A Hard ANWO Truth Ch. 01

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Chapter 1: The Interview

[Description: A dominant Asian man helps a white sissy discover her truth.]

I could feel my heartbeat intensify as the numbers on the elevator increased.

Floor 11. Floor 12. Floor 13.

It was my sixth interview since graduating college. I wasn't a bad student per se, but my B-average GPA was not a recipe for success in the competitive San Francisco finance market.

Floor 18. Floor 19. Floor 20.

Though perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised. I was one of the approximately 25% of graduates from my uni who was not Asian. And was it a coincidence that my grades were in the bottom quartile? Of course, I knew going into my studies that my white colleagues and I would have a difficult time competing with the international students on math and econometrics. But was there some other deficiency in my study habits? Perhaps I had weak work ethic?

Floor 29. Floor 30. Floor 31.

My heart raced as the elevator approached the 52nd floor. Why should I expect this interview to go any better than the others? Indeed, why should I expect this interview to better than *anything* in my miserable life. I was a 5'8" white boy with no job, no money, no family connections, and no girlfriend.

Floor 50. Floor 51. Floor 52.

The chrome elevator doors opened. I inhaled before stepping across the threshold.

Before me laid the nicest office interior I had ever seen. The walls were lined with spacious, exterior offices with translucent glass walls and heavy wooden doors. Though I could only see into a few offices from the elevator bank, each occupant was an Asian man wearing a smart business suit.

The building's interior was filled by small cubicles. It struck me that each cubicle was occupied by a thin Caucasian woman. Each woman had her hair up in a ponytail or bun.   I knew that it was common in financial firms for associates to take exterior offices while their assistants and support staff took the interior cubicles.   But why was the personnel here so dichotomously homogenous?

As my eyes scanned the office, they rested upon the reception desk. Behind the desk, the receptionist's face was buried in a stack of paperwork. Though her blonde curls partially obscured her eyes, I could see her full, heart-shaped red lips pursed in focus. Her deep-necked, tight dress accentuated her narrow shoulders and the gentle curve of her breasts. Her hands--despite their perfectly manicured and overly long nails--scribbled frantically with a silver pen.

I stood dumbfounded for a moment. I didn't often have a chance to interact with women like her. As if I needed anything to add to my anxiety!

I eventually found the courage to scuffle forward.

"Name?" The woman spoke sharply without lifting her head.

"Alex Riley," I squeaked. My voice had a terrible habit of raising several octaves when I was nervous.

Still without raising her head, the woman handed me a clipboard with a pen.

"Fill this out and have a seat."

Without responding, I obeyed her casual command.

Fifteen minutes passed before the door to a corner office opened. Out from the office a tall, slender man strode confidently toward reception. He walked with a flowing grace that only Asian men carried themselves with, while holding his head high and square. Something about the man signaled a sense of order and tranquility.

"Heather," the man spoke softly but authoritatively, "Is my ten o'clock here?"

The woman--Heather--lifted her head and smiled. Her entire demeanor changed upon seeing this man. Her face lit up, she immediately dropped her pen, and she began nervously toying with a strand of hair.

"Yes, John!" The woman's voice dripped with enthusiasm as she leaned forward, further accentuating her breasts. "Alex is waiting for you."

This man--John--approached Heather's desk and began murmuring to her quietly. As he spoke, Heather continued to lean forward. Her head was slightly bowed, and compensated by looking up with doe eyes to meet his gaze. I could not understand what John was saying, but Heather was hanging on every word.

John then turned to me and stuck out his hand.

"Alex? Nice to meet you. Please follow me."

I reached out my hand in kind. John's grip fully enveloped mine. His firm grasp conveyed his control over the situation. I followed John to his office.

As John spoke, I had difficulty focusing on his words. I knew in my heart of hearts that I was in an office in which I didn't belong, applying to a job I was not qualified for, and wasting the time of this professional, competent man who had ascended farther than I ever would.

And beside my nervousness, as John's questions progressed, I quickly learned that I was fish out of water. I gave no intelligent answers to his questions, and I could tell by the increasingly annoyed expression on John's face that the he knew--like I knew--that this white boy was wasting his time. After about fifteen minutes, John stood up.

"Thank you for your time, Alex. Please follow me to the lobby. We will get back to you soon."

Of course they would. Like my other interviews, the decision had been made about the same time it started. The knowledge of my failure weighed upon me like a ton of bricks.

As I followed John back to the room elevators, I notice that each of the female staff members wore the same shade of tight, grey skirt and ruffled, deep necked blouse. The outfits expertly accentuates their bodies while maintaining a classy professionalism. Did the firm have an on-call tailor?

As we passed the reception desk, Heather beamed at John. For the first time, I saw her bright blue eyes. It occurred to me then that her hair and eyes were each the same color as mine. I tried to make eye contact: she fully ignored me.

**

Later that evening, I wandered into a local bar. Drowning my failures at home seemed unhealthy. And lonely. So with the little cash I had left, I thought I would drown my failures at the pub where I would at least have company.

As I stepped into the bar, a new waitress immediately. caught my attention. She was stunning. Her auburn hair rested gently on her delicate shoulders, swaying softly as she scurried about. Her lilac tank top exposed just enough of her cleavage to hold interest without appearing intentional. Her little skirt accentuated her swaying hips as she worked.

After staring stupidly for several moments, I approached the bar.

"E-excuse me," I stammered. "C-can I have a beer?"

The bartender ignored me. I tried unsuccessfully for several more moments to catch her attention. What was this girl's deal?

That was when I saw him. At the end of the bar, drinking from a thin glass, John was working at a laptop. He noticed me at the same time from the corner of his eye. He looked over at me, eying me up and down.

"Alex," John smirked and closed his laptop, "Funny seeing you here. Please, have a seat."

John reached down and pulled out the stool next to him. I wordlessly obeyed, scuffling over and sitting next to him.

"Erika," John said, pushing his empty glass toward the bartender. "Another beer for me. And a glass of white wine for Alex here."

At John's words, the bartender's eyes lit up. She quickly took his empty glass, and with quick, expert movements, quickly had a glass of beer and wine in front of John and me. I noted that she made butterfly eyes at John the entire time she worked.

I couldn't help but recall the contrast in the way that Heather spoke to me vs. John. Why was it that both Heather and Erika--these two beautiful white women--fawned over serving John while fully ignoring me? Was it his wealth? Was it the authority with which he spoke? What was I missing?

John's hand on my shoulder interrupted my rumination.

"Alex," John began to speak. By contrast to his earlier cold, professional tone, he sounded almost jovial. "I suspect you know how that interview went, right?"

I hesitated. Was this a test? Should I have bluffed, insisting that I did amazingly? The look on John's eyes gave me the answer.

"Not well," I said with my head slightly bowed.

"Yeah," John nodded with a laugh, "Not well."

Several moments passed in silence.

"Can I confess something?" John turned his stool to face me.

"W-well, of course," I stammered. It felt off--wrong even--for John to ask my permission.

"I thought that Alex was a girl's name when I saw your resume," John looked slightly chagrined. He added quickly: "Not that you wouldn't have gotten the interview if I had known."

I blushed. "Yeah. Not the first time thats happened."

"You recently graduated, yes? How are your prospects?"

John had seen my CV and my transcripts. So there was no use lying. I divulged to John my failed interviews, my (many) applications with no responses, that I had no friends in this new city, and that my funds were dwindling. John listened patiently and thoughtfully as I bore my entire life story of social, academic, and professional failures.

"Tell you what," John spoke slowly, "You're not a great fit to be an associate."

Tell me something I don't know.

"But," John continued, "That's not to say that you don't have a *future* at a firm like ours. One of our secretaries--though I suppose the polite term is 'administrative assistants' now--is going on maternity leave. Why don't you fill in for her just while she's out? It sounds like you could at least use the paycheck."

I stared at John. A secretary? Did he just reject my application and offer me a job as his *secret*a*ry*? I didn't know what to say. Working as an assistant to the type of professionals that I wanted to be, particularly those classmates I went to school with, would be humiliating. But I desperately needed the cash. And who knows? Maybe if I proved myself, this could be my foot in the door to getting the job that I want.

"Thank you," I said, "I'd love to take on the role of an assistant."

**

The next morning, I found myself in the same slow elevator ride to the 52nd floor. As I watched the numbers ascend, I tugged at my loosely fitting black slacks and blue button-down. It was difficult for a scrawny white boy like me to find professional men's clothes that fit well.

As I exited the elevator, Heather looked up at me impatiently. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me, then slowly looked me up and down. It occurred to me that this was the first time that Heather had looked directly at me. Though it felt like she was sizing me up like a piece of meat rather than truly *seeing* me.

"That outfit won't do," Heather said flatly.

"What do yo mean?" I asked.

"I mean that your outfit is wrong," Heather scoffed and shook her head. The way she spoke to me make me feel like the dumbest loser alive. And I could not help but notice the stark contrast to the way she spoke to John.

Heather stood up and began walking down the hall. "Follow me," she shouted blithely over her shoulder. I obeyed, shuffling quietly behind her. She took me to a small room at the end of the hallway.

Heather dug through a supply closet and threw two articles of clothing at me.

"Put these on," she said flatly.

I lifted up the thin, grey pant and the white blouse. This was essentially the same uniform that I saw the all-female staff in yesterday, but with a pant rather than a skirt.

"Umm," I looked at her quizzically, "This is a woman's blouse. And judging by which side the button is on, I think this is a woman's pant too."

Heather was silent for a moment. "Alex," she said, addressing me by name for the very first time, "This firm values order. Things don't work unless everyone knows their place. Is that going to be a problem? Or do I need to talk to John about whether this job is a good fit for you?"

I gulped at her implied threat. Despite the suboptimal circumstances, I knew that I was lucky to have been offered this job. "N-no. I'll try it on and see if it fits."

I reasoned with myself that there was no way I would be able to fit into a woman's pant and sleeveless blouse. *Surely* Heather would let me put my old clothes back on as soon as she saw how ridiculous I looked. I only needed to humor her so as not to appear defiant.

A few minutes later, I stepped out of the supply closet wearing my new 'uniform.' To my astonishment, the outfit fit me significantly better than my boy clothes. The white blouse accentuated my delicate waist and fit my shoulders snugly. My arms--which were never very thick--hung limply at my sides. The grey pants were snug against my hips, thighs, and ass. Even though I had no 'cleavage' to speak of over my bony chest, the top of the blouse aligned perfectly with my clavicle

For the first time ever, Heather seemed pleased to look at me.

"That's better," Heather cooed, her voice softening, "Now let's get you started for your first day."

My face was red. So I *would* be wearing this humiliating outfit. Maybe all hope wasn't lost: I thought I might go to the restroom and see if I could adjust things in the mirror. Maybe I didn't look as effeminate as I felt?

"Where is the bathroom," I asked?

"The men's room is near the elevator lobby. But that is *only* for associates and partners. The support staff's restroom is on the other side of the floor. Follow me."

Heather led me down the hall to the 'staff restroom.' It struck me that it was a single door, with no sign indicating it to be the men's room or the ladies' room. Naturally, I assumed it to be a single-stall gender-neutral bathroom.

I was shocked to see a row of stalls, a vanity mirror, and no urinals. I turned right around and confronted Heather.

"W-wait," I could barely speak, "I think there's some mistake. This is the ladies room!"

Heather stared at me with that same cocktail of disgust and condescension.

"Maybe you didn't hear me, Alex. That's the *staff* restroom. If using your assigned bathroom is going to create an issue, maybe this won't work out."

I gawked for only a moment before controlling my expression. I had never had the need to go inside--much less use--the ladies' room. But I knew that I was desperate, and had exactly zero leverage in my favor. Given my job prospects--and that being fired on the first day of my post-college job would not help those prospects--I had no choice but to suck it up and obey.

I hung my head, defeated. I turned back around and entered the 'staff' bathroom.

I was shocked at what I saw in the full-length mirror. My uniform accentuated the roundness of my hips and thighs. My arms looked even more dainty than they would in a more traditional sleeveless shirt. As I turned around, I saw that the grey outline of my ass left little to the imagination. Indeed, the seems were perfectly tailored to lift and accentuate my backside, showing it off for anyone and everyone behind me. This outfit made my body look excruciatingly soft and bubbly. If not for my flat chest, I may have passed as a woman.

It also occurred to me that the seam in my groin completely flattened any semblance of a 'bulge.' Of course, I have never been particularly 'gifted' in that department. But these tailoring of these pants pushed everything down and uncomfortably between my legs, giving the appearance of a perfectly flat front.

I was gutted.

I thought that I might as well use the facilities while I was here, so I hurried into the nearest stall. I was further astonished to find that the seat was glued to the rim of the toilet.

'What the hell,' I thought, 'Are they trying to force me to sit to pee?'

I decided that this would be a battle for another day. I slid down my emasculating pant, sat on the seat, and emptied my bladder. After washing up, I stepped out to an inpatient Heather.

"Took you long enough," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. She led me to a small cubicle.

The first thing I saw was the obnoxiously pink set of floral decorations. The cubical was decked out with the gawdiest sets of floral and bubbly letters, with pink post-it notes full of to-do items.

"Can I ... change things up a bit?" I asked Heather. There was no way in hell I would be working in a cubicle that looked like a bubblegum pop album cover.

"No," Heather said flatly. "You're just filling in for Lily while she's on maternity leave. She put a lot of work in decorating her workspace, and we don't need you fucking that up."

It finally occurred to me to ask the obvious question. A question I should have asked John when he offered me the job.

"How long is Lily on maternity leave?"

"Our firm offers six months of maternity leave," Heather answered robotically, as if she had this conversation many times before. But in a hushed voice, she clarified: "And between you and me, when these assistant girls get knocked up by the associates, they rarely come back. They just take the six months of pay and quit, living their stay-at-home-mom fantasies."

Heather spoke as if she was both disgusted and jealous. Of course, Heather's little gossip bomb raised many questions.

"So, wait," I was shaking my head, trying to process what I just heard, "You're saying that Lily was an assistant here until an associate knocked her up? Was that associate... her boss?

"Yup. Happens all the time, to be honest. Her boss, Ken, started inviting her to dinner after work. Just a few months later, she started showing with her little half-Asian-half-white baby bump. So while Lily's on maternity leave, you'll be working filling in, doing whatever Ken needs you to do."

A complex cocktail of emotions flooded through me. First, I was jealous that Ken--a man who probably majored in the same area as me and who worked in the job that I wanted but couldn't get--had such success. Second, I was worried about working directly under a man who clearly did not respect personal boundaries. Especially given the bizarre work conditions at this firm. Third, I secretly hoped... no, I stopped that thought in its tracks.

"Anyway," Heather continued, "Ken is quite exacting on his assistants. He likes his coffee dark, with one ounce of oat milk for every ounce of coffee. Don't get it wrong, or else he'll know. And one last thing: at our firm, when an assistant is in the same room as an associate, you are not to leave without his permission. This is to make sure that we are not leaving without doing everything we can to serve them. Understood?"

I made no attempt to hide my incredulity. I do not think I would have accepted John's job offer had I known about these humiliating conditions. How could any workplace subject its employees to this kind of treatment?

But I remembered my series of academic and professional failures. Maybe I was doomed to work in such humiliating conditions as penance for my own inadequacies. I felt my body slump forward as I accepted my situation.

"Understood," I said, defeated.

***

Over the next hour, the associates began filing in. Each gave a confident, masculine energy. And yet they each walked with an upright, professional confidence. In a strange way, the sheer orderliness of it gave me an unexplained comfort. And every associate was an Asian man.

As I sat in my over-the-top girlish cubicle, I watched the empty office with the 'Ken' nameplate, hoping to see who my boss would be for the next six months. My question was quickly answered, as a golden-skinned man with high cheekbones and a square jaw strolled into the office and shut the door. I barely had a look at him, but could tell that he was slightly taller than me. He wore a blue, pinstriped suit that accentuated his angular features.

A notification suddenly appeared on my computer screen:

{Coffee?}-Ken

My first communication with my new boss. And he was demanding I fetch him some coffee.... No 'hello.' No 'nice to meet you let me introduce myself.' Just, 'Coffee?'

I exhaled and pursed my lips. These would be a long six months.

I went to the break room and assembled Ken's coffee exactly as instructed: eight ounces of black, dark roast coffee stirred with one ounce of oat milk. I carried the hot cup with both hands down the hall--praying to be invisible in my humiliatingly revealing outfit--and knocked on Ken's door.

"Come in!"

I gently opened the door and stepped in.

"Your coffee," I spoke meekly and set it on Ken's desk. Ken said nothing, but looked me up and down with a subtle grin.

"So you're the newbie?" Ken's grin widened slightly as he spoke to me.

"Yes," I spoke softly. The tightness of my blouse made it difficult to speak with my diaphragm, thereby making my words come out in a soft, light tone.

"I'm glad," Ken continued, "It's tough to find a good secretary these days."

I winced at his word choice. Ken ignored me

"Good work on the coffee. I'm impressed that you did your homework. And I'm *particularly* impressed by how the uniform looks on you."

The way Ken's eyes looked me up and down sent shivers through my spine. It was a feeling I was not familiar with. I turned around to leave.

"Ahem," Ken cleared his throat. I remembered what Heather told me, then inhaled sharply: I was going to have to ask Ken's permission to leave his office.

I turned back around to face Ken, whose eyes had obviously been fixated on my ass. I tried to ignore his ogling.

"Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave?"

Ken looked at me silently for a moment. As our eyes met, we both knew that Ken held the power here. Whether I would be allowed to go back to my desk, or whether I would stand here was fully up to Ken. Given the way he had ogled me, this norm seemed more intended to give Ken 'access' to me, as if I were some piece of ass that was only allowed to be in the spaces that Ken allowed.

"That's better," Ken said. "And a word of advice. Some of us older associates prefer their secretaries refer to them as 'Sir.' Now, I like to think I'm not too old fashioned. But is that something you can work with, Hun?"

My mouth dropped open and my eyes widened. Was he serious?! Ken looked at me, stone-faced, waiting for my reply. I knew this tactic: Make the other person speak. We stared at each other for several moments, sizing each other up. But eventually, and inevitably, I lost our silent power struggle.

My shoulders dropped, defeated. My head bowed slightly and I looked down, no longer able to meet Ken's gaze.

"Yes, Sir. May I leave your office, Sir?"

"Good girl," Ken replied. "Go on and get yourself back to your cubicle. And I'll take another cup of coffee at ten, please."

***TO BE CONTINUED***