Shem the Penman
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- Apr 3, 2001
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[Continuing my occasional reposts of old material.]
GETTING THE JOB
another one of those stories
UNDER 18? GET A JOB AND QUIT WASTING YOUR TIME READING THIS JUNK.
PLACEMENT INTERVIEW GUIDELINES: Listen carefully. Do whatever you are told to, without question. Speak only when spoken to, and then answer promptly and to the point.
Elise glanced down at the paper in her hand for the third time. It sounded so weird ... but she'd been looking for a job for two months now, her bank account was nearly flat, and nowhere else was hiring. And Palmer Industries was supposed to pay well. But the interview might be tougher than she'd thought; the last applicant had hurried out red-faced and disheveled, tears streaking her face, and left the room without looking at Elise or anyone else. She could only hope she did better.
"Ms. Brenner," the receptionist said, gesturing to a door behind her. "The placement director is ready for you now." Elise rose and crossed the waiting room, swinging open the door. Beyond it was a short corridor, then another door. Both doors were thickly padded. _It's like an airlock_, she told herself, her sense of unease growing as she pushed open the second door.
At least what lay beyond looked fairly normal. It was a generic office, with white-painted cinderblock walls, a neutral-colored carpet, and a broad desk. In a chair behind the desk sat the placement director. To her surprise, he was young, the same age as she was, and dressed in jeans and a work shirt. Elise, in her "businesswoman" blouse, jacket, skirt, stockings, and pumps, immediately felt overdressed. She touched her light brown hair self-consciously for a moment. A nameplate on the desk read MR. MARTIN. She almost said hello, but then remembered the paper's directions and paused uncertainly by the door.
"Sit down, Ms. Brenner," Mr. Martin said, waving to the chair in front of his desk. Elise seated herself, the door swinging noiselessly closed behind her. "I've been looking over your resume. It's very impressive. I think you'll do well at Palmer Industries."
Since that didn't seem to call for a direct answer, Elise remained silent. Was it going to be this easy?
"Now, all we have to do is figure out where you'll be working in our company. You see, we do it a bit differently than other organizations; instead of hiring people for a particular job, we hire them and then give them a series of tests to determine which job they're suited for. We're looking for people who combine determination and tough-mindedness with sensitivity. If you have those qualities, you'll go far with us. Shall we begin? Take off your shoes."
Elise stared at him, not certain she'd heard right.
"Am I making myself unclear, Ms. Brenner?"
"Um, no. I just, uh -- "
"Then do it," Mr. Martin interrupted. Elise gave a mental shrug and slipped out of her shoes, pushing them under the chair and crossing her long legs at the ankle.
"Put your heels up on the edge of my desk, here." Mr. Martin indicated the spot. This time Elise openly gaped. "Ms. Brenner, do you want to work here or not? You're very close to failing the first test."
Slowly, Elise raised her feet, balancing them on the edge of the desk. She pulled the edge of her skirt down over her thighs. What had she gotten herself into? Was this guy some kind of pervert? How far would she go with him to get a job? No harm in letting him have a look, at least ...
"Good. Now, for the duration of the test, you are not to move a muscle or speak, unless I ask you a question. Have you any questions?"
Dozens, but Elise asked the first one that came to mind: "Uh, what is the duration of the test?"
"You aren't to know that. Very well, the test begins now." Mr. Martin picked up an unsharpened pencil from the clutter on his desk and, quite deliberately, traced it down one of her stockinged soles. Taken by surprise, Elise only just restrained a fatal twitch. He was _tickling_ her! Panic shone in her brown eyes; she had always had a low tolerance for being tickled, and if this went on too long, she could kiss that job goodbye ...
The blunt pencil tip trailed slowly up and down one foot, and then switched to the other. Elise's face pinkened, her cheeks puffed out from the effort of holding back giggles. It felt as if her entire body were vibrating with the strain of keeping still; her leg muscles were hard as rock. The pencil slid up the inside edge of one foot, crossing through the soft vale of the arch and climbing up the ball. Elise couldn't keep from squinching her toes in anticipation. "Don't move!" Mr. Martin snapped, and Elise miserably uncurled her toes, feeling the sweat begin to run down her body as the pencil glided back and forth in the helpless little hollow under the toes. Her lips pulled up into a broad grin of agony.
"Are you ticklish, Ms. Brenner?" the interviewer said. "Answer me now!"
"Y-yes, sih-ih-ih-sir," Elise managed, fighting the urge to scream with laughter as the pencil moved in lazy zigzags from side to side down her foot.
"Is this unpleasant for you?"
"Y-y-y-yes!"
"Do you wish me to stop?"
Elise was about to squeal a third yes when some part of her mind, not yet affected by the tickling, kicked in. This was a test. If she surrendered right off, would she fail? He'd said he was looking for determination and tough-mindedness. "I -- " Oh, God, he'd found the spot under her big toe and was circling around and around it! How could he even tell how devastating that was to her? "I -- I can -- heehee -- " A stray giggle fought loose. " -- can take it," she gasped.
The pencil stopped, and Elise sagged in relief. "Congratulations," said Mr. Martin. "You've passed the first-tier test. You are qualified to work here in a custodial or mailroom position. Would you like to take the next test?"
Elise, breathing shallowly, tried to consider her options. Any job was good, but -- custodial? Might as well try for something a little better. "What are the other tests like? Do they involve handcuffs or anything?"
"I can't reveal that beforehand. But none of our tests use restraints. We require you to restrain yourself."
"A-all right. I'll try the next one."
"Stand up and take off your jacket and blouse." Elise did so slowly, wondering what she was letting herself in for. Her nipples were hard, and she left her bra on, but Mr. Martin seemed uninterested in her body. He opened one of his desk drawers and took out some items, rising and circling the desk to her, then dropping something at her feet. It was a square of thick cardboard, less than a foot on each side. "Stand on that. Both feet completely on it." Elise shuffled a bit -- even jammed close together, her feet barely fit on the square. When she was more or less comfortable, Mr. Martin held up a dark blue bandanna. "I am going to blindfold you." He walked around behind Elise, placing the cloth over her eyes and tying it in place. Elise giggled nervously as her sight was cut off. "Put your hands on the back of your neck and lace your fingers together." She complied. Goosebumps rippled over her skin; blind and half-naked, she seemed to feel every shift in the room's cool air intensely. And she was quite conscious of how exposed her position was. _He's not going to ... it can't be more ... _
"Now, you must avoid either stepping off the square or letting go of your neck," Mr. Martin explained. "You may end the test at any time by leaving the square -- but only by that means. Are you ready?"
"Uh -- "
"We begin." Tickling fingers drove into her ribs. Elise's back arched as she let out a wild bleat of surprise, and she only barely managed to lock her knees before she stumbled off the square. Her upper body gyrated wildly, bending nearly double as Mr. Martin worked her ribs with an ever-varying rhythm. If only she could grab his hands, rip off the blindfold, jump away from him -- but even in the deepest pit of ticklish agony, she had to maintain control. The only outlet for her frustration was her voice. "No! NO! Oh, God, stoooohhhhhhhpppp!" But her feet remained solidly on the square, even as Mr. Martin's fingers slowly began to scrabble over her exposed underarms. Elise twisted and rolled her shoulders, helpless to escape. "Eeeeehahahahahaha! You -- don't, pleasepleaseplease! Not there!" She heard him move -- and then a sudden, ferocious tickling of her knees nearly made her legs buckle. One foot shifted a fraction of an inch, and Elise's tall, slender frame swayed like a palm in a hurricane. "Mercy," she gritted through clenched teeth, straining to block him out. One hand dug into the soft flesh of her belly, and another seized a handful of ribs, making Elise writhe in two directions at once, managing to keep her balance only by the grace of God. She could hear her screams echoing off the cinderblock walls, and by now it was obvious why the room was so carefully soundproofed.
Mr. Martin's hands scrambled all over her body, never staying in one place long enough for her to build up a resistance -- and then stopped. Elise was left doubled over, gasping for breath, the muscles of her arms and legs aching. Sweat drizzled down her back. Was the test over? He hadn't said anything. Better safe than sorry; she kept her hands locked in place, her feet solidly planted on the square. Time passed. Tingling sensations came and went on her skin, making her tense in anticipation of tickles that never came. Elise bit her lip, straining to hear any sign of her tormentor. Could this be some kind of test of initiative -- to see how long she would stand there waiting for him? She was afraid to speak, afraid to do anything that might start the tickling again. Her entire body vibrated with tension.
And then he touched her under the arms, very lightly. The tension shattered, and Elise let out a "NOOOOOOOOOO!" that the receptionist must have heard, soundproofing or no soundproofing. How she kept from jumping a foot into the air, she never knew, but somehow her feet remained planted and her arms did not whip down to protect herself. His fingers remained there for a moment, not tickling, while Elise trembled, then slowly glided down her sides, as if seeking her most perfectly ticklish spot to re-commence the torture. "Please," Elise whispered in a voice no louder than a butterfly's wings. "No more." Mr. Martin's hands reached her waist, remained there for an agonizing few seconds, and then he gave her a pat on the behind and whipped off the bandanna. Elise blinked, dazzled.
"You can put your arms down and step off the square, Ms. Brenner," said Mr. Martin. "You've passed the second-tier test."
Elise staggered to her chair and sprawled in it, stretching her cramped limbs. Mr. Martin brought her a cup of water from a cooler in the corner. "So what am I qualified for?" she asked after she'd drained the cup.
"Executive assistant, junior copywriter, and similar entry-level positions. Do you want to try the third-tier test?"
Elise wiped sweat from her forehead and chest with the sleeve of her discarded blouse as she considered. Entry-level wasn't bad, given her age and experience, and she could probably live on the salary. "You mean, let you tickle me again?"
"I can't tell you -- "
" -- what the test is like. I know. Just call it a lucky guess." She sighed. "I should probably have my head examined, but why not go for the best I can get?"
"That's the spirit. Follow me." He led her to the wall next to the door through which she'd come. She was surprised to see that there was a double row of handprints painted on the wall, each pair a different color; similarly, a row of colored squares ran along the carpet at the base of the wall. Mr. Martin studied her for a moment. "Put one foot on each of the green squares." She had to spread her legs wide to reach them both, her skirt tightening uncomfortably across her behind. "Now put your hands on the green prints." The green prints were at the top, almost touching the ceiling. She rose up on her tiptoes, teetering slightly, and pressed her hands to the wall; it was a difficult reach, even given her height. "Precisely on the prints, please." She shifted her hands to cover the green. "Now, your feet must not leave the squares, and your hands must not move to reveal the prints. Other than that, you are free to act as you wish." And the next thing Elise was aware of was his fingertips lightly tickling her under the arms.
Only a terrible effort of will kept her arms from whipping down again. She'd thought she was getting used to being tickled after the first two tests, but this was just as bad, if not worse. Especially because her strained, stretched-out position gave her barely any wiggle room; she could shift her pelvis slightly, but the rest of her body was as if frozen in place. The slightest move would invite disaster. "Don't -- don't!" she screamed into the wall as his hands encompassed her ribs once more, zeroing in on her most sensitive spots immediately. "I changed my -- AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HELP! STOPPIT STOPPIT STOPPIT!" Her hips shifted wildly, and with a burst of panic she realized that her stockinged toes were sliding across the carpet toward the borders of their squares. She dug in, forced herself to remain still even as her torturer began to tickle around her slim waist, fingers burrowing under her skirt. Elise's head snapped back and she howled, her fingers pressing against the wall as if to dig into the cinderblocks themselves. Not a spot of green showed, though.
Mr. Martin knelt, sliding his hand down one nylon-sheathed leg. He squeezed her knee in passing, eliciting weak giggles from Elise, but when he passed the knee and continued on down the calf, she realized what his goal was. "NO!" she yelled. "YOU CAN'T! NOT FAIR!" But he continued inexorably downward until his fingers slipped onto Elise's taut, exposed, and above all immobile sole. He raked his nails from the ball to the heel, then began to circle the hollow of the arch. Elise, crimson-faced, her entire body shaking with the frustrated desire to squirm and kick, could do nothing. The slightest twitch of her foot would make her toes slide again, perhaps out of the square. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! You -- you -- bastard! Eeeeeeeehahahahahaha! No! I'm sorry! Just stop! Pleheeheeheeheeheeheehee -- NO! NO!" He was tickling her with one finger now, mocking her helplessness; every circuit of her foot brought her that much closer to the final, fatal twitch. It was only a matter of seconds ...
And then he stopped. Elise's relief lasted exactly as long as it took him to lean over and reach her other foot. Then her screams began again. "OH, GOD, JUST STOP! I GIVE UHUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA! I can't take any more! Please, please, I'll do anything, just don't -- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Her knees were giving way, her back was sagging. It was so stupid -- all she had to do was step away from the wall and the torture would stop, but _something_ kept her feet in place, her hands flat over the prints. Was any job worth this? Mr. Martin, arms stretched out, was tickling both arches simultaneously. Tears of mirth blurred Elise's vision as more demented laughter was forced from her heaving belly and sore ribs. She could feel nothing from her feet beyond the awful tickling. They had to be out of the squares by now -- she couldn't see. Why didn't he stop this?
With a final stroke on each foot, Mr. Martin abandoned her feet and rose. "Hold it," he said sternly, then examined her hands carefully. The handprints were still fully covered, and her toes were still within the green squares (barely). "You pass," he said.
This time, Elise didn't bother with the chair; she collapsed in a quivering heap at the base of the wall itself. After a few moments, she managed to raise her tear-streaked face and gasp out, "What -- ?"
"Middle management," Mr. Martin said. "If you're willing to go on to the fourth tier, we can -- "
"God, NO!" Elise leaped to her feet. "Middle management is just fine with me, no problem, don't want to get in over my head," she babbled, picking up the clothes she'd left strewn over the chair.
"Fine. I believe we have an opening for an associate director of marketing. Would that suit you?"
"Anything! Anything!" She threw on her jacket, stuffed her blouse half into one pocket, scooped up her shoes, and hurried to the door.
"You start Monday," he called after her as she raced out through the "airlock." He scribbled a note in her folder and set it aside, and turned to the air vent above him -- where, he knew, a concealed video camera lurked -- and gave it a thumbs-up and a firm nod. Then he pressed the button on his intercom. "Mrs. Wright, I'm ready for the next applicant."
GETTING THE JOB
another one of those stories
UNDER 18? GET A JOB AND QUIT WASTING YOUR TIME READING THIS JUNK.
PLACEMENT INTERVIEW GUIDELINES: Listen carefully. Do whatever you are told to, without question. Speak only when spoken to, and then answer promptly and to the point.
Elise glanced down at the paper in her hand for the third time. It sounded so weird ... but she'd been looking for a job for two months now, her bank account was nearly flat, and nowhere else was hiring. And Palmer Industries was supposed to pay well. But the interview might be tougher than she'd thought; the last applicant had hurried out red-faced and disheveled, tears streaking her face, and left the room without looking at Elise or anyone else. She could only hope she did better.
"Ms. Brenner," the receptionist said, gesturing to a door behind her. "The placement director is ready for you now." Elise rose and crossed the waiting room, swinging open the door. Beyond it was a short corridor, then another door. Both doors were thickly padded. _It's like an airlock_, she told herself, her sense of unease growing as she pushed open the second door.
At least what lay beyond looked fairly normal. It was a generic office, with white-painted cinderblock walls, a neutral-colored carpet, and a broad desk. In a chair behind the desk sat the placement director. To her surprise, he was young, the same age as she was, and dressed in jeans and a work shirt. Elise, in her "businesswoman" blouse, jacket, skirt, stockings, and pumps, immediately felt overdressed. She touched her light brown hair self-consciously for a moment. A nameplate on the desk read MR. MARTIN. She almost said hello, but then remembered the paper's directions and paused uncertainly by the door.
"Sit down, Ms. Brenner," Mr. Martin said, waving to the chair in front of his desk. Elise seated herself, the door swinging noiselessly closed behind her. "I've been looking over your resume. It's very impressive. I think you'll do well at Palmer Industries."
Since that didn't seem to call for a direct answer, Elise remained silent. Was it going to be this easy?
"Now, all we have to do is figure out where you'll be working in our company. You see, we do it a bit differently than other organizations; instead of hiring people for a particular job, we hire them and then give them a series of tests to determine which job they're suited for. We're looking for people who combine determination and tough-mindedness with sensitivity. If you have those qualities, you'll go far with us. Shall we begin? Take off your shoes."
Elise stared at him, not certain she'd heard right.
"Am I making myself unclear, Ms. Brenner?"
"Um, no. I just, uh -- "
"Then do it," Mr. Martin interrupted. Elise gave a mental shrug and slipped out of her shoes, pushing them under the chair and crossing her long legs at the ankle.
"Put your heels up on the edge of my desk, here." Mr. Martin indicated the spot. This time Elise openly gaped. "Ms. Brenner, do you want to work here or not? You're very close to failing the first test."
Slowly, Elise raised her feet, balancing them on the edge of the desk. She pulled the edge of her skirt down over her thighs. What had she gotten herself into? Was this guy some kind of pervert? How far would she go with him to get a job? No harm in letting him have a look, at least ...
"Good. Now, for the duration of the test, you are not to move a muscle or speak, unless I ask you a question. Have you any questions?"
Dozens, but Elise asked the first one that came to mind: "Uh, what is the duration of the test?"
"You aren't to know that. Very well, the test begins now." Mr. Martin picked up an unsharpened pencil from the clutter on his desk and, quite deliberately, traced it down one of her stockinged soles. Taken by surprise, Elise only just restrained a fatal twitch. He was _tickling_ her! Panic shone in her brown eyes; she had always had a low tolerance for being tickled, and if this went on too long, she could kiss that job goodbye ...
The blunt pencil tip trailed slowly up and down one foot, and then switched to the other. Elise's face pinkened, her cheeks puffed out from the effort of holding back giggles. It felt as if her entire body were vibrating with the strain of keeping still; her leg muscles were hard as rock. The pencil slid up the inside edge of one foot, crossing through the soft vale of the arch and climbing up the ball. Elise couldn't keep from squinching her toes in anticipation. "Don't move!" Mr. Martin snapped, and Elise miserably uncurled her toes, feeling the sweat begin to run down her body as the pencil glided back and forth in the helpless little hollow under the toes. Her lips pulled up into a broad grin of agony.
"Are you ticklish, Ms. Brenner?" the interviewer said. "Answer me now!"
"Y-yes, sih-ih-ih-sir," Elise managed, fighting the urge to scream with laughter as the pencil moved in lazy zigzags from side to side down her foot.
"Is this unpleasant for you?"
"Y-y-y-yes!"
"Do you wish me to stop?"
Elise was about to squeal a third yes when some part of her mind, not yet affected by the tickling, kicked in. This was a test. If she surrendered right off, would she fail? He'd said he was looking for determination and tough-mindedness. "I -- " Oh, God, he'd found the spot under her big toe and was circling around and around it! How could he even tell how devastating that was to her? "I -- I can -- heehee -- " A stray giggle fought loose. " -- can take it," she gasped.
The pencil stopped, and Elise sagged in relief. "Congratulations," said Mr. Martin. "You've passed the first-tier test. You are qualified to work here in a custodial or mailroom position. Would you like to take the next test?"
Elise, breathing shallowly, tried to consider her options. Any job was good, but -- custodial? Might as well try for something a little better. "What are the other tests like? Do they involve handcuffs or anything?"
"I can't reveal that beforehand. But none of our tests use restraints. We require you to restrain yourself."
"A-all right. I'll try the next one."
"Stand up and take off your jacket and blouse." Elise did so slowly, wondering what she was letting herself in for. Her nipples were hard, and she left her bra on, but Mr. Martin seemed uninterested in her body. He opened one of his desk drawers and took out some items, rising and circling the desk to her, then dropping something at her feet. It was a square of thick cardboard, less than a foot on each side. "Stand on that. Both feet completely on it." Elise shuffled a bit -- even jammed close together, her feet barely fit on the square. When she was more or less comfortable, Mr. Martin held up a dark blue bandanna. "I am going to blindfold you." He walked around behind Elise, placing the cloth over her eyes and tying it in place. Elise giggled nervously as her sight was cut off. "Put your hands on the back of your neck and lace your fingers together." She complied. Goosebumps rippled over her skin; blind and half-naked, she seemed to feel every shift in the room's cool air intensely. And she was quite conscious of how exposed her position was. _He's not going to ... it can't be more ... _
"Now, you must avoid either stepping off the square or letting go of your neck," Mr. Martin explained. "You may end the test at any time by leaving the square -- but only by that means. Are you ready?"
"Uh -- "
"We begin." Tickling fingers drove into her ribs. Elise's back arched as she let out a wild bleat of surprise, and she only barely managed to lock her knees before she stumbled off the square. Her upper body gyrated wildly, bending nearly double as Mr. Martin worked her ribs with an ever-varying rhythm. If only she could grab his hands, rip off the blindfold, jump away from him -- but even in the deepest pit of ticklish agony, she had to maintain control. The only outlet for her frustration was her voice. "No! NO! Oh, God, stoooohhhhhhhpppp!" But her feet remained solidly on the square, even as Mr. Martin's fingers slowly began to scrabble over her exposed underarms. Elise twisted and rolled her shoulders, helpless to escape. "Eeeeehahahahahaha! You -- don't, pleasepleaseplease! Not there!" She heard him move -- and then a sudden, ferocious tickling of her knees nearly made her legs buckle. One foot shifted a fraction of an inch, and Elise's tall, slender frame swayed like a palm in a hurricane. "Mercy," she gritted through clenched teeth, straining to block him out. One hand dug into the soft flesh of her belly, and another seized a handful of ribs, making Elise writhe in two directions at once, managing to keep her balance only by the grace of God. She could hear her screams echoing off the cinderblock walls, and by now it was obvious why the room was so carefully soundproofed.
Mr. Martin's hands scrambled all over her body, never staying in one place long enough for her to build up a resistance -- and then stopped. Elise was left doubled over, gasping for breath, the muscles of her arms and legs aching. Sweat drizzled down her back. Was the test over? He hadn't said anything. Better safe than sorry; she kept her hands locked in place, her feet solidly planted on the square. Time passed. Tingling sensations came and went on her skin, making her tense in anticipation of tickles that never came. Elise bit her lip, straining to hear any sign of her tormentor. Could this be some kind of test of initiative -- to see how long she would stand there waiting for him? She was afraid to speak, afraid to do anything that might start the tickling again. Her entire body vibrated with tension.
And then he touched her under the arms, very lightly. The tension shattered, and Elise let out a "NOOOOOOOOOO!" that the receptionist must have heard, soundproofing or no soundproofing. How she kept from jumping a foot into the air, she never knew, but somehow her feet remained planted and her arms did not whip down to protect herself. His fingers remained there for a moment, not tickling, while Elise trembled, then slowly glided down her sides, as if seeking her most perfectly ticklish spot to re-commence the torture. "Please," Elise whispered in a voice no louder than a butterfly's wings. "No more." Mr. Martin's hands reached her waist, remained there for an agonizing few seconds, and then he gave her a pat on the behind and whipped off the bandanna. Elise blinked, dazzled.
"You can put your arms down and step off the square, Ms. Brenner," said Mr. Martin. "You've passed the second-tier test."
Elise staggered to her chair and sprawled in it, stretching her cramped limbs. Mr. Martin brought her a cup of water from a cooler in the corner. "So what am I qualified for?" she asked after she'd drained the cup.
"Executive assistant, junior copywriter, and similar entry-level positions. Do you want to try the third-tier test?"
Elise wiped sweat from her forehead and chest with the sleeve of her discarded blouse as she considered. Entry-level wasn't bad, given her age and experience, and she could probably live on the salary. "You mean, let you tickle me again?"
"I can't tell you -- "
" -- what the test is like. I know. Just call it a lucky guess." She sighed. "I should probably have my head examined, but why not go for the best I can get?"
"That's the spirit. Follow me." He led her to the wall next to the door through which she'd come. She was surprised to see that there was a double row of handprints painted on the wall, each pair a different color; similarly, a row of colored squares ran along the carpet at the base of the wall. Mr. Martin studied her for a moment. "Put one foot on each of the green squares." She had to spread her legs wide to reach them both, her skirt tightening uncomfortably across her behind. "Now put your hands on the green prints." The green prints were at the top, almost touching the ceiling. She rose up on her tiptoes, teetering slightly, and pressed her hands to the wall; it was a difficult reach, even given her height. "Precisely on the prints, please." She shifted her hands to cover the green. "Now, your feet must not leave the squares, and your hands must not move to reveal the prints. Other than that, you are free to act as you wish." And the next thing Elise was aware of was his fingertips lightly tickling her under the arms.
Only a terrible effort of will kept her arms from whipping down again. She'd thought she was getting used to being tickled after the first two tests, but this was just as bad, if not worse. Especially because her strained, stretched-out position gave her barely any wiggle room; she could shift her pelvis slightly, but the rest of her body was as if frozen in place. The slightest move would invite disaster. "Don't -- don't!" she screamed into the wall as his hands encompassed her ribs once more, zeroing in on her most sensitive spots immediately. "I changed my -- AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HELP! STOPPIT STOPPIT STOPPIT!" Her hips shifted wildly, and with a burst of panic she realized that her stockinged toes were sliding across the carpet toward the borders of their squares. She dug in, forced herself to remain still even as her torturer began to tickle around her slim waist, fingers burrowing under her skirt. Elise's head snapped back and she howled, her fingers pressing against the wall as if to dig into the cinderblocks themselves. Not a spot of green showed, though.
Mr. Martin knelt, sliding his hand down one nylon-sheathed leg. He squeezed her knee in passing, eliciting weak giggles from Elise, but when he passed the knee and continued on down the calf, she realized what his goal was. "NO!" she yelled. "YOU CAN'T! NOT FAIR!" But he continued inexorably downward until his fingers slipped onto Elise's taut, exposed, and above all immobile sole. He raked his nails from the ball to the heel, then began to circle the hollow of the arch. Elise, crimson-faced, her entire body shaking with the frustrated desire to squirm and kick, could do nothing. The slightest twitch of her foot would make her toes slide again, perhaps out of the square. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! You -- you -- bastard! Eeeeeeeehahahahahaha! No! I'm sorry! Just stop! Pleheeheeheeheeheeheehee -- NO! NO!" He was tickling her with one finger now, mocking her helplessness; every circuit of her foot brought her that much closer to the final, fatal twitch. It was only a matter of seconds ...
And then he stopped. Elise's relief lasted exactly as long as it took him to lean over and reach her other foot. Then her screams began again. "OH, GOD, JUST STOP! I GIVE UHUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA! I can't take any more! Please, please, I'll do anything, just don't -- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Her knees were giving way, her back was sagging. It was so stupid -- all she had to do was step away from the wall and the torture would stop, but _something_ kept her feet in place, her hands flat over the prints. Was any job worth this? Mr. Martin, arms stretched out, was tickling both arches simultaneously. Tears of mirth blurred Elise's vision as more demented laughter was forced from her heaving belly and sore ribs. She could feel nothing from her feet beyond the awful tickling. They had to be out of the squares by now -- she couldn't see. Why didn't he stop this?
With a final stroke on each foot, Mr. Martin abandoned her feet and rose. "Hold it," he said sternly, then examined her hands carefully. The handprints were still fully covered, and her toes were still within the green squares (barely). "You pass," he said.
This time, Elise didn't bother with the chair; she collapsed in a quivering heap at the base of the wall itself. After a few moments, she managed to raise her tear-streaked face and gasp out, "What -- ?"
"Middle management," Mr. Martin said. "If you're willing to go on to the fourth tier, we can -- "
"God, NO!" Elise leaped to her feet. "Middle management is just fine with me, no problem, don't want to get in over my head," she babbled, picking up the clothes she'd left strewn over the chair.
"Fine. I believe we have an opening for an associate director of marketing. Would that suit you?"
"Anything! Anything!" She threw on her jacket, stuffed her blouse half into one pocket, scooped up her shoes, and hurried to the door.
"You start Monday," he called after her as she raced out through the "airlock." He scribbled a note in her folder and set it aside, and turned to the air vent above him -- where, he knew, a concealed video camera lurked -- and gave it a thumbs-up and a firm nod. Then he pressed the button on his intercom. "Mrs. Wright, I'm ready for the next applicant."
