and the bun I pulled my hair into only completes the picture. Even my manicure is wrong. When did pointy fingernails come into style? Don’t these women type? How do they avoid puncturing their eyeball when they sweep on their layers and layers of mascara? Or are those fake lashes crawling up to their eyebrows like spiders on their faces?

  The interview goes… terrible. Well, the actual question and answer part goes well, but the woman who might one day be my manager’s eyes keep falling to the cascade of necklaces around my neck. With a frown.

  “We’ll be in touch regarding the position,” Valerie says. “Thank you for stopping by.”

  Oh god, I’m being dismissed.

  “It’s been my pleasure.” Honesty is best, so I take a deep breath and spew it. “I know I don’t look the part of Glam… yet, but I hope you’ll give me the chance to learn from you regarding wardrobe and style as I focus on enlightening our readers, giving them the balance of brains and beauty.”

  Valerie actually smiles at that. And it isn’t just a tight corner lift of her mouth. A genuine smile that seems to appreciate what I’ve just said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  ***

  I got the job!

  After sweating it for nearly a week, I got the call I’d been waiting and hoping for. They loved my experience, my samples… can I start on Monday?

  Um, heck yeah.

  Over the weekend, I hit all the high-end consignment shops, taking the past six copies of Glam with me. With the help of two teenagers, I’m able to snag a few outfits that might still not scream style but might save me from the “how does this person exist like this” look.

  Monday is boring, with loads of human resource stuff, tours, and introductions.

  “Tomorrow, you’ll be expected to provide input at our staff meeting, coming up with suggestions on topics not only for the World section, but other sections as well.” Valerie’s eyes sweep me up and down. “This is a better look. Don’t be afraid of color.”

  Don’t be afraid of my foot in your ass.

  “I won’t, thank you,” I say to the twenty-two-year-old.

  In fact, I’m fairly sure that I’m the oldest person in the building, and since I’m turning — gulp — thirty on Friday, that knowledge causes my boobs to sag even further.

  I’m surprisingly nervous when the Tuesday morning meeting comes around. I’ve made copies of every table of contents of every Glam magazine for the past five years, committing them to memory. And look surprisingly cute in black pants and… tada… a dark green turtleneck I wore with a black and gold belt at the waist.

  It’s simple. And I’ve added color. Well, kind of. And all the other girls are wearing belts on the outsides of their sweaters, so I’m hopefully in the realm of style.

  When Jules, the magazine owner steps into the room, everyone jumps to their feet. Like a dork, I jump up after them, clapping to the same rhythm as my new peers.

  “Give me a G!” Valerie yells, and on cue, everyone gives her one, their high-pitched scream piercing my brain.

  “Give me an L!”

  I shrug. I can cheer for a paycheck. “L!”

  “Give me an A!”

  I’m in it now, my fist punching the air. “A!”

  “Give me an M!”

  “M!”

  “What’s that spell?”

  I punch another fist into the air. I’ve got this. “GLAM!”

  Everyone stops and looks in my direction, some laughing, some curling their nose.

  Valerie clears her throat. Jules looks insulted.

  “Actually, Caro,” Valerie begins, “it spells Give Life Alternative Meanings.”

  Is she serious? And did she just call me Caro?

  I make a sound that’s some combination of laugh, moan, and snort. “Sorry.” I grab my pencil and paper. “Writing that down.” I say it in the high pitched, urgent tone everyone else uses. It seems to settle everyone down, and I plop into my seat, wiping away the condensation — also known as sweat in places other than the Glam offices — from my upper lip.

  Jules, the owner, is twenty-eight, I learned. And she started the magazine three years ago after marrying her billionaire boyfriend. Because I want to give back to the world, it said in her ‘about me’ section. Yeah, like giving advice on “eighteen ways to make your boyfriend never leave you” is better than feeding the homeless… ugh.

  “Everyone take a deep breath in,” she says in a low, sexy voice, and everyone around me sits up straighter, pulling in a noisy inhale, a bright smile on their faces. “That’s perfect. Today, you’re breathing in peace and joy, in the knowledge that what we are doing today will bring security and beauty to the world.”

  Oh my god, I can’t breathe in anymore. My lungs are bursting. This is torture.

  Finally, she says, “Now, exhale. Get rid of any negativity or stress. Any insecurity.” She meets my eyes, giving me a pointed look. “Any mistakes.”

  We do this a few more times, breathing in good things, breathing out bad. Actually, this isn’t terrible, and I feel more centered after the exercise.

  “Now, let’s brainstorm articles. Since we’re working on the March edition, our focus will be on…”

  “Green,” the entire group choruses.

  She claps her hands together and everyone preens. I look around. This is actually kind of fascinating. I’m witnessing, in the flesh, group hypnosis. Mind washing. I jot down a note to research this phenomenon.

  Jules beams at the group. “And guess who our cover model is?” She asks it as if we’re a bunch of toddlers.

  Hands are thrust into the air, answers tossed out while Jules shakes her head like a teacher slash mother with each answer. This goes on an irritating few minutes before I shout out, “Selena!”

  After all, Selena helped take me down at my last job. Why not build me up in
the next?

  Jules eyes grow wide, and she touches her nose with her finger. “Our new girl gets it.” She reaches behind her and grabs a bag I hadn’t noticed before. She looks at me closer, eyeing me up and down before reaching in the bag. “And you…” she lifts a drawn-on brow.

  “Caroline,” I inject helpfully.

  “You, Caro, win Estee Lauder’s newest eye cream!” Cheers go up all around. “You should see those pesky lines fade away in a few weeks.” She looks at me again. “Twice a day, never miss.”

  The girl next to me, Lyndsey I think is her name, adopts a conspiratorial tone. “It will take five years off your face like that.” She snaps her fingers. The bitch looks like she’s still in high school.

  Mustering a smile, I accept the gift. Jules holds it over my palm. “Promise you’ll take pictures of your eye creases before you use it, then weekly for the next three months.” She looks around the room. “Meg, you’re in charge of getting the photos. We’ll do a before, during, and after review for the mature section.”

  Mature?

  Thirty is mature?

  While I’ve never been fully confident in my looks, I’ve never thought of myself as ugly or lacking before, but two days in Glam’s offices is making me want to pull a bag over my head.

  Jules looks at me again. “Which section are you?”

  This is my wheelhouse. “World.”

  She throws her hands up in an “of course” gesture. “That’s perfect. I should have guessed. What ideas do you have for your section?”

  I take a deep breath. “I was sexually harassed in my last job, and with the flurry of ‘me too’ hashtags, I was thinking—”

  “No.”

  I gape at Jules. “No?”

  She shakes her elegant head, her chin length blunt cut barely moving with the sharp movement. “Let’s do something more… inspirational.”

  I clear my throat. “Having women worldwide take a stand about sexual harassment feels inspirational to me. I—”

  Jules claps her hands. “Moving on. Anyone have suggestions for Caro?”

  I grit my teeth at the nickname.

  Lyndsey’s hand goes up. Jules calls on her. “Yes, Lynds… what have you got?”

  Lyndsey clears her throat. “There is a huge debate going on right now about whether the highlight on the tip of the nose is needed or not.”

  Jules laughs. “Oh, Lynds, of course it’s needed. Next?”

  My eyeballs feel glued to the outside of their sockets as I look around the room and realize that every single woman around me has the lightbulb nose, as I’ve always called it. Don’t they realize how distracting that is?

  “Meg?”

  Meagan claps her hands together. “How about a debate on which Kardashian has her baby first?”

  Another girl pipes in, her gaze sliding to me. “How about the age-old question of when a woman is too old to wear her hair long?”

  This job will pay my rent. This job will buy me food.

  Even as my soul is sucked out through my brain, I attempt to keep the smile on my face and force my fingers from playing with my curls. I didn’t wear a bun but apparently my shoulder length mane isn’t quite right either.

  “Oh, oh, oh!” A blonde ponytailed girl says, her hand waving in the air. Jules nods in her direction. “There’s a new club opening this weekend. A sex club.”

  Jules taps her lips with her finger. “I think I’ve heard about that. Club X, am I right?”

  The blonde’s ponytail flies in all directions she nods so hard. “That’s the one. The owner, Master X, is said to be hot. Scorching hot.”

  Jules’s finger is still tapping. “This is very interesting.” She looks back to me. “You can interview Master X and provide insight on why clubs like his are still so popular in the post Fifty Shades world.”

  I take a deep breath, inhaling dollar signs, exhaling financial stress.

  This job will pay my rent. This job will buy me food. I can afford to water Pete. And get a haircut that doesn’t make me look like a Disney princess who’s trying too hard.

  “Sounds wonderful,” I say and get a beaming smile in return.

  “Perfect. Be sure to stop by wardrobe and makeup before your appointment with Master X. You’ll want to look the part.”

  I deflate a little more. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The entire room gives a collective gasp and Jules’s mouth tightens at the corners. “Be at the club on Friday, during the opening. Find Master X and ask for the interview.”

  “But my birthday is Friday.”

  Why oh why can’t my mouth just shut up?

  Jules’s ears appear to flatten on the side of her head, giving her a feline appearance. “And how many candles will be making an appearance this year?”

  I lift my chin. “Thirty.”

  There are additional gasps but there are more looks of sympathy than anything else.

  “Well,” Jules goes on, “I can’t think of a better place to spend such a momentous birthday than in a place where youth reigns supreme.”

  I can’t help it. I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Xavier

  “This is impressive.”

  Turning from the balcony overlooking the dance floor below, I’m greeted by a much older man with a much younger woman on his arm. She’s wearing strips of leather material, the only thing covering her breasts and ass. She fits right in. In the two hours my new establishment has been open, I’ve learned that New York women are just as beautiful as Los Angeles, Chicago, Paris... well, all seven cities in which I’d opened the X franchise.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Welcome to Club X.”

  “Wow,” the young woman says, and I hope my attendants checked identification before allowing her in the door. She looks eighteen, the pigtails adding to the illusion. “I’ve never been to a place like this.”

  She steps over to the balcony and looks down at the stage, her hand moving to her stomach. To calm the flutter of arousal, I’m betting as she takes in the scene below.

  On a small stage, performers act out a show for my guests. Two men have a woman trussed up, elbow to wrist. She’s bound and is straddling an open-backed chair, her tits pushed up, nipple clamps with weights dragging the floor. Her pussy glistens from her arousal, and she arches backward as a riding crop comes down on her ass, leaving a crisscross of red marks on her pale skin.

  Her ankles are each bound securely to a chair leg, leaving her completely helpless as the other man grabs her blindfolded head by a fistful of hair. At first, he teases her lips with his cock before ramming it deep in her mouth. Her mouth opens wide, her throat bulging as she takes him all the way in.

  In spite of myself, my cock pulses in my pants. Even though I own a chain of sex clubs, and even though I’m called Master X, I’ve not partaken of the indulgences offered so casually in months.

  One, I’ve been too busy. Two… the selection has grown stale.

  Women just aren’t a challenge anymore.

  “What would you like to drink?” I ask and nod to a passing waitress. She’s at my side in a second, her nipples barely covered by the apron she wears, her eyes lowered in the submissive appearance all the waitstaff must exhibit. Male or female or anything in between, it doesn’t matter.

  “How may I serve you, Master X?”

  I wave a hand to my two VIPs. “Please serve our guests.” I nod to the older man and excuse myself. “Have a pleasant evening.”

  The application process of becoming a member of this exclusive club is intense, and I know the man’s name, his occupation and bank balance, but I don’t say any of it out loud. It’s part of the allure, the illusion of privacy.

  I don’t go far before I’m greeted by another couple, then another, and finally my friend. Logan claps me on the back. “Another success, it seems.”

  Looking back down at the packed club, I have the evidence in front of me. Memberships are at an all time high, money coming in hand over fist.
Then why am I so unsatisfied? So fucking melancholy? At forty-two, I shouldn’t feel like such an old man.

  “Hey, did someone kick your dog?”

  I don’t even look Logan’s way. He knows I don’t have a dog.

  “That reporter called again, wanting to set up an interview.”

  I slide him a look. “I don’t do interviews.”

  He laughs. “That’s what I told her for the sixteenth time.”

  “She’s persistent.”

  Logan turns to face me, and I already know what he’s going to say. “Come on, man. One interview won’t hurt.”

  “No.”

  “It’ll be good pub—”

  “No.”

  He blows out a breath. In addition to being my best friend, Logan also serves as chief executive officer for X Enterprises, and in some part of my mind, I know what he’s saying is true. I don’t care. Even though I’m not anonymous, I enjoy my privacy. My picture is plastered across the world wide web, and I’m transparent when it comes to business matters. I don’t hide behind a mask, but I also don’t step in front of a microphone if I can manage to avoid it.

  “You’re probably right,” Logan says, taking a drink from the heavy tumbler in his hand. “The mystery is attractive. Makes them keep coming back hoping for a glimpse behind the curtain.”

  That makes me grin. “I’m not Oz, you know?”

  He takes another long drink. “Yeah, but you’re old, so it’s the same.”

  I laugh, shake my head, and reach up to stroke my beard, remembering when my fingers touched smooth skin when I made the mistake of shaving it off in France. “Considering you’re exactly two months younger than me, I’d shut the fuck up if I were you.”

  He just grins. Mainly because he’s done what he’s set out to do… pull me out of this funk I’ve found myself in.

  Is this a midlife crisis? Should I just buy a sportscar, fuck lots of twenty-year olds, and call it done?

  Gripping the balcony railing, I watch the guests turn back to the stage where another team is about to perform. Two women this time. But even as they begin their performance, and the music changes to a sultry mix, I find myself scanning the crowd. Looking. Searching. For what? I don’t know.