“It’s lovely to meet you at last Anna. Come this way… here, take a seat.”
I sat down, crossed my legs primly, the skirt folding over my knee, sat upright to avoid pushing my jacket off my shoulders, a picture of professionalism. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, I’m a great admirer of your work.”
She smiled and sat on the edge of her desk, looking down at me. “I’m glad you did. Your resume made me realise I’m missing support in a key area.”
She detailed the role she’d created, apparently for me, and she’d done it well. Not the perfect job but one I could enjoy, and it would mean working for her. I had a professional interest, wanted to learn from her, loved the work she did but also how she did it, but that had led to a crush of a very personal nature. Which made the next part of the interview very awkward.
“Now,” she said, “your letter also interested me. I’m thinking you can help me with another need too.”
I looked at her in confusion which turned to shock as she reached into a bag on her desk and pulled out some clothing, baby blue in colour, that when she held it up to show me made me immediately blush.
I’d been distracted while writing to her, browsing a site that offered very expensive bespoke clothing. Somehow I must have included a link in my letter and she’d followed it and… bought it?
“I’m sorry,” I said, standing up, “I’ll go.”
She stopped me, her hand on my upper arm, pulling me towards the other door from her room. I started to cry, my dream job vanishing in humiliation, didn’t look at where she was taking me. It was only when she told me to stand still, unzipped my skirt, pulled that and my underwear down that I stopped and looked around.
It was a normal room in a normal house; if we’d been friends we’d have chatted in here rather than in her office. There was a large TV, a gorgeous painting on the wall, a long sofa that looked comfortable. She pushed me down to sit on it, told me to turn and lie down.
Emotional turmoil and confusion meant I didn’t protest. Maybe the hope my crush had caused enticed me to cooperate. So I lifted my hips when asked, didn’t try and prevent her fastening a thick disposable diaper to me, didn’t complain when that baby blue garment was slid up my legs.
By then it was too late. She locked it in place, tight enough that I’d never pull it down my hips, a diaper cover that stopped me getting to the diaper she’d fitted, gave me no choice about using it. I sat up, looked at her in confusion, no longer crying but not far away.
She bent down, picked up my skirt, handed it to me. “This won’t be needed now. I’ll buy you something shorter that fits more comfortably over your diaper. The job comes with a dress code, and you appear to like it.”
I blushed and looked at her in astonishment. It seems my dream job was perfect after all.