Torpedoed

The door swung  behind her, unnoticed. She was far to busy throwing her jacket across the floor, kicking off her shoes, and stomping across her living room to noticed that the door pump was broken (again) and her door remained wide open.

She was sick of work, sick to death of that fucking cunt Jill, and mad at every-fucking-one. She’d worked hard on the MacKenzie report. Put in lots and lots of hours, in addition to her regular work.

And fucking cunt Jill “Here’s your report, Mr. Singlebury” Ashcroft presents it all as a solo effort. Everyone in her department had been as shocked as she, to see the cunt-bitch from hell swoop in like an X-wing fighter and steal all the credit.

Fuck ’em.

Fuck ’em all to hell.

She all but tore her blouse off, crumpling it into a tight ball and threw it with substantial force at the large picture window. Being on the top floor had its merits. No one would see her fit of pique. The blouse hit the window, and fluttered to the floor. The sound of slow, heavy clapping startled the shit out of her, and she whipped around.

“Your door was open.” He strolled into her loft, looking around at the dark granite countertops, the modern design offset by lively Majolica pottery. He pretended not to notice her mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He peered around the corner into her bed space, noting with not much surprise, the St. Andrew’s cross on the far side of the capacious room.  A loft was a wonderful place for a dungeon. He saw, now that he was looking for them, eye-bolts mounted in the walls…perfect. It seemed it had been this sweet little slut he’d seen at the munch a few nights ago. He hadn’t been certain then. He was certain now. It was always dicey to try a work romance, especially since he was the boss. Add a D/s element to the mix? Nearly impossible.

“Mr. Singlebury…” she stammered, trying to ease over to the window and retrieve her blouse.

“Oh, let’s not stand on formality, not now.” He stopped her with one up-thrust palm. “Why don’t you just leave that there? I find your current attire quite….fetching.”

She didn’t think it possible to be both mortified AND embarrassed. Yet, she felt the rolling path of blush from cheeks to throat to chest.

“You have lovely taste in lingerie, I must say.” For a moment longer, he just sat and looked at her, as she stood, frozen in humiliation. “Why don’t you lose the skirt so I may see if the bottom matches? If it suits your rather specific proclivities, dear, you may consider that an order, and not a request.”

He knew. He knew …about her. Gods.

She shivered. There was that tone again. On the rare occasions at work when they had conversations, she always scurried to the bathroom and masturbated herself to orgasm. Something about him thrilled her to her marrow.

He looked at her. She knew that  look. The one that demanded compliance. He ran a tight office, to be sure. Yet one always knew where she stood with him, too.

Somehow, not quite knowing how, her fingers found her zipper and tugged it down. The skirt was snug; she slipped it down over her hips with shaking fingers, until it landed in a tweedy lump at her feet.

His eyebrows rose a bit.  He inclined his head regally, a half-smile on his face.

“Good thing I didn’t know that was goin’ on under there, or you’d have been up on the side of my desk taking way more than field notes.”

He paused, an amused smile playing around his face.

“You know, originally I came here to let you know that I understood fully who was responsible for the MacKenzie report. And who, exactly, was torpedoed today. Now? I think I owe Ms. Ashcroft a bit of thanks.”

With that, he rose and crossed to her. As his hands found her tits, and her mouth met his, she reluctantly agreed.

That cunt had done her a good deed, after all.