by John Norman
“Good,” said one of the other men too. I could see they were pleased with me. This pleased me, too. I now felt more confident that they might hire me. For whatever object they wanted me I could sense that my beauty was not irrelevant to it. This pleased me, as I am vain of my beauty. Why should a girl not use her beauty to serve her ends, and to get ahead?
“Now face the camera directly, with your left hand on your thigh and your right hand on your knee,” said the man, “and assume an expression of wounded feelings. Good.”
“She is good,” said one of the other men.
“Yes,” agreed another.
“Now assume an expression of apprehension,” said the first man.
“Good,” said the second man.
I normally worked at the perfume and notions counter in a large department store on Long Island. It was there that I had been discovered, so to speak. I had become aware, suddenly, that I was the object of the attention of the man who was now directing this photography session. “It is incredible,” he had said, as though to himself. He seemed unable to take his eyes from me. I was used to men looking at me, of course, usually pretending not to, usually furtively. I had been chosen to work at that counter because I was pretty, much like pretty girls often being selected to sell lingerie.
Such employee placements are often a portion of a store’s merchandising strategies. But this man was not looking at me in the same way that I was accustomed to being looked at. He was not looking at me furtively, pretending to be interested in something else, or even frankly, like some men of Earth, rare men, who look honestly upon a female, seeing her as what she is, a female. Rather he was looking at me as though he could scarcely believe what he was seeing, as though I might be someone else, someone he perhaps knew from somewhere, someone be would not have expected to have found in such a place. He approached the counter. He regarded me, intently.
I think I had never been so closely regarded. I was uneasy.
“May I help you?” I asked.
He said something to me in a language I did not understand. I regarded him, puzzled.
“May I help you?” I asked.
“This is incredibly fortunate,” he said, softly.
“Sir?” I asked.
“You bear a striking resemblance to someone else,” he said. “It is remarkable.”
I did not speak. I had thought he might have begun by asking if he did not know me from somewhere. That stratagem, the pretext of a possible earlier acquaintance, hackneyed and familiar though it might be, still affords a societally acceptable approach to a female. If she is unreceptive, he may, of course, courteously withdraw. It was merely a case of mistaken identity.
“It was almost as though it was she,” he said.
I did not encourage him. I did not, for example, ask who this other person might be.
“I do not think I know you,” I said.
“No,” he smiled. “I would not think that you would.”
“I am also sure that I am not this other person,” I said.
“No,” he said. “I can see now, clearly, that you are not. Too, I can sense that you lack her incisive intellect, her ferocity, her hardness, her cruelty.”
“I am busy,” I said.
“No,” he said, his eyes suddenly hard. “You are not.”
I shrugged, as though irritated. But I was frightened, and I think he knew it. I was then terribly conscious of his maleness and power. He was not the sort of man to whom a woman might speak in such a manner. He was rather the sort of man whom a woman must obey.
“May I help you?” I asked.
“Show me your most expensive perfume,” he said.
I showed it to him.
“Sell it to me,” he said. “Interest me in it.”
“Please,” I said.
“Display it,” he said. “Am I not a customer?”
I looked at him.
“Spray some of it upon your wrist,” he said. “I shall see if it interests me.”
I did so.
“Extend your wrist,” he said. I did so, with the palm upward. This is an extremely erotically charged gesture, of course, extending the delicate wrist, perfumed, to the male, with the tender, vulnerable palm upward.
He took my wrist in both his hands. I shivered. I knew I could never break that grip.
He put down his face, over my wrist, and inhaled, deeply, intimately, sensuously.
I shuddered.
“It is acceptable,” he said, lifting his head.
“It is our most expensive perfume,” I said. He had not yet released my wrist.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I cannot afford it,” I said.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said.
He released my wrist. “I shall take it,” he said. “Wrap it,” he said, “as a gift.”
“It is seven hundred dollars an ounce,” I said.
“It is overpriced for its quality,” he said.
“It is our best,” I said.
He drew a wallet from his jacket and withdrew several hundred-dollar bills from its recesses. I could see that it held many more bills.
Trembling, I wrapped the perfume. When I had finished I took the money.
“There is a thousand dollars here,” I said, moving as though to return the extra bills.
“Keep what you do not need for the price and tax,” he said.
“Keep it?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“It is over two hundred dollars,” I said.
“Keep it,” he said.
While I busied myself with the register he wrote something on a small card.
“Thank you,” I said, uncertainly, sliding the tiny package toward him with the tips of my fingers.
He pushed it back towards me. “It is for you,” he said, “of course.”
“For me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “When is your day off?”
“Wednesday,” I said.
“Come to this address,” he said, “at ten o’clock in the morning, this coming Wednesday.” He placed the small white card before me.
I looked at the address. It was in Manhattan.
“We shall be expecting you,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“It is the studio of a friend of mine,” he said, “a photographer. He does a great deal of work for certain advertising agencies.”
“Oh,” I said. I sensed that this might be the opening to a career, of great interest to me, one in which I might be able to capitalize, and significantly, on my beauty.
“I see that you are interested,” he said.
I shrugged. “Not really,” I said. I would play hard to get.
“We do not accept prevarication in a female,” he said.
“A female?” I said. I felt for a moment I had been reduced to my radical essentials.
“Yes,” he said.
I felt angry and, admittedly, not a little bit aroused by his handling of me.
“I hardly know you. I can’t accept this money, or this perfume,” I said.
“But you will accept it, won’t you?” he said.
I put down my head. “Yes,” I said.
“We shall see you Wednesday,” he said.
“I shan’t be coming,” I said.
“We recognize that your time, as of now,” he said, “is valuable.”
I did not understand what he meant by the expression ‘as of now’.
He then pressed into my hand the round, heavy, yellowish object which I had later taken to the shop of a numismatist, and then, later, on the advice of the numismatist, to the office of a specialist in the authentication of coins.
“This is valuable,” he said, “more so elsewhere than here.”
Again I did not understand the nuances of his speech. I looked down at the object in my hand. I assumed, from its shape and appearance, it might be some kind of coin. If so, however, I certainly
did not recognize it. It seemed alien to me, totally unfamiliar. I clutched it, then, however, for he had told me that it was valuable.
“You are a greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he said.
“I shan’t be coming,” I told him, petulantly. He made me angry. Too, he made me feel terribly uneasy. He made me feel uncomfortably, and deeply, female. Such feelings were terribly stimulating, but also, in their way, terribly unsettling.
I did not know, really, how to cope with them.
I decided I would take the beginning of next week off from work. I would try to find out something about the yellowish object. I would, then try to think things out. Then, at my leisure, I would decide whether or not to go to the stipulated address on Wednesday.
“We shall see you on Wednesday,” he said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Wear the perfume,” he said.
“All right,” I said.
***
“Now kneel in the sand, facing the camera,” said the man.
“Kneel back on your heels. Place the palms of your hands down on your thighs. Lift your head. Put your shoulders back. Spread your knees.”
“Excellent,” said one of the men.
“Now assume the same position,” said the man, “but in profile to the camera, your left side facing us. Keep your head up. Put your shoulders back more. Good. Splendid!”
“Splendid!” said another man.
“Now face the camera on all fours,” he said. “Good. Now lift your head and purse your lips, as though to kiss. More. More sensuously. Now close your eyes. Good.”
“Splendid,” said another man.
“Open your eyes now and unpurse your lips, and turn, staying on all fours, so that your left side is facing us, so that we have your profile to the camera.”
I complied.
“Now put your head down,” he said.
I did so.
“Splendid!” said one of the men.
“Splendid!” said another.
I was keenly conscious of the radical submissiveness of this posture. I almost trembled with arousal. I dared not even think of the effect of such a posture upon a woman if she had been put in it by men who were truly in power over her.
“She will do very nicely, I think,” said the first man.
“She will be ideal for our purposes,” said another.
“You may get up, Tiffany,” said the first man.
I rose to my feet. I gathered that the session was over. I was confident that they were pleased.
The fan, which had produced the surrogate of an ocean breeze, was turned off. The photographer began to extinguish his lights and put them to the side, in a line against the wall.
One of the men turned off the projector and the beach scene which had been projected behind me vanished, leaving in its place a featureless, opaque, white screen.
“You are very pretty, Tiffany, Miss Collins,” said the first man. “And you did very well.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You may now change,” he said.
“Very well,” I said. I feared I might be being dismissed. I returned to the dressing room. I could hear them talking outside, but I could not make out what they were saying. In a few moments I emerged from the dressing room. I wore a man-tailored, beige blazer with a rather severe, matching pleated skirt, with a rather strict white blouse, of synthetic material, and medium heels. I had wished to present a rather business-like look. I did not wish to wear particularly feminine clothes as men are inclined to see women who do this as females, and behave towards them and, relate to them as such.
Women are no longer forced, in effect, to dress as females, in particular ways, with all the dynamic, attendant psychological effects for both sexes which might accrue to such a practice.
I then stood before the fellow who seemed to be in charge.
I saw that be did not particularly approve of my ensemble. I hoped this would not diminish my chances of meeting whatever requirements they might have in mind with respect to my acceptability. Perhaps I should have worn something more feminine. After all, I was a woman. Too, the shorts and blouse in which I had been placed, for the pictures, left little doubt in my mind that my femaleness, at least in some sense or another, might well be pertinent to their interests.
“Perhaps I should have worn something less severe?” I said, tentatively. I did want to be pleasing to them. Obviously they had a good deal of money to spend. Too, interestingly, they were the sort of men towards whom, independently, I felt a strong, disturbing, almost inexplicable desire to be pleasing.
“Your attire does seem a bit defensive,” he said.
“Perhaps,” I smiled. How interestingly, I thought, he had put that.
“Such defenses, of course,” he said, “may be removed from a woman.”
His remark, rightly or wrongly, struck me as being broader and deeper in its meaning than the mere bantering witticism it might have been taken to be. It suggested more to me, unsettling me, than a mere change of, or removal of, attire. It suggested to me, for a moment, a reference to a world in which a woman might be without defenses, fully, a world in which she was simply not permitted defenses.
“Perhaps I should have worn something more feminine,” I said.
He regarded me, appraisingly. I sensed that he was looking past the severe man-tailored blazer, the rather strict blouse, the rather strict, beige pleated skirt. As they had had me pose in the shorts and blouse, and had had me move, I was sure they had little doubt, for most practical purposes, as to what I looked like.
“If you are selected,” he said, “any apparel which you might receive, I assure you, will leave little doubt as to your femininity.”
“If I am selected?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“It is my hope that I pleased you,” I said. “I thought you were pleased.” One of the men, I recalled, had thought that I might be ideal for their purposes.
“We are pleased,” he said, “very. You did very well.”
“When will you be able to make your decision?” I asked. “When will I learn whether or not I have been selected?”
“For one thing,” said the man, “you have already been selected.”
One of the men laughed.
“That decision we are empowered to make,” said the first man. “The second decision, that with respect to the more important post, so to speak, of necessity, must be made elsewhere.”
“May I call you?” I asked.
“We have your number,” he said.
“I understand,” I said. I was not really displeased, for he had told me that for one thing, at any rate, I had already been selected.
“Process the photos, immediately,” he said to the photographer.
The photographer nodded.
They were apparently going to proceed expeditiously in the matter. This pleased me. I do not like to wait.
“When do you think you will know,” I asked, “—about the more important post?”
“it will take at least several days,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
“Come here,” he said, beckoning to me. I went and stood quite close to him. “Put down your head,” he said. I did so, and he, moving behind me, and pulling the collar of my blouse out a bit with his finger, put his head down, close to the side of my face, by my neck. He inhaled, deeply.
“Yes,” I said, “I am wearing the perfume, as you asked.”
“As I commanded,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, softly, rather startled at myself, “as you commanded.” I then left. I wore his perfume.
Chapter 2 - THE CRATE
I turned off the shower.
It must have been about ten minutes after eight in the evening. It was now some six weeks after my test, or interview, or whatever it had been, in the photographer’s studio. On each Monday of these six weeks I had received in the mail, in a plain white envelope without a return address, a one-hundred-dollar bill
. This money, I had gathered, was in the nature of some sort of a retainer. I recalled that the man who had first seen me at the perfume counter, he who seemed to be in charge of the group, had said that he recognized that my time, as of now, was valuable. I was still not clear on what he had meant by the phrase ‘as of now’. These bills, until a few days ago, had been my only evidence that the men had not forgotten me. Then, on a Monday evening, a few days ago, the Monday before last, at eight o’clock, I had received a phone call. I had returned home to my small apartment only a few minutes earlier, from the local supermarket.
I was putting away groceries and was not thinking of the men at all. I had, to be sure, taken the hundred-dollar bill from the mail box earlier and put it in my dresser. This had become for me, however, almost routine. I was, at any rate, not thinking of the men. When the phone rang my first reaction was one of irritation. I picked up the phone. “Hello,” I said. “Hello?” Then I was suddenly afraid. I was not sure there was someone on the line. “Hello?” I said. Then, after a moment’s silence, a male voice on the other end of the line spoke quietly and precisely. I did not recognize the voice.
“You have been selected,” it said. “Hello!” I said. “Hello! Who is this?” Then the line was dead. He had hung up. The next two nights I waited by the phone at eight o’clock. It was silent. It rang, however, on Thursday, precisely at eight. I seized the receiver from its hook. I was told to report the next evening to the southwest corner of a given intersection in Manhattan at precisely eight P.M. There I would be picked up by a limousine.
I was almost sick with relief when I saw that the man I knew, he whom I had met at the perfume counter, he who had seemed in charge of the others, was in the limousine. The other two were with him, too, one with him in the back seat and one riding beside the driver. I did not recognize the driver.
“Congratulations, Miss Collins!” he said, warmly. “You have been fully approved. You qualify with flying colors, as I had thought you would, on all counts.”
“Wonderful!” I said.
The driver had now left the vehicle and come about, to open the door. The man I knew stepped out, and, while the driver held the door, motioned that I might enter. I did so, and then he entered behind me. The driver shut the door, and returned about the vehicle to his place. I was sitting between the two men in the back of the limousine.