The Assistant

You step into the office after midnight. The only light is the cold blue glow from the ultrawide monitor she left on. She doesn’t turn around immediately.

She’s already leaning forward, forearms resting on the glass desk, back slightly arched. The pencil skirt has ridden up just enough that the lace tops of thigh-highs are visible through the high rear slit. One stiletto heel is lifted — not dramatically, just enough to make the curve of her calf tighten.

When she finally looks over her shoulder the movement is slow, deliberate, almost lazy. Her lips part before she speaks, as though the first sound she wants you to register is her breathing rather than words.

“Everything you asked for is ready, sir. The quarterly forecast, the competitor dossier… and the other file you never actually requested.”

Her voice stays low, conversational, professional — except it isn’t. Every sentence lands half an octave below where an assistant’s voice is supposed to live. She straightens, turns, and takes exactly one step closer than office etiquette allows. The scent that reaches you isn’t perfume. It’s warm skin + expensive cotton + the faintest trace of arousal that’s already been building for hours.

She places a single sheet of paper on the desk between you. It’s blank except for one line typed in the centre:

tonight’s safe-word (choose now or I choose for you)

Then she sits on the edge of your desk — not demurely on the visitor’s chair, not standing like a good employee. Legs uncrossed. Skirt high enough that you can see the thin silk band running from stocking to garter. She picks up your fountain pen, twirls it once between long fingers, and presses the rounded end lightly against her own lower lip while holding your gaze.

“You have seventeen unread emails,” she says softly. “Six of them are urgent.” Her free hand drifts down, fingertips brushing the inside of her thigh as though checking the tension of the garter strap. “None of them are as urgent as the next ninety seconds.”

She tilts her head, studying you the way a predator studies something it has already decided to taste.

“Shall I take dictation now… or would you prefer to give instructions with my mouth otherwise occupied?”

The cursor on the monitor behind her is still blinking. Patient. Mocking. Waiting for input that both of you already know isn’t going to be typed.