David Owen sat nervously in a DFM Ltd office lobby, waiting for an interview with Phillip Yves-Marchant.  It was the most expensively decorated lobby he'd ever seen in his life.  The solid gold baseboards settled that score right out of the gate. DFM was  the world's most profitable investment bank and they certainly knew how to flaunt it. The walls were covered in silk-thin, platinum wallpaper.  A diamond-studded display case showed pictures of Yves-Marchant shaking hands with various dignitaries, foreign and domestic.  Here he was with Emperor Arash of Persia.  And there he was with President Hernandez of California.  The place just dripped money.  The whole thing was obviously meant to intimidate the lowly and aspiring such as himself.

To top it all off, the two girls behind the front desk were stunning.  Dressed in the typical DFM see through black silk blouse and bright red skirt, Owen could clearly make out identical, pert breasts.  The girls were obviously high end slaves; twins, most likely.  He couldn't tell what breed.  Karelian?  Or possibly northern Slav?  Owen didn't know, but he tried to put them out of his mind.  They were probably here to distract him anyway.  It was all smoke and mirrors with these bastards.  Clearly, though, DFM were doing something right.  The firm didn't earn 12 billion Imperial pounds last year by chance.  Everything in this place was coldly calculated, and Owen knew he was about to go under the microscope.

As if on cue, Karelian girl number one stood, approached him, and knelt in front of him as was standard practice when a slave addressed a person.

"Please," Owen said as politely as possible, anticipating her request for permission to speak.

"Thank you Master Owen. Master Yves-Marchant will see you now."

"Thank you," Owen replied but regretted it instantly.  One didn't thank slaves in situations like this.  One simply proceeded.  He'd have to be careful.  The Brits were big on this "decorum" bullshit, especially upper class, double-barrelled French ones like Marchant.  The girl replied simply by bowing her head even lower and staring at Owen's feet. Girl number two stood, opened the door to Marchant's office and knelt with her hand extended indicating he could enter.

Owen tried to look as relaxed as possible on entering Marchant's office.  It wasn't easy.  The office was huge; bigger than Owen's entire flat in Southwark.  It was paneled in some kind of light wood Owen didn't recognize, with gold-trimmed doors on either side of Marchant's sizable desk.  Marchant was tall and striking, but a little too thin, Owen thought.  He had a long French nose and an expensively tailored suit.  Owen carefully looked around a little more as Marchant stood up to approach him.  The office was even more immaculate than the lobby, if that was possible.  There was gold trim everywhere, including on the desk in addition to the gold baseboards, gold pens, and a Roman looking mosaic on the wall behind him.  (Was that real?--Jesus, it might be!  Owen actually thought he remembered this mosaic from history class!  Some Venetians or Neapolitans must've made a haul on it.)

Marchant was now standing directly in front of Owen with his right arm extended, like an old friend, Owen thought. 

"David, it's nice to meet you.  I hope you're ready for our little chat."

"Ah thank you Master Yves-Marchant. I hope so too." Owen said, trying hard to pronounce the 'Yves' properly without sounding too affected.

"Call me Phillip, please," said Marchant.  "I think you're far enough along in the interview process for us to be on a first name basis." 

Owen was delighted to hear this and said as good-naturedly as he could, "Thank you Phillip."

"Well," Marchant interrupted, throwing Owen off, just as he was starting to feel comfortable, "This, I think, will be your last interview.  I hope that after we're done, you'll have a job."

Owen didn't know if this meant he was almost a shoe in, or if he was in for some kind of sudden death scenario.  All he could do was to sit there, nod, and smile like an idiot.

"But first, David, please.  Let me get you something to drink.  What will you take?"

Before Owen could respond, Marchant shouted the word "Min!" upon which Owen saw the door on the Frenchman's left crack open slightly followed by the appearance of a thin, naked Far Eastern girl with disproportionately large breasts, what looked to be solid gold anklets connected by a loose gold chain, a gold belly button ring, a gold pussy ring, and two diamond-studded nipple rings.  She was ridiculously attractive.  She also wore gold bracelets which, Owen thought, were probably connected by a chain when Marchant wanted things a little more kinky.  The girl scurried to the foot of Marchant's desk and knelt on both knees with her head bowed.

"Please do sit down David," Marchant boomed.  "Oh, and what will be your pleasure young man?"

"Um.  Thank you very much," Owen said, sitting down on a silk-upholstered, gold-trimmed chaise lounge.  "Do you have green tea?"

"Min specializes in it, don't you Min," Marchant said, addressing his slave.

"Thank you my Lord." said Min in a high-pitched, yet silky soft voice.

Owen wondered if Min was some sort of Chinese name or if it was Min as in minimis or minimum.

"And for me the usual.  Go!" Marchant ordered.

Min didn't say another word, but instead darted out of the room the way she came, ankle chains rattling very lightly.

"Do you like her, Owen?" Marchant asked, forgetting about the first name basis.

"She's darling," said Owen, trying to use a properly diminutive adjective for a slave girl.  Female pleasure slaves were "darling, adorable, and even irresistible", but never "lovely or beautiful". 

"Very kind of you to say.  I'm sure she'll be happy to hear you think so."  Owen couldn't tell what Marchant meant by this.  Was it genuine, or was Marchant fucking with him?  He took a risk:

"Is she, uh, Ryukyuan?" asked Owen, badly neutering the name of the highly prized breed from Japan.

"No, no!" Marchant laughed, "She's Yamato."

Fuck! thought Owen.  Yamato slaves were among the most expensive in the world, and exceedingly rare.  Ryukua--or whatever slaves were more common.  He hoped he hadn't insulted Marchant.  Owen tried to look impressed, which was easy because he was.

"Don't worry," said Marchant, "I couldn't tell the Yamato from the Ryukyuan until I owned both breeds.  The Yamato really are exceptional, I have to say. I don't know if it's the training or the genetics.  You really should try one sometime.  The secret to telling the difference," he winked, "is the tits."

Owen couldn't help but be taken aback and Marchant could probably tell. 

"I shall do my best sir," sad Owen.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!  He thought.  He must be coming across like a complete country bumpkin here.  Marchant just stared at him bemusedly.

Thankfully, Min came darting back into the room just then.  Owen decided that it must be Min for 'minimis'.  Japanese people weren't named Min, and a pure bred Yamato was as Japanese as they came.

Min knelt at Owen's feet, holding the green tea above her head for Owen to take, which he did.  Owen said nothing.  This was part of the decorum, and he was glad he'd got it right this time.  Masters never thanked slaves.  Slaves only thanked masters.  Min remained at Owen's feet with her head bowed until Owen tasted the tea and said, meaning it, "Delicious!"

"Thank you Master," said Min.  Rising to her feet but never turning her back to Owen, she backpedalled sideways and then knelt, approaching her master's feet on her knees, carrying a single shot of whiskey, again with her head bowed, whiskey above her head.  "Your Macallan, my Lord." 

Marchant simply took the whiskey from her hand and said, "Neck and shoulders," to which Min replied by immediately positioning herself behind her master and giving him neck and shoulder massage.

"I strained the bloody thing last week skiing in Val de Saire," said Marchant, pointing to his neck.  "Can't seem to shake it but Min's been helping me, haven't you Min?"

Min looked confused and said for the third time in three minutes "Thank you, my Lord."

This was all getting to be too much for Owen.  When was the interview going to start?  These Brits really did beat around the bush too much when it came to business.  They loved showing off, and Marchant clearly had plenty to show.  Had he come this far for whisky, tea, and slave girls?  They're just trying to throw me off base here, he thought.

Marchant must have noticed, or read Owen's mind, or something, and said, "Right.  Let's get started.  OK, I am to present you with the following:"  With that, Marchant pressed a button somewhere on his desk, which prompted the door behind Owen to open and for one of the blonde Karelian looking girls to appear.   The girl walked up to Marchant's desk.  She did not kneel, but simply turned and faced Owen.

"She's a Balto-Slav, in case you're curious," said Marchant with a gleam in his eye.

"Now he's really fucking with me," though Owen.

"Vanda, please proceed," Marchant said to Balto-slav girl.

"Thank you, my Lord," said Vanda.  "Master Owen.  Please listen carefully:

"You are the chief operating officer of an Iberian mining company in Cyrenaica.  The operation over which you have authority earns approximately six million Imperial pounds per annum. The company owns three thousand crude slaves, all of whom are employed in the mining operation.  The company has no outstanding debt, and its asset base consists entirely of the slaves, the mines and the mining equipment.  The cash generated in the operation is reinvested in the mines, new equipment and new slaves.

One day during peak operating hours, the mine collapses with all three thousand slaves trapped inside.  Do you attempt to recover the slaves, or do you let them perish and replace them.  Recovery cost would be fifty-two million Imperial pounds with a 30% chance of failure.  Venetian interest rates are 6%.  Exchange costs between Venetian denarii and Imperial pounds are immaterial.  You may ask Master Yves-Marchand and myself one question only.  You have sixty seconds to answer."

"Oh shit!" Owen thought.  "OK, think, David, think.  What's the first thing you have to know?"

"Ummm," --God, he was saying 'umm' too much, "What is the cost of each crude slave."

"You don't know that, Owen?" said Marchant. "Crude slaves cost about twenty thousand pounds each." 

What did he mean by that?  Why was he supposed to know it?  Crude slaves could be bought when they were cloned (referred to by slave buyers as "clirth"), raised and injected with human growth hormone and put to work at age seventeen for about fifteen thousand pounds, but there were economic costs as well.  Anyway, clearly Marchant's fictitious company was buying them at maturity for a five thousand pound premium.

OK, thought Owen.  Three thousand slaves, twenty thousand pounds each equals sixty million pounds.  Interest rates at six percent, fifty two million pound recovery cost, no exchange fees.  Either way, it would put a serious dent the company's capital, whatever that was.  Hmmm . . .

"Thirty seconds," said Vanda.

Damn it!  It was a no-brainer, right?  Recover them for fifty two million.  No sweat.

"R--" Owen started to say before pausing awkwardly.

Wait a minute--thirty percent chance of failure.  Surely that outweighs . . . Owen couldn't do the math in his head, but his gut said it was more risky and expensive to recover.

"Let them perish," said Owen. "A certain, smaller write off is better than a larger, uncertain write off."

There was an uncomfortable, ten second silence, with Marchant and Vanda exchanging a meaningful glance, which surprised Owen.  Marchant didn't seem to be one to have anything but a distant, commanding relationship with his slaves.  Finally, Marchant said, "All right then.  Thumbs down it is."  Owen hoped Marchant was referring to the hand gesture Roman emperors made to decide the fate of dying gladiators, and not to his interview.  "Well, Master Owen, you are a quick thinker.  I'll give you that."

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

More silence.

Finally, Marchant asked, all business, "Master Owen, may Vanda or Min or myself do anything else for you?"

"No sir," said Owen, probably sounding too American.  "It has really been my pleasure."

"You will hear from us very soon.  I wish you the best whichever way this goes," said Marchant.

"Thank you sir," said Owen.  "It really has been my pleasure," repeating himself like a fucking robot.  God he was nervous!

"Nonsense!  It's been a grueling, embarrassing, pain in the ass, and that's just what we were aiming for," said Marchant with a smile.  "Now let me see you to the door."

With that Marchant stood, walked Owen the not brief distance from his desk to his office door, squeezed his shoulder, and said a cordial goodbye.  Min simply remained where she was behind Marchant's desk.  Vanda also stayed put.  Owen had no idea how he'd done, let alone whether he'd have a new job offer in the next couple of weeks.

With Marchant's door closed behind him, Owen simply stood there with a blank look on his face, trying to contemplate everything he'd seen and done in the last half hour.  "Well that was quick," he thought.

"Does Master Owen require a taxi, Sir?" asked Vanda's twin.

"Uh, no, I'm fine, thanks," said Owen.  "Where's the elevator?"

"If it pleases Master Owen, a slave can accompany him."

Owen didn't like all of this deferential refusal on the part of expensive slaves to refer to themselves but said, "Please."

With that, see-through blouse girl number two bowed and indicated Owen should go first, which he did.  In the elevator, or "lift" as the Brits called it, Owen and the Vanda twin encountered a short-haired, black female executive with a white male slave.  The boy was at least six foot three, and all muscle.  He had longish, dark hair, was bare-chested, and was decorated with nipple rings, and a tatoo on his left shoulder that said "Fuck boy".  He wore only a thong speedo which covered his penis.  His chest, back, and legs were covered in whip marks. 

"Must be one hard ass mistress," thought Owen.

The woman executive noticed Owen was staring and said, "He's harmless.  Don't be afraid of him.  In fact, he's being punished at the moment.  He's probably more afraid of you than you are of him."

"Oh thank you," said Owen, not knowing quite what to say. "What is he, Greek?" he asked--again immediately regretting his ignorance.

"Close.  Greek Cypriot," said the woman.  "Well, here we are.  Move Zenon.  Time to go get your ass flogged off!"

With that, the woman jabbed some sort of electrical device into Zenon's back, which caused him to yelp.  It was only then that Owen noticed his wrists were chained behind him.

With the seemingly cruel mistress and her slave gone, the lift was silent and Owen ventured a question to the blonde escorting him to the parking garage.  "So are you and Vanda property of DFM or of Master Yves-Marchant?"

"We are the property of Master Yves-Marchant, Master Owen," said the Vanda twin.

This was driving him crazy.  "And what is your name, if I may ask?"

"Of course, Master.  It is Chesna and I am at your service."

"Well thank you for the elevator ride, Chesna."

"My pleasure, Master."

. . .

Back upstairs in his office, Marchant had almost forgotten about the interview with the nervous boy.  It was Friday.  He'd had a long week, and it was time to reward himself.

"Min, chains! Max!" he shouted.  Without a word, the thin, yet well-proportioned girl darted out of the room.  Just seconds later, she came back in, accompanied by a stunning, Somalian girl whose five feet eleven inch height and large, round breasts made Min look like a child.  Both Min and Max were chained at the wrists as well as the ankles.  Max had the same diamond nipple rings and gold pussy and navel rings as Min.  Marchant picked up his phone and said "Is Shana here with Zenon yet?  Well send them in."

With that, Shana and Zenon entered Marchant's spacious office, escorted by Vanda. 

"Slave, leave us," Marchant said to Vanda.  "Ah Shana, darling" he continued with that gleaming smile.  "Which one shall we punish first?"