Some of you may have read the ‘Easy’ stories— among the oldest posts here— but they are disjoint fragments, really— salvaged from older work. Nevertheless, they do get votes, and I made a couple of AI pictures for them.
I decided that they need to become a real story. There’s lots of new writing here, and new— more consistent— pictures. But the basic storyline and characters are the same. Doubling down on the originals, keeping what was hot about them.
Meet Easy.
Easy, she is called— her original name— Susan— has vanished; even the pretty, sexy name they had imposed upon her— Chloe— has vanished. If they use a name at all, then it’s Easy; often, though, it’s just ‘pretty’, or ‘girly’, or ‘sweetie’. She’s called Easy because…
Well, because she is easy. So. Very. Easy.
Picture: Meet Easy, so sweetly willing : Click here to reveal.
So gorgeously, sweetly, sadly, acceptingly, eagerly … Easy.
She does know, quite clearly, what has been done to her, how they had worked on her. At the same time, she knows that she made it easy for them. Easy.
And frankly, it’s easy to live like this. Easy, and … well … very, very rewarding. It’s a shock to her that she is living like this now; she knows every one of her friends, her family, her church would be horrified, disgusted even.
But she doesn’t care. This is her life. This, though she couldn’t have imagined it— would have recoiled from it (she giggles when she thinks about this, how far she has come, so fast, to become what she is now); this is what the yearning in her had been. The rewards aren’t money (she has long ago realised she doesn’t know if they are paying her any more even— has never asked). And not material either— although she does love her cute apartment and her lovely clothes and her fresh, chef-cooked food— so tasty and healthy, too.
No, the rewards are … crudely … lots of regular, hard fucking, and the freedom from uncertainty that being under the total control of rich, powerful, confident men brings.
She is overwhelmed by how much she loves the rewards.
They’re what get her through the hard bits— and it is hard, hard every day, too - necessary she has come to accept, but still, bitterly hard sometimes; the tears, the fear, the shame, the hust, the degradation in front of strangers; the rewards help her wriggle and smile and say pretty thank you’s after even the most awful ordeals, through even the heaviest sobs, the fieriest shame.
And anyway, it’s too late now. Far, far too late.
She left her home town, not because she really wanted to— she is sweet, innocent, kind and helpful, liked by and a happy member of several different overlapping communities— but because, whatever she tried, nothing really worked.
Gross old men would paw at her, boys her own age were gross in different ways; it had started when she was a girl, when she didn’t even know what it was. She couldn’t help the way she looked. She couldn’t help having a friendly, willing disposition, wanting others to feel happy, to like her.
And somehow those experiences intensified the other thing, which was the real problem: that nothing that was about her— about the real person inside— had ever felt quite right— for as long as she could remember. She felt guilty about it, knew that it went against everything they said, what the church ladies taught her on Sunday, everything; but she knew she needed luxury, elegance, to never have to think about money, wear beautiful clothes every day. Be beautiful — be glamorous— every day, and to be with people who would look after her.
It wasn’t that she thought she was anything special, but she had learned from early childhood that if she worked to make herself pretty and sweet, then people approved of her, and— perhaps— she had become a little too addicted to that. In her town, there was no easy money; work was hard. Girls a few years older than her who had been beautiful were now mothers or factory workers— all too often both; careworn, chipped nails, dull hair, trainers and sweatpants. She knew that she could not just accept that for herself, however they might judge her.
Picture: Easy, hometown girl : Click here to reveal.
She knew there was another life. And she knew that it was in the City. She wasn’t a fool— she knew, too, that the City was the place where there was real ugliness— real violence, real despair— of a kind that her hometown had some of, but that somehow never became too awful.
The problem was, she had no real skills. She had charmed the teachers at school, so that she got by, but nothing more than that— and she hadn’t cared to remember or practice any of it.
So, even through she was frightened of going, sad to leave everyone (even her beloved labrador Joey— the City was no place for him), even though she had only a small pot of savings to get by on, she went.
It was a plum job.
If— and it seemed like an enormous if— she could get it.
She really, really, wanted to get it, because, honestly, the city was overwhelming her, frightening her, with its speed, its anonymity, its size, its coldness, and, also, how insanely expensive it was.
Picture: Easy, feeling lost in the City : Click here to reveal.
Her agency told her to go along, even though she told them she wasn’t going to get it. She researched the firm (in her superficial way)— real high-flyers, astonishing productivity from a small team, rapid growth of reputation, with a high-status clientele giving them real influence, they had made a big splash in the City.
The agency knew something she didn’t, though— that, whatever they had written on the job description, the three partners of ADD (known to their closer associates— with good reason— as Abuse, Degrade and Defile) wanted a gorgeous young innocent, whom they could mould— and they considered that Susan looked the part, and had some of the character asked for. They stood to get a large bonus if she was successful, since the requirements were of the kind that could never be written down. They had of course signed a very restrictive NDA to get the ADD contract, but ADD always considered it wise to buy discretion, as well as to impose it.
“Dress with extra-special care;” the agency had told her— “Make the most of yourself.”
She thought the office was amazing; a smart, new building, it was nevertheless solid and permanent feeling— very masculine, with rich, deep wood, bronze and leather, oozing wealth and class— and it was their own building, too, with the ADD nameplate solid on a big brass plate (traditional without being old-fashioned); obviously a firm with money to spend, and great judgement to go with it. Susan was impressed and awed— her certainty that she was not going to be good enough to get the job deepening.
Picture: Easy, arriving, impressed : Click here to reveal.
At the same time, she found herself desperately wanting to succeed— her insecurity, her shyness, her weakness, would all be changed, if she had this place as her foundation. She already knew that she wanted to belong here, in this place in which she felt herself to be prettier, more feminine, safer. Where it made perfect sense to be as pretty and feminine as she could be; as she liked to be.
And indeed her particular kind of beauty— girlish, with a sweet-sad face, coupled with a slim, elegant body that nevertheless curved in a way which invited attention— was enhanced by the surroundings, her prettiness looking particularly fragile and enticing against the heavy, rich power of the rooms.
She hesitates, her indecision and vulnerability entertainingly obvious to the watchers over the CCTV. Her habitual smile, pretty, but nervous— apologetic, advertising her vulnerability— is both cute and further suggests her suitability for the selfish, cruel games they like to play. There are some wolfish grins.
Picture: Easy, hesitant : Click here to reveal.
She doesn’t dress in an overtly sexy way— she is far too shy and unsure of herself to do that, but she has great taste, and knows that she is pretty, at least, that her shape is a good feature, so she dresses elegantly. She has in fact spent pretty much the last of her savings on today’s outfit.
She is met by the imposing, severe, obviously powerful person called Norah.
“Good afternoon, ah … Susan, is it? So many lovely girls here these last few days.”
The smile is not at all intended to encourage, but rather to add to the girl’s nerves. Everything is a test.
Norah looks— really looks— at Susan, who feels herself as if under a searchlight.
Picture: Norah, intimidating : Click here to reveal.
Nothing is said for what seems like long— very long— moments, until Susan is seriously unnerved, until; at last, the woman speaks;
“Tell me Susan— do you really want this job? Is there anything special about it? For you?”
It’s an unexpected question, but the answer gushed from Susan without her needing to think;
“Oh my gosh, yes! Such … such an amazing firm— these guys— I mean, what they’ve built! And … and this amazing building— so impressive— I know they had quite the hand in its design! This— this is exactly what I moved to the City for— to be able to be even a tiny part of something really … Really powerful.”
Susan has never made such a speech before. She’s flushed, her eyes sparkling, nervous— feeling that she has perhaps come across as an airhead.
Norah’s smile is cool, complacent, but she’s already mentally marked Susan’s file as ‘interesting’.
“Tell me … ah … oh yes, ‘Susan’— would you like me to give you some advice? To help you with this process? To help you with the Partners?”
Susan doesn’t quite answer the question— “The Partners? The Partners are going to interview me! Oh gosh, that’s … that’s …”
She tails off.
Norah’s smile is calculatedly motherly;
“Oh my dear, I do understand; you so young and inexperienced, them so powerful and successful— a little overwhelming, perhaps? But you see— this post— although not technically demanding, is an important one to them. They haven’t made this place what it is without incredible attention to detail. No position— however junior— is ever filled without the Partners’ involvement. This is a very tight ship.”
“But I asked you a question— and I’m afraid that it is a little black mark against you already, that you have not answered me, but indulged your own thoughts before answering— that’s not the way we interact with our betters here at ADD.”
Susan dithers, flushes, stutters;
“Oh! Oh! I’m so, so sorry. It’s just … you were so very kind as to ask me … Sorry! Sorry!”
For Norah’s eyes have narrowed— just a little— enough to make the highly sensitive Susan very nervous. She has met people before who are utterly impervious to her sweet and charming manner, and they make her quite jumpy. It seems that Norah is one of these. She hurries to switch mode into what has worked with such people before— abject submissiveness.
“Yes. Yes, please. I would very much like your advice. Thank you!”
Norah givers her a smile— this pretty little dove really is quite easy to manipulate— another mark of interest.
“Better. You will do to take that little lesson to heart, girl. Very well; my advice is simple. Undo one or even two buttons of your blouse before you go in.”
It’s as stark as that.
Susan is hard-pressed not to make her double-take as obvious as it might be. Confusion is in her mind. She has been trying— honestly, faking— the ‘professional’ manner she had assumed would be required of her, but this makes some things add up— the agency’s insistence that she apply, their advice to dress carefully.
This is a bimbo receptionist job. Nothing more. She will be hired based on her looks alone.
For a minute— perhaps more (Norah is patient, knowing that the girl has been dealt a hard blow— happy to have dealt it, interested in the response; Norah’s job is in many ways to put in place the necessary filters so that her brilliant but honestly opportunist and risk-tolerant bosses are preserved from the wrong kind of distractions)— for a minute, Susan is in dismay; she had no high expectations of her own role— but to be nothing more than eye-candy!
It takes her the time for the truth to surface— her truth. That for her, to be eye-candy in this place, would be an incredible position.
And maybe, high class eye-candy is the job for me? came the thought; unsettling at first, but in some way definitely appealing. High-status, low responsibility— and a reason to dress beautifully, act elegantly, charm and please people— all day long…
“Oh! Oh, sorry! Again! You must think me such a … Well. Anyway. Advice. Yes. Yes, thank you!”
Norah smiles again— a private, tight, self-satisfied smile; she has pre-conditioned the girl. Another mental tick against this Susan’s file, another little smoothing achieved for her bosses; Norah was not herself a person who could achieve power— not in the sophisticated world of the City at least— she was too brutal, too confrontational, too direct; but she was a masterful wielder of power, both deeply respectful of and loyal to those who would delegate it to her. She had found her home at ADD.
“Very well, pretty; let me do it for you.”
And Susan finds herself with no option (at least no option that would not lose her even her slim chance at the job), no matter how uncomfortable she feels with it, but to allow this woman to undo first two, then, after a judicial assessment (entirely for effect— more testing) three buttons on her blouse.
Picture: Norah unbuttons her : Click here to reveal.
“And let’s get rid of this cheap little bra. Don’t be silly, now— hold still; the Partners don’t hold with such for young women with firm ones like yours.”
And then something happens to Susan. She feels— intensely— just as she had often felt at home, when some gross boss tried to grope her— powerless, suffocating, stunned by the disrespect, somehow unable to resist, to protest. Only, what had always happened before was that a tide of disgust would rise from deep inside her at the grubbiness, she crudeness of it all, and her strength would come back and she’d push them away, yelling loud enough to frighten them, and quit her job immediately.
And now, here, in the City, in this expensive private office, being managed so smoothly, when she so wants to be here, to get the job, when Norah is so confident, so reasonable, when Norah does exactly the same thing as the grubby guys did, the powerlessness, the suffocation, the stunning impact is stronger, but no disgust arises. She doesn’t breathe, at all, while Norah’s hands are on her body; Norah’s touch, her manner is not grubby, sweaty, greedy— but cool, impersonal, practical, knowing; she’s managing me perfectly, so that it feels important, meaningful, validating even, to be treated like this.
And instead of the disgust— although very definitely arising from the same part of her body (she can feel it, deep in her pelvis) what comes over her, shamefully, deliciously, agonisingly, shocking, but too good not to give in to, even if she wasn’t somehow paralysed— what came over her was need; desire, arousal, excitement. An excitement which is totally passive— part of the paralysis, but as powerful as anything she has ever felt.
It lasts only a second or two, but Susan knows it is something— really, something. Frightening, but something she wants to know more about, feel again.
Norah, experienced, feels the tremors running through the pretty thing’s body, and her tight little smile softens a little, with satisfaction; this one has promise indeed!
She hooks a finger under the girl’s chin, forces eye contact, though the girl seems to be not fully present— lost inside herself for a couple of seconds; Norah waits until she surfaces— her eyes filled with wonder, shame, confusion; terribly vulnerable— and smiles again;
“There; that’s much better. No point making a fuss; that’s a little test you passed there— you might even do well, here, if you can be sensible, if you can learn to please.”
Susan can’t help it, although her voice is meek, soft;
“But … but my … my nipples are showing…”
And they are, pushing through the blouse, the hot pink of them colouring the thin white cotton (she had chosen this on purpose— so that the lace of her bra would show).
Norah smiles even more; “So they do, pretty girl, and they are bumping nicely; someone finds all this a little interesting, hmm? A bit hot and bothered? All to the good. Let’s give them a helping hand, shall we?”
And again, entirely practically, almost mechanically, Norah applies pressure with bony fingers and thumbs to the points of Susan’s breasts, and Susan is back in her passive, helpless state, only this time it comes on like a switch, and it feels better. Better, and more disturbing.
It lasts only a few seconds, though, leaving Susan once more mostly confused.
She just squeezed my nipples, hard, to get them stiff, actually hurt me! So that the Partners will see them better, know that I’m not wearing a bra— and … and I just let her. I … I can’t … Oh, my!
“That’s lovely, don’t you think? So pretty. No guarantees, but it can’t hurt a girl to present her assets well for the Partners, can it?”
Picture: Easy, her blouse opened : Click here to reveal.
Ushered in to the board-room before she has any time to process what has just been done to her, what just happened, she is a pale, pretty thing against an ocean of red leather and deep brown wood. She feels their eyes on her and blushes, looks down.
Still standing, for they haven’t asked her to sit, she feels her knees trembling slightly, before steeling herself to look up, to smile. She knows that this is what she must expect, at interviews— the men always look at her, and she always finds herself begging them, with her body language, to find her pretty. She always ends up feeling dirty if they don’t obviously appraise her, ashamed of thinking all men are like that, of her own dirty mind. Either that, or blushing furiously as she realises they really are staring at her breasts. This morning, especially after what has just happened, it’s all more intense, and she finds herself blushing, hotly.
Picture: Easy, into the boardroom : Click here to reveal.
She likes them, though. Three well dressed men, all a fair bit older than her, one probably late fifties, the other two forties, all well built, and fit looking, and with that incredible air of assuredness that she likes, that comes from an education that money has bought, and with having exceeded the expectations that education brought. A girl who worked here, under the protection of these men, would be safe from the world outside.
Picture: The Partners : Click here to reveal.
She smiles her little smile, soft, hopeful, and looks down. They still haven’t asked her to sit, or said anything at all. She is feeling increasingly jumpy. She really wants this to go well, but what do they want? Why don’t they speak?
Picture: Easy, facing the Partners : Click here to reveal.
At last, she can’t stand it any more, and, without really thinking, she says:
“Hi!”
Her voice comes out even more huskily than usual, soft and almost pathetic. Some small smiles from across the table, but still they don’t speak! She is blushing more than ever;
“Um … May … may I sit down?”
She can’t stand still, one foot lifts, twists, unaware of just how sexy, how inviting this looks— she hasn’t done it on purpose. She really is just naturally sexy.
The senior one speaks;
“We prefer you like this— will you mind standing for us?”
She is so grateful for a spoken word, that she answers without thinking about how odd this request is;
“No … no, of course not.”
Another pause, then the one on the left speaks;
“You’re exceptionally pretty, Susan; you have a very attractive figure, and you dress well, if a little boringly. You have only the minimum qualifications, weak experience, and some rather half-hearted recommendations.”
Susan visibly pales; her lip trembles, she catches it in her teeth. She can’t think of anything to say. At last, weakly, she says;
“I … I always try hard … to … to please.”
She cannot make herself meet their eyes, as all the interview technique books say you must. She keeps trying to look directly at them, but cannot keep it up, and drops her eyes again. This sets her pretty eyelashes fluttering. She knows she is failing— she can feel herself becoming less and less adult; all she wants is to ask them, like a little girl, if she can’t, please, pretty please, have the job? She’d— she blushes again at the thought— she’d probably ending up letting one of them fuck her, she thinks— be the stereotype sexy secretary. She wouldn’t even mind, she realises— not here. Except … except there are three of them, all looking at her in that way. And only one job. The blush deepens; she feels her heart pattering away. Successful corporate types don’t blush all the time, stare at the floor. She bites her lip.
“We’re certainly pleased to hear that. Eagerness to please is a key requirement. The job here is not highly demanding— we have Norah, and our junior Associates for that side of things, but we do require exceptional willingness to serve. We are looking for someone who can be elegant and glamorous, very beautifully behaved. We have a number of very powerful and demanding clients. They like beauty. They like beautiful girls who are prettily behaved, and eager to please.”
More silence. Susan cannot think of anything to say. She blushes again.
“Would you like that sort of job? To be decorative, eager to please, not have anything much to do? Would that suit you?”
“Um … I … I suppose …” she stops; can she really say yes to this? On the other hand, she finds she doesn’t want to say no, because that is not what he wants to hear, because that will be the end of her lovely little fantasy of working here; she swallows, steadies herself;
“I mean yes. Yes, definitely.”
“Excellent— please remember that decorative is what we are looking for, and make sure to hold yourself prettily at all times. Now, tell me; are you discreet? A quiet girl, or a party girl, always out on the town?”
“Oh … oh, I am fairly quiet, really. I don’t go out much.”
“Do you have a boyfriend? A gang of girls you go out with?”
“No … no … nothing … nothing like that.”
How can they ask such questions? Why is she answering them? Why does she simply want to say … and then, she is saying it;
“Sir. Sirs. I … I really like it here. … I want to be here, to come here every day. It’s perfect. I … will do … I mean … I don’t mind if …” she tails off, blushing crazily. What has she said? That will be it— they’ll be asking her to leave. She doesn’t even know really what she has meant.
There is a long, long pause, which the men enjoy, and which is hell for Susan.
Then;
“Well, that is interesting to hear— I’m sure it was sincerely meant, and it’s always nice to see enthusiasm. I … gentlemen? Yes, I think we’ve heard enough for today. That will be all, thank you.”
And, in response to some subtle signal, the older woman, Norah, comes into the room and firmly ushers her out.
Susan is sure that she’s blown it. Blown it badly.
She is on the verge of tears, trembling a little. An immense weight of sadness, of failure, of fear for her future in this big, cold City falls on her. She tries to pull herself together. After all, she had known she wouldn’t get the job. There will be other jobs. She tries to smile at Norah, though her eyes are awash with unshed tears (more unprofessional behaviour!);
“It’s … lovely here. . A lovely place to work. You’re very lucky.”
A silence. Norah doesn’t smile in the least, but she is looking calmly and steadily at Susan;
“You like it here, do you?”
Susan’s heart lurches, ridiculously — Why am I so pathetic? So stupid?
“Yes! Oh Yes— it seems marvellous— after all those soulless cubicle farms— a place with character … and … and such … strong … men to work for. But … I’d better go— I … I fluffed it— they don’t want me.”
“Perhaps. Listen; here’s my card. If you get called for a second interview, ring me. I may be able to help.”
“Do … do you think there’s a chance?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. Goodbye, now— I have work to do, and another candidate is due soon.”
And so Susan wanders home, to replay every awkward second of the interview in her mind a hundred times, to dream about the one on the left— the really handsome one, who had said she was pretty, and to wonder what she had really meant when she had said she ‘wouldn’t mind if…’
And to relive, again and again, her response when Norah had…
