This story was inspired by JYM's "Summer Intern." CAREER OPPORTUNITY by C. Lakewood I was nervous when I interviewed for the intern's job at Boxwood, Quincy, and Thorne. It didn't pay much, of course, but it would look terrific on my résumé. I wasn't real sure, however, that I could pass for one of that firm's "kind of people." I mean, I AM something of a tom-boy. Oh, I'm attractive enough and can dress tastefully when I have to, but I felt rather out of place in the BQ&T environment. Any savoir faire that I'd acquired during my freshman year in college had cracked like cheap shoes the instant I'd stepped into that quiet, swanky place and then disintegrated entirely in the presence of my interviewer. Her name was Ashley Adams...Ms. Ashley Adams. (None of that addressing superiors by their first names crap for BQ&T.) She was in her early 30s and very sharp -- ambitious, energetic, and able. She was also very attractive...a tallish, natural blonde, athletic (in a girly way)...good-looking and extremely stylish -- elegant, in fact. She even had a trace of a posh English accent. I'd only been a little bit bi in my young life (with a college room-mate), but I've got to admit that Ms. Adams turned me on. And scared me. From the beginning, I felt almost like a boob in that interview. I mean, I wasn't wearing bib overalls and combat boots and talking like Mortimer Snerd, or anything. And my name -- Susan Strafford -- was certainly WASPish enough, but still.... I'm short and a bit chunky (5'4"/134), with dark hair (the exact shade of which varies) and olive skin...with a rather flat and undistinguished Midwestern accent. Not exactly Quasimodo, but certainly not Catherine Zeta-Jones, either. Ms. Adams didn't sneer at me, but her cool, detached manner was in some ways more intimidating than open scorn would have been. But my transcripts and references were good, and I guess I managed to keep myself together well enough...because I got the job. As an intern, I was sort of a "girl of all work," most of which could probably have been done drunk or half-asleep. But I did start learning a lot about how the firm functioned, from the inside. I crossed paths with Ms. Adams from time to time. I tried to keep a low profile, but, even so, I still got the funny feeling that there were wheels turning behind those inscrutable grey eyes. At the end of my second week, I was shown a dusty old storage room and told I'd be working there for a while, starting Monday. I'd be going through heaps of boxes, pulling files that were on a "save" list, and shredding the rest. The room was hot and airless, and the work would be miserable, so I would be allowed to wear a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Late in the day on Wednesday ("Humpday" in office slang, a double entendre as it turned out) Ms. Adams dropped by my hell pit. She told me to stop shredding for a while and devote all my efforts toward finding a certain Pennyworth and Co. file, from (probably) 1929. I was to work as late as necessary (she'd authorize the overtime) and bring it to her office when I found it. It was just past 8:00 when I located the file. I hesitated to show up in the executive suite looking (and smelling) like a stoker, but I decided that I really had no choice. So, grimy as I was, I trudged upstairs, Pennyworth file in hand. I knocked on Ms. Adams' office door, and she answered, "Come." I cracked the door and said, diffidently, "Ma'am?" (I didn't actually curtsy, but....) "Ah, Susan. You have the file. Wonderful." "Yes, ma'am." I sort of expected her to say "Super!" or "Brilliant!" or even "Jolly good!" -- but she just smiled and beckoned me inside. I had been in her office before -- for the interview -- but I was so preoccupied that day that I didn't really observe much. I saw now that it was a nice blend of modern utilitarian and classic charm. There were metal filing cabinets, of course, and a PC, but there was a Goya print on the wall, and her desk was a big Victorian one in gorgeous mahogany. Ms. Adams shuffled through the file and laid it aside. "Coffee? It's fresh. I just made a new pot." I felt very self-conscious, being so grubby in that sleek office, but she wouldn't let me beg off. "Go ahead and pour yourself a cup and sit down. You must be absolutely knackered after spending more than a full day in that 'Black Hole.'" As I was getting my coffee, I noticed a gleaming wooden paddle lying on top of her horizontal file. Burned into it were the letters "OTK." I guess I must have gazed at it longer than I realized, or my expression changed, or something, for, when I sat down with my cup, she shrugged and looked rueful. "A memento. My college sorority paddle...Omicron Tau Kappa. I carried it everywhere I went for a year and a half." "Isn't that a long time to be a pledge?" I asked, thoughtlessly. She blushed. "Well, I breezed through the regular pledge period -- and was usually the weekly 'honor pledge' in fact. But a few hours before the initiation...well, my car broke down 60 miles from campus. I didn't get back to the house until late -- much too late. So I was sort of in limbo, until they decided I should remain a pledge (the only one until autumn). And then, well, I guess I wasn't any too popular with members of my class...I was, I'm afraid, rather 'toffee-nosed.' At any rate, when the new class pledged in September, my status was reduced to 'sub-pledge,' and I was therefore subservient even to the dozen freshman pledges." She rose and picked up the paddle with both hands. "Notice how shiny it is. It was polished repeatedly on my bare bottom." She held it out to me. I took a couple of practice swings. "Wicked," I murmured. She nodded. "Oh, yes. Yes, indeed." I handed the paddle back. Her eyes seemed to glitter. "Still, it's a splendid sorority," she said. "You're an independent, I believe, Susan. Have you ever considered how advantageous it would be to join OTK?" "Yes, but.... I...um...don't think the group would see much advantage in having me as a member." "A minor matter...if you had an influential sponsor." There was an uneasy quiet. Then she looked at me thoughtfully and asked suddenly, "Susan, have you been a naughty girl lately?" It was cool in the office, but all at once I started to sweat. She was regarding me enigmatically, the paddle still in her hands. I swallowed. "Yes, Ms. Adams, I-I guess I have been a-a n-aughty girl." "Then I'm sure you've felt a certain...frustration...when you've been naughty...repeatedly...and had no one to supply appropriate guidance...correction, when necessary." She had begun to breathe heavily. "Lock the door." Her voice was husky. In a sort of daze, I crossed to her office door, turned the latch, and came back. "How many swats do you think a truly naughty girl deserves?" I considered my answer. "I guess that would v-vary, according to circumstances. H-half a dozen, perhaps?" "Perhaps. For starters. Bare bottom?" I cleared my throat. "Yes." I almost fainted as she reached across and handed me the paddle again. "Ms. Strafford?" she murmured. "Thank you, Ashley," I managed. Light-headed, I watched her step out of her skirt and slide her French-cut panties down, with a sinuous movement. "Everything?" she asked. There was a sort of plaintive note in her voice now. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Without any wasted motion, she shrugged out of her blouse and dropped her bra. Her breasts were smaller than mine. She bent over the desk and rested her weight on her forearms. I could see now that she was barefoot. She rose onto her toes. She was wet, very wet, and getting wetter. And she wasn't taller than me anymore. I flourished the paddle one-handed and reached out with the other hand and caressed her bottom. I felt a subtle tremble. "Perfect." "Thank you, ma'am," she murmured. Suddenly I felt quite at home here at BQ&T.... As I knew I would at OTK.