see the applicant’s pussy. Incessantly for the last three days, his most trusted subordinate had clicked through thousands of vaginas – some demurely hinted between closed legs or sheer lace, others crude, moist – to physically erase every entry from their database. There had been the occasional blank page, but this was something else entirely.
The picture on Alessandro’s screen featured a rather ugly, grumpy, and fat long-haired cat. He clicked through to the second – usually a glamour portrait of the woman on her bed, if not a nude. Some had taken the direction a step further, actually playing with their bodies. The shot, taken in front of a mirror, was a dark and slightly blurry amateur selfie; more remarkably, though, the girl was wearing an old hoodie and a pair of yoga pants. Thereby sending a picture of her pussy and the clothes she wore to bed, she’d actually obeyed the directives. “Damn. Read this.” In lieu of the quick introduction he required, she’d written: Dear Daniel Franko Phillipe de Luz, I’ve applied to guarantee that I’m not summoned to your little orgy. Fuck you. We aren’t all stupid. Ella.