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kingkat12 · 23 days ago

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OCD; obsessive cunt disorder (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: sex toys, vibrators, exhibitionism, voyeurism, humiliation, OCD freak-out, banter, fluff, degradation, overstimulation, slight clit-torture ig, I want to have lunch with this asshole too pls

summary: Mr. Godfrey has invited you to lunch-- you best believe it won't be a normal one

word count: 10,331

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a/n: FORBES NOSE ALERT ON THIS GIF... but ok phew I love this man and this chapter was written on a ten-hour writing session this Wednesday because I'm obviously either ovulating or going crazy, so ENJOY<333 think this gif is from @godfreysteel btw!!

When Mr. Godfrey sent me an email telling me to join him for lunch, I nearly choked to death-- literally.

I coughed and harked as I crouched over my desk, wondering whether I was choking on my left lung or all the excitement my body had managed to muster. With tears in my eyes from the restricted air flow, hoping my face hadn't turned bright red, I grabbed the weekly report he had asked for earlier and made my way to the top floor.

Mr. Godfrey didn't eat with the rest of us lowlives, no-- he had his own private lounge for that. I had only been inside there once to tell him that one of his business partners had arrived earlier than expected, and that had been one of my most nerve-wracking moments of working at Godfrey Industries to this day.

The only way I could describe his private lounge was sterile. Typical him, really.

With my heart pounding in my chest, I bit down on a smile and entered with careful steps; there was no way in hell I'd trip over in my Louboutins now.

Seated at the marble table by the floor-to-ceiling window, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes skimmed the pages of what looked like The New Yorker. Of course-- he wouldn't be caught dead reading anything less pretentious. With a comfortable manspread and a glass of cucumber water in front of him, untouched, the plate beside it sat the most sterile meal I'd ever seen; a few folded, pale slices of poached chicken breast, cut into perfect, rectangular portions.

Even his fucking food seemed like something taken out of OCD-heaven.

I hovered by the door, clutching the report like it might protect me. My heels made no sound on the marble, but I felt loud, clumsy, human. "Sir?" I called out. Had he maybe not noticed me?

This was my first mistake-- Mr. Godfrey noticed everything. He had even warned me himself, a few weeks ago. He simply hummed; "You're late,"

"No, sir," I whispered back, clenching my jaw to ensure my smile wouldn't slip. "I'm not." Our typical dance.

Mr. Godfrey glanced up, and in that split-second, I remembered why I still worked at this hell-hole.

His brown hair was immaculately swept back, making his shadowed cheekbones visible. He was wearing all black, naturally-- something told me this was a new suit, even more expensive than the last one. His green eyes didn't look at me so much as diagnose me, probably wondering what the heck was wrong with me to dare to talk back to him like that, until something in them shimmered-- I knew that deep down, I amused him more than anything. He gestured to the chair opposite him; "Sit," he said.

But just as I was about to move away from the door, Mr. Godfrey allowed himself a smirk as he delivered the final blow; "Unless... you're still sore, of course,"

My eyes widened just a bit-- I should've known that this wasn't going to be a normal lunch. Trying to calm down my jumping heart, I let out a tiny scoff, shaking my head as I approached his table with composed elegance-- I wasn't going to let him get that one so easily.

However, as I sat down, I had to bite down on the tip of my tongue to not wince. Sure, fine, I was a bit sore. After how he put me over his knee and spanked me last evening, that was to be expected, right? Something told me that Mr. Godfrey enjoyed the way my eye twitched as I shifted to make myself comfortable, and he chewed his next bite with that cocky grin he didn't manage to wipe off his face.

To relieve some of the stinging on my left side, I crossed my legs-- simply for relief, nothing more. Nothing more, nothing more. Clearing my throat, I placed the folder on the table; "So, I brought you the weekly report, but only for you to review it. Are you happy with the forged signature, sir? I wouldn't want anyone to get suspicious, and--"

"You're not, then?"

My brows drew together as I watched Mr. Godfrey's green eyes, the unmistakable evil glee shining through more blatantly obvious than ever. Did he not care to hide it anymore, or was I just getting used to his small quirks? "Sir?"

Mr. Godfrey shrugged, cutting up his next bite without breaking eye contact; "You're not sore?"

... Fuck.

My breath got stuck in my chest-- it didn't move. I stared back at him, blinking once, twice. "And what answer would please you, sir?"

"That's not relevant," he replied, short. "Although I'm flattered that you're eager to please."

I so dearly hoped I wasn't blushing. "It's not that bad,"

"It's not?"

"It's bearable," I mumbled, shifting in my seat as I now avoided his gaze, fidgeting with the weekly report.

Mr. Godfrey didn't respond right away. He tilted his head just slightly, and I felt his eyes track the way I moved, how I adjusted my weight, how I sat a little higher on my right hip-- I could practically hear him cataloging it in that freaky mind of his.

"Right," He speared another perfect slice of chicken with his fork, but didn't eat it right away. "That's disappointing."

I blinked. "Pardon?"

Mr. Godfrey finally brought the fork to his mouth, chewing slowly, thoughtfully, like he was tasting more than just the food. His green eyes never left mine; "I thought you knew better than to lie to me by now," he said, setting the utensil down with a quiet, final sound. "Bearable isn't honest. Bearable is what people say when they're trying not to cry."

My lips parted, and I had to force myself to speak. "But sir, I--"

"Are you perhaps about to cry?"

"No!"

He leaned back in his chair, appraising me with a clinical interest, like he had found a new setting on a machine and was waiting to see what it would do. At the same time, his gaze narrowed like he was waiting for me to crack; "Then specify,"

I wanted to throw the weekly report at him, yet I knew I had to collect myself. Taking a deep breath, uncrossing my legs, therefore applying pressure on that exact spot on my ass that still made my thigh twitch with stinging soreness, I allowed myself to wince out loud; with my eyes burning into Mr. Godfrey's, I managed a smile, staring back at him through the sharp pain that was slowly subsiding; "You could do worse,"

And then, there it was-- as though I had unlocked a new level on a video game, or slipped the right key into an unknown door, the hinges came undone. Mr. Godfrey was now smiling back, no mask to cover his intent. There was an unfiltered joy to him now, like a sigh. He put his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers; "Are you hungry?" came his response.

This made me feel warm. Way too warm, way too comfortable. With my fingertips buzzing with excitement, I nodded. "I can go take lunch and come back, sir?--"

"Nonsense," With utmost elegance, Mr. Godfrey leaned back in his chair, motioning for someone to come. I would've thought he was asking for a bill or something, hadn't what looked like a chef appeared through the door within the blink of an eye. Where had he come from? Stumped, I sat up a bit straighter in my chair, immediately wincing under my breath.

Mr. Godfrey motioned toward the chef, his nostrils flaring for a brief second at the sound of my pain; "Martin here will make you whatever you want," he said, charming as ever.

"Oh," I breathed, smiling shyly up at Martin. He seemed nice, after all, but I wondered if he could sense how out-of-place I felt. "I don't-- I don't know, I--"

"Come on, now," Mr. Godfrey sat back, watching me like I was a contestant getting grilled on X-Factor for entertainment. "Don't be shy."

I swallowed. This must be the perk of being filthy rich, right? Private chef, private lounge, private secretary.

Just as I finished ordering a salad and a cup of tea, letting out a small breath of relief when Martin left the room, I kept watching Mr. Godfrey and wondering when he would switch back to being the CEO I knew.

But... he didn't.

He didn't lean back, didn't reach for his glass, didn't even blink.

Instead, he studied me. His elbows still rested on the edge of the table, fingers laced together like he was listening to a confession only he was smart enough to understand. His black suit, tailored to his every inch, cut a sharp silhouette against the backdrop outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The warm sunlight hit the side of his face, and for a second, he didn't look real-- when did he ever, though? Gorgeous, gorgeous man.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes were clearer than I'd ever seen them, glittering like a well-polished scalpel; focused, intrigued, and almost soft.

Almost.

"There's something else," he suddenly said.

Oh. "Sir?"

Mr. Godfrey tilted his head slightly, and his lips (that were so unreasonably pink for someone with so little softness in him) curved with a hint of satisfaction. "You've proven yourself rather... resilient," Then, he paused, the weight of that word hanging-- "And you seemed to like your last present, so I have another one for you."

I blinked again, slower this time, as I bit down on a sheepish smile. "You didn't have to,"

What kind of present had he gotten me? Was it more lingerie? Maybe another set of Louboutins? Oh, I'd certainly like that. I tried to push away all the occurring questions on whether this was actually some form of prostitution, sex acts for gifts, as Mr. Godfrey reached beneath the table. His movements were smooth, measured in the way men who don't rush for anyone tend to be-- from below the gleaming marble, he produced a small black box. No label. No ribbon. Just a clean square, matte and elegant, like it had been made by a brand that didn't need to announce itself.

My heart immediately kicked into my ribs. This box was small. What could this be? Some stupid part of me sort of hoped it would be an engagement ring, and that he would now get down on his knees and profess his never-dying love for me!--

... Christ, I needed to grow up.

Mr. Godfrey placed it in front of me, the soft scrape of the box against the table becoming the only sound in the room. Immediately, I felt my body reacting; hips pressed tighter against the chair, thighs subtly tensing, breath caught somewhere just behind my collarbone, I finally reached for the black box, allowing a soft, grateful smile to show before I slowly opened it like it might detonate.

Inside, cradled in black velvet, was a...

My jaw clamped down on the gasp that nearly escaped me. Oh my God.

With round, wide eyes, I stared down at the sleek, red vibrator in the box. It wasn't too big, and it was flat-- I hadn't seen one like this before. I used to have a different vibrator when I was eighteen, maybe even seventeen, but that was more of a clit-sucker than anything. This one curved upward just slightly, and it had a smooth, satin finish; this was some sort of new tech, wasn't it? How did this even work?

Just as I dared to look up and meet Mr. Godfrey's burning gaze, I spotted the way he smoothly caught the oblong remote he had hidden up his sleeve. He stared back at me with that boyish charm he wore the first time I met him, like he was testing a hypothesis he knew would be correct. "I thought you'd appreciate something a little less... taxing, this time around," he murmured, tasting his words. "And something to make up for last time, hm?"

For the time he spanked me raw? Christ.

I kept staring at my boss-- his white shirt clung to his frame with obscene elegance. Slim collar. Two buttons undone. Enough to glimpse a sliver of chest, smooth and pale and maddeningly inaccessible. He wore power like other men wore watches; effortless, ingrained, and expected. Mr. Godfrey was so, so beautiful that it made me stupid. I certainly felt stupid right now, gawking at the brand new device in front of me-- had this model even hit the market yet?

My fingers twitched against the edge of the box. I couldn't even bring myself to touch it-- not yet. My cheeks burned, and something impossibly hot coiled low in my stomach, like the idea of him thinking of me, this version of me, flipped a switch to something supple in me that I had long suppressed.

I was still staring at the vibrator when he spoke again, voice pitched low; "It's custom," Mr. Godfrey said. "Quiet. Discreet. More powerful than it looks." His long fingers gripped the remote loosely, like a predator toying with the leash of something small and caged. "And you're looking at me like I've just confessed to dropping the bomb on Hiroshima, so I suggest you start speaking."

Eager to please, I straightened up in my seat again, only to be met with the stinging of my backside once more; with yet another low hiss, I allowed my intrigue to spread across my lips. "And I put this...?"

"In your underwear,"

"Ah," I felt myself clenching around nothing; I must've gotten aroused in record time, no? "And what you have right there is the?--"

"Remote, yes,"

Letting out a breathy, anxious giggle, I allowed my fingers to trace the smooth surface of the vibrator. "Where's the catch?"

At that, Mr. Godfrey actually laughed. It was a warm sound, low and real, like it came from deep inside his chest, and somehow that was worse than any reprimand. "There's no catch," he said. "See it as a... reward."

"For?"

"Taking your punishment," Then, slowly, Mr. Godfrey placed the remote down on his side of the table. His fingers tapped against it once, casually, like a man resting his hand on a loaded weapon. "So, if you could go on and put it in that little pocket in your underwear, I'd appreciate that. I don't have all day, so I suggest you use my time wisely."

How the fuck did Mr. Godfrey know about that pocket?! How familiar was he with women's underwear...? Damn him. My breath caught somewhere in my throat, and for a second, I just stared at him; not in horror, but with that strange, weightless sensation of realizing I was about to do this in front of his lunch. "You're serious," I whispered, and it didn't come out like a question.

"I'm always serious," he said, voice like velvet dragged over a blade, humoured. "You said it yourself once, I'm a very serious man. Serious man with a serious business. Can't get more serious than this."

Yeah right, asshole. My hand moved before my thoughts could catch up; I picked up the vibrator, but I hesitated for a second-- then, subtly, I slid my hand under the hem of my skirt, avoiding Mr. Godfrey's gaze as my cheeks started to burn.

I adjusted slightly, trying not to wince as the bruises from earlier flared up again with my every move. With ease, I slipped the vibrator neatly into place, nestled in that stupid secret pocket that was supposed to be a damn secret. It fit perfectly, clearly made for this exact space and use.

I looked up, my breath choppy, eager to please.

Mr. Godfrey hadn't moved. His gaze followed every twitch in my expression as his fingers tapped against the remote, waiting for the fog in my brain to clear.

Swallowing over and over, I tried to sit normally again, like I hadn't just tucked a goddamn vibrator into my panties at lunch. "There," I said, my voice soft. "Like this?"

For a moment, Mr. Godfrey didn't answer. Then, the corners of his mouth lifted, slow and decadent. He reached for the remote-- not to hand it to me, not to pocket it, but to turn it on.

The effect was immediate; a sudden, quiet hum bloomed low between my legs, like being struck by a breath of heat and static all at once. My thighs snapped together under the table, breath punching out of my lungs with an involuntary stutter-- the pleasure was unexpected.

"There you go," Mr. Godfrey murmured. "We'll go with the lowest setting for now."

I glared at him, lips slightly parted, trying not to squirm; I loved how this reduced me to the state of a cat in heat, but was I about to show it so easily? Fuck no.

"Sit still," he added, with a quiet authority that pinned me to the chair harder than gravity ever could. "If you want to prove that you're obedient, then you're going to sit still, eat lunch with me like a professional, and keep quiet. Those are the rules."

"This is crazy," I whispered, throat dry.

He smiled wider, teeth just barely visible. "We've done worse," Then he took a sip of his wine, calm and composed, like he hadn't just weaponized my own underwear against me. "If you fail to follow the rules, I'll make sure those pretty eyes of yours tear up every time you sit down. Have I made myself clear?"

My... pretty eyes?

"Yes," I said, feeling my heart swell.

"Good," Mr. Godfrey leaned back in his chair like this was a perfectly normal business lunch, not mentioning his little slip-up. Had he even noticed that he said that? Had he intended to call my eyes pretty? I doubted it.

I tried to mimic his composure, tried not to fidget, but it deemed itself harder than expected. The hum between my thighs was subtle but torturous, just enough to distract me, to keep my focus needle-fine and shaky-- I hadn't expected the shape of the vibrator to be so effective. It somehow managed to cup my whole mound, yet the curved tip of it pressed into my clit with the utmost delicious of pressures; if I could, I'd start rocking into it, but I knew that could leave me in a much worse situation.

Mr. Godfrey picked up his wineglass and took a sip, slow and elegant. The weight of his attention hovered just above my skin-- watching, waiting. "You've gone quiet," he pointed out.

"I'm just-- trying," I muttered, breath catching. "To follow your rules, sir."

A smile ghosted across his lips; "And how's that working out for you?"

"It's... difficult,"

"Good,"

I squirmed just slightly, but that was all it took for the vibrator to shift, sending another warm, taunting wave through my core. Now, it pressed just a tiny bit harder against my clit, and I inhaled sharply and tried not to make a sound; this felt so good. So, so good. "Thank you, sir," I breathed.

"Oh, you're thanking me now?"

"It feels-- nice,"

"Bet it does," Mr. Godfrey cooed, taking another bite of his food. Putting the cutlery down with a hum, and with practiced ease, he palmed the remote as though debating whether to turn it up a level or not. I held my breath, watching him in anticipation as I felt my underwear grow damp.

He tilted his head to the side, watching me. "What? You want more already?"

I didn't utter a word-- I was too scared to say the wrong thing.

Mr. Godfrey's grin remained; "Posture," he said softly. "Straighten your back, shoulders down, and I'll think about it."

I obeyed without thinking, like a string had been pulled somewhere behind my spine; I didn't care about the ache in my behind anymore. My hands came to rest neatly on the table, and I could feel my heartbeat everywhere at once as my skin prickled and my stomach coiled. The low pressure of the vibrator against my clit wasn't enough anymore-- I had to do everything in my power not to start grinding on it to get more friction.

Then, Mr. Godfrey picked the remote up properly, as though to study it. I wondered whether he heard the way my breath caught with hope. "I think this has different settings too," he pondered out loud. "Let me see... What happens if I do this?"

With a soft click of the remote, the steady vibrations I'd had on my clit changed-- the pattern changed. Now, it was as though the vibration came in wavy motions, starting from the bottom of the surface until it moved to the tip, like I was being licked. I gasped softly, and bit down on the inside of my cheek; this was some really high-tech shit. My thighs snapped together beneath the table, pressing harder now, as heat pooled between them so fast that it was almost cruel.

Mr. Godfrey's voice was steady, completely unmoved, as his voice rung as a reminder; "Still the lowest setting,"

"You're insane," I whispered, cheeks flaming. "This is-- this is evil."

He lifted his brows in mock innocence; "No. This is lunch,"

"Fucking-- fuck,"

With another hum, Mr. Godfrey's thumb hovered over the button again with faux innocence; "Now I'm getting intrigued, though. What else does it do?"

Click.

My hand shot to the edge of the table, fingers gripping the smooth wood. My breath came out short, sharp, as the pattern changed again-- this was more of an on-and-off motion that nearly had me jolting in my seat. This one made it feel like my clit was getting flicked, and I wasn't the biggest fan. "Sir," I tried. "I-- I think the first one was best."

Mr. Godfrey's eyes wandered between the remote and me, scanning the burning pink hues of my cheeks. "I see," he said. "I'll keep that in mind for the future."

To my relief, he clicked something that reset it and put it back to that wonderful, toe-curling pressure on my clit. "Thank you-- Thank you, sir,"

He hummed; "You've caught me in a good mood,"

And just as Mr. Godfrey leaned forward to pick up his wineglass, there was a polite knock at the door-- three soft taps, barely a warning before the door swung open. My heart stopped in my chest, and I widened my eyes to signalize him to turn it off.

But... Mr. Godfrey's grin widened. Oh no.

His darkening green eyes dropped lazily to the table, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, he slipped the remote back beneath his sleeve, hiding it like a magician about to perform a trick no one else would notice.

Oh no, no, no, no.

As if on cue, the chef stepped in, carrying a tray in one hand and a wide, distracted smile on his face. "Apologies for the wait, Mr. Godfrey," he said, making a beeline for the table. "The rest of the staff have taken to lunch, so it took a bit longer than usual."

Mr. Godfrey hummed in response, noncommittal. His eyes tracked the way I stiffened as the vibrator continued buzzing quietly between my legs, an unholy pulse I had no control over. My cheeks were burning with humiliation, nearly worrying myself into cardiac arrest over whether the chef could hear the damn vibrator I had against my clit.

"That's fine, Martin," Mr. Godfrey said, absentmindedly waving with the same arm that had the remote. "We won't need anything else, so you're free to take lunch after this." And just as he put his hand down, his eyes seared into mine as he tapped once against the underside of his sleeve.

I buried my mouth in the palm of my hand as the vibrations got stronger, having been upped a notch. I tried to focus on the tea that was placed to the side of me, followed by the salad, yet I could only think about how nicely the curve of the vibrator pushed up on my clit, the harder buzz now making it jump just slightly at the surprise. I felt myself pulse as I locked eyes with Mr. Godfrey, silently pleading with him to turn it off with the chef still present.

Chef Martin straightened up, announcing the ingredients of my salad like any professional cook would-- however, I could only focus on trying not to squirm. It was nearly impossible to fight the urge to grind down against the vibrator now, and I was holding on by a small thread. The chef's voice drowned out as I tried to keep my face composed, tried to ignore the growing tension in my lower abdomen, and the steady rhythm teasing the edge of the unbearable. My palms were flat against my thighs under the table now, nails biting into the fabric of my skirt.

"Thank you," Mr. Godfrey finally said, glancing briefly at chef before waving him away like royalty.

But instead, Martin paused, sensing something strange; "Do you hear that too, sir?" he asked. "It's like a... small buzzing sound of sorts?"

No.

No, no, no!

This was the moment to faint, wasn't it? I genuinely felt like I was about to die from how mortified I was, yet... that feeling of shame made the vibrations feel even stronger. God, I was a freak, wasn't I? I felt myself trying to fight how much wetter I suddenly was, like clenching my walls would make it stop seeping out of me, but nothing helped. Instead, with all the willpower I had left in my body, I mustered the courage to draw my brows together and blink at Mr. Godfrey like I had no idea what Martin was talking about. "I'm-- I'm not sure I hear it, actually," I said. "It might be the vents?"

Mr. Godfrey sat back in his chair, mouth twitching in delight. It felt as though we were speaking our own little language that no one but us could understand, and certainly not the chef; then, to put the icing on the cake, Mr. Godfrey pressed his wrist against the edge of the table again, turning the vibrator up one more notch.

I held back a hitch of my breath and the urge to squeeze my eyes shut as Mr. Godfrey spoke; "It might be the construction, actually," he explained to Martin, voice smooth as ever as he turned to the chef with an apologetic look. "They're remodelling the offices right above this room. Don't pay it any mind."

With an awkward nod, Martin seemed to accept that as a plausible explanation. "Right," he mumbled. "Enjoy your food."

When he finally stepped out, with the door clicking shut behind him, I let out a sigh of relief as I buried my elbows into the table and hid my face in my hands. Hopefully, that had suppressed the soft moan that escaped me, finally coming out after holding it in.

Mr. Godfrey could only chuckle, slipping the remote from under his wrist. Then, he reached for his fork as though nothing had ever happened-- fucker.

My heart hammered in my chest as I bit down on all the noises I wanted to make, but I allowed my lips to part and my eyes to shut. This felt way too damn good, and I couldn't stop myself anymore-- my hips bucked softly against the vibrator in my underwear, grinding my clit against the buzzing sensation with slow, repeated motions. The pressure was near perfection, now.

Mr. Godfrey's eyes scoured me; "Eat," he ordered. "You'll need the energy."

My eyes snapped to his. "For what?"

His fork paused in mid-air. "Endurance,"

... Fuck.

I picked up my utensils with trembling hands, trying to keep my face composed as I dug into my salad. The vibration pulsed on, rolling my clit gently but consistently, like he'd tuned it to the rhythm of a ticking clock. I brought the first bite to my mouth, chewing carefully, trying not to hum or moan.

"You're doing very well," Mr. Godfrey murmured between bites, not even bothering to look up. "Most women wouldn't have lasted this long."

That made me pause mid-chew. I swallowed, feeling my heart drop; "You've-- You've done this before?"

"Of course I have," he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

My breath caught. Had he done this with his previous secretary too? The one with the odd tear in her skirt, the one who was now suing him? I shifted slightly in my seat, and immediately regretted it-- the pressure was worse now, the angle crueler, somehow more precise. My hand darted to grip the edge of the table to steady myself.

Mr. Godfrey set down his silverware and leaned back in his chair with that infuriating calm, tilting his head to watch me with something dangerously close to fondness. "I think I'll turn it up a notch," he purred, picking up the remote again.

My eyes widened; "Sir, wait, please!--"

Click.

My hips jolted forward before I could stop them, an involuntary movement so stark I nearly knocked over my damn tea. The sound I made wasn't a moan, but it wasn't exactly a dignified noise either.

Mr. Godfrey smiled, serene; "You can take it. Just breathe,"

Well... All I could do was breathe deeper to keep from crying out, praying the chef didn't come back in. I wanted to snark, wanted to snap back at him, but I didn't dare to. The fourth level was too much; this notch was overstimulating to the point of pain.

He let me suffer like that for another twenty seconds (longer than any reasonable person would ever call funny) and then, at last, blessed relief; a click sounded, and the vibration dropped back down to something bearable, something I could manage, even if my thighs still shook and my face burned hotter than the fucking sun.

I exhaled through my nose, my whole body trembling like a tuning fork. "You're a sadist,"

Mr. Godfrey raised an eyebrow as he dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin. "And I bet you're very, very wet,"

Oh my god.

"Oh my god," I echoed aloud, too stricken to filter it. My entire body tensed like I'd just been caught naked in a church. "That's-- Jeez, that's just not something you say at lunch."

"But it's true," His gaze dipped to my plate; "Eat."

Somehow, I lifted my fork again. My fingers barely worked, but I managed another bite-- lettuce, maybe cucumber, who knew? Anything to distract from the low, steady hum between my legs and the flush of embarrassment flooding my whole body. "Sir," I breathed, pressing my legs together to press the vibrator closer to my clit-- God, my thighs felt sticky. "What if I'm-- What if I get close?"

"Are you?" he asked, conversationally, as though discussing the weather, while he folded the newspaper in front of him and placed it on the edge of the table.

"... No," Liar, liar, pants on fire. My fingers tightened around my fork as the vibrator buzzed away, relentless and patient with my poor clit. "Just clearing up the-- the rules."

Exactly-- Just clearing them up. Not that I had any say in the rules, anyway.

I watched as Mr. Godfrey dismissed my question and absentmindedly tilted his head sideways to read the headline of the newspaper, as though something suddenly grabbed his attention and he regretted folding it.

He continued eating like everything was fine-- but if he was going to act like this was completely normal, maybe it was time for me to try as well?

My throat felt tight as I reached for my tea. The mug was still hot, a small comfort in the storm of sensations uncoiling beneath the table; was it so smart for me to be handling hot beverages in this state? Certainly not. Still, I stirred it without thinking, once, twice, three times, just to keep my hands busy, and then--

A fourth stir.

The spoon made a soft clink as it circled the cup one more time. The moment was so brief, so small, I almost didn't register it until the air changed, thickened, stilled.

I looked up.

Mr. Godfrey's gaze was fixed on me like something in him had stopped breathing. His fork hovered above the plate, frozen mid-bite, his knuckles white where they gripped the handle. He looked like he'd been slapped. Or kissed? Possibly both. He didn't speak, didn't blink, didn't move, but the tightness in his body was undeniable.

Oh God.

Four.

I had stirred it four times. A mistake. A message I hadn't even meant to send.

Mr. Godfrey's jaw ticked once, like a tectonic shift beneath still waters. He set his fork down without a sound, and my stomach flipped as his hand moved slowly, with grave intention, to the remote beside his plate.

I opened my mouth to protest, but it was too late.

Thrice; Click, click, click.

The pulse that tore through me wasn't a hum-- it was a jolt. A full-body convulsion that punched the air from my lungs and dragged a startled cry from my throat; it wasn't loud, but it was desperate, ragged, animal. I slammed my thighs together under the table like it would help, like it would contain the sudden cruel pressure that frankly hurt like a fucking bitch. This was torture-- this was unescapable.

My spoon slipped from my hand and hit the saucer with a muted chime, but I barely noticed; I was too busy trying to breathe.

"No-- fuck--" I gasped, my back arching just slightly, shame crashing through me in hot, breathless waves as my knees knocked together beneath the tablecloth. This was too much, this was painful, this was overstimulating beyond anything I had ever felt. Too much.

Mr. Godfrey hadn't blinked in a while-- he stared at my tea, his other hand balled in a fist like he was locked in a stream of compulsive thoughts. "Two more," he hissed. "Fix it."

"I-- I can't--" My hand trembled violently on the table, hovering above the spoon.

"You will,"

I couldn't hold his gaze; I was afraid I'd break. My eyes dropped to the mug, staring at it as if it could save me, and my hand moved like it didn't belong to me. I felt my heartbeat in my ears, my throat, my chest, my fucking clit, as I finally managed one stir, and then the next.

Now the number was divided into two threes, six, just like he needed it.

The second the spoon clinked against the porcelain for the final time, Mr. Godfrey pressed the button again, and the vibrator from hell turned off.

Relief crashed over me like cold water as my body collapsed back into the chair, too weak to pretend anymore. I was panting, face flushed, sweat prickling at the back of my neck, and my thighs trembled like I had just ran a marathon. I was soaked-- I knew I was soaked. Every inch of me ached, but not from pain. From want? I wasn't sure. My brain had melted, and it was probably now seeping out of my damn pussy.

With a sharp inhale through his nose, Mr. Godfrey closed his eyes. Finally, he allowed himself to breathe. "You don't play with symmetry in my presence," he hissed, almost as a reminder to himself. "Never."

His fingers twitched once on the table, and then quietly, methodically, he began to move.

First, Mr. Godfrey tucked the remote into his pocket before he reached for the newspaper. He didn't unfold it or glance again at the headlines. He simply picked it up, smoothed it flat, and set it further aside. Then his water glass followed, his cutlery, mine, the folded napkin-- each item was relocated with silent, terrifying purpose to the edge of the table, like a man clearing a surgical tray. Was this his version of freaking out?

I was still recovering, rubbing my aching thighs as I watched him. What was happening? Was this my cue to leave?

The ceramic of my tea scraped gently across the tablecloth as Mr. Godfrey pushed it away from me, followed by my plate, even though I hadn't touched more than a few bites, and then he followed it up with his own.

He didn't speak, didn't even glance at me-- he just kept clearing everything like it would somehow make him feel better. And then, when everything had been carefully placed at one edge of the table, he stood. The chair scraped back just enough to make a sound, deliberate and low, but I flinched like it had barked at me; was this just me still being overstimulated?

Mr. Godfrey came around to my side, ominous as ever. I caught myself trying to sit up, yet I barely had the energy, and accompanied by the sting of last evening's spankings, I gave up. "Sir," I tried, hoping to get his attention through what I could only assume was some sort of OCD-fog. "I didn't mean to-- are you alright?--"

"Get up,"

His voice was tight, restrained, and certainly unforgiving.

I didn't dare to hesitate-- with a shaky breath, I somehow got up from my chair, flinching at the loud scrape of it. Mr. Godfrey gave me no time to catch my breath, no comfort in the pause as his eyes flicked down, slowly, like he was taking note of the state he had left me in. "Up," he hissed, nodding to the cleared tabletop. "Lie down."

My heart slammed against my ribcage-- I was so screwed.

With my brain still fogged up from my leftover arousal, I did as told. The table wasn't cold, as it had absorbed some of the sunlight from the window, but I shivered as I climbed onto it anyway. The cloth shifted under me as I eased back, awkward at first, trying to find a position that didn't feel insane-- my skirt rucked up high on my thighs, and I froze halfway down, arms bracing behind me as I looked at him in silent disbelief.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes seared into mine, dark and contained for now. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt with slow precision, and his chest rose with slow strokes as he eased himself out of his OCD-mania. If I hadn't been so anxious about what was about to happen, I'd be more focused on how gorgeous his nose was-- Forbes nose, Forbes nose, Forbes nose. Then, the more I focused on how beautiful he was, the more I managed to calm down, block by block.

I dared to lie all the way down, back flat, spine stiff, breath shallow. The tablecloth rasped beneath me as my heels hung just off the edge; I so desperately hoped they wouldn't fall to the floor and make me look like even more of a mess than I already was. The ceiling above me looked suddenly unfamiliar... stark. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears; how had I ended up here? How had I managed to rope myself into this mess?

Mr. Godfrey's deep, dark voice sounded through my spiral; "Lift your hips,"

I obeyed again, my body no longer mine, and he slowly reached for the hem of my skirt, almost ceremonially, and pushed it to my waist with a clinical efficiency that made my stomach tingle with anticipation. Cool air kissed the wet heat between my legs, and my breath caught instinctively. I would've closed my legs, had I not been so eager to see what he would do to me next. How fucking wet had I gotten from this ordeal? It was humiliating that he was seeing this-- fuck, why did that make me feel so warm? Goddamn freak. Nasty fucker.

Then, Mr. Godfrey ran two fingers along the inside of my thigh without touching anything of consequence, and it was enough to make my hips twitch. "I'm wondering what to do to you next," he said, forcing his voice softer-- I could sense the way he held back from barking at me. "But that feels unfair. How could you have possibly known?"

I swallowed hard, scanning him over and over. I couldn't calculate his next moves, and it scared me. "Known what, sir?"

"That I need things to be in threes," he mumbled, trailing his fingers up and down my quivering thighs with a feathery touch. "You don't know me very well, after all."

... What?

Mr. Godfrey nodded to himself like he had finalized a good way to go from here. "Maybe you think I'm some pretentious asshole that implements fucked-up rules on my employees, like stirring my coffee thrice," he continued, absentminded. "And maybe you're right. I'm sick. You're sick. We're both sick. But you're... fresh. You're new. And as your dominant, I have an obligation to sometimes also just... forgive you."

He sighed through his (Forbes, Forbes, Forbes) nose, like this was all a burden for him to bear-- my trembling, my disobedience, the mess I had made of myself, and the fact that I existed under this roof at all. "As your dominant," he repeated, almost lazily, his fingertips brushing the tender skin near the hem of my underwear; "I have a duty to show restraint."

I wanted to answer, I wanted to say thank you, or please don't stop, or what are you going to do to me you little freak, but I couldn't seem to get my mouth to work. My throat was too tight, my head swimming with heat and adrenaline and fear and... whatever sick fascination had landed me on my boss's dining table like this.

"You didn't know the rules," Mr. Godfrey said, clearly to himself. I watched as that sentence calmed him, and his shoulders rolled forward just slightly. "So let me apologize."

I let out a small whimper as he suddenly leaned down, and I squeezed my eyes shut as I braced-- but then, I realized that I could feel his breath on my skin. His lips hovered above my inner thigh for long enough to make me worried, and I jolted when his mouth finally touched me.

Mr. Godfrey's lips pressed a single, maddeningly soft kiss where my mound met my thigh. It immediately sucked the air out of my lungs, and I felt my body melt at the contact. Had that just happened? To make matters even better, I sensed him reach into his pocket and click the remote thrice-- level three was my favorite. It was almost symbolic.

I allowed myself a small, frail moan, shuddering beneath my boss. Mr. Godfrey reached forward, tugging the fabric of my underwear upward, subsequently pressing the vibrator closer to my clit, and I brought my hand up to my mouth to suppress any further noise.

There was a second kiss on that exact same spot, just on the other side, mirrored; Jesus fucking Christ, Mr. Godfrey was kissing me. The realization hit me like a truck, and I bucked up against the vibrator with a high-pitched whine when he placed a third, final kiss on my right hipbone.

"You're really wet," he said, breath warm against my skin. "Had I been a different man, I'd have allowed myself to taste you." He placed his hand flat on my lower abdomen, grounding and steady, pinning me there like I was something fragile that might float away. The weight of it made my thighs quake, and something about the placement of it made the pressure on my clit stronger-- how the fuck did that work?

Just the thought of Mr. Godfrey's mouth on me, between my legs, licking a flat stripe up my sex, circling my clit with his tongue, sucking me in, bringing me over the edge whilst pinning my thighs down to the table as I shook through my orgasm; the though was too much, too tempting. "Please," I whimpered, bucking my hips up as though that would make a difference. "Why not?-- Please--"

"Stay still," Mr. Godfrey trailed his fingers down my sex, over my vibrator, over the wetness, before he retreated his hand and straightened up. The other went to my thigh, pinning me down, but something told me he did it simply to touch the softness of my skin, for selfish reasons. Was he taking liberties or was I imagining things...? "You're allowed to cum whenever as long as you tell me right before you do, and as long as you stay very, very still. Can you do that for me?"

I had to do everything in my power to not reach for his hand-- that would've probably felt so, so good, to ground myself with his direct touch. "Yes, sir," I whimpered, staring up at Mr. Godfrey with glossy eyes, feeling my brain fog up from the pleasure of the vibrator buzzing against my clit.

Just as I let my head lull back against the table, melting under his gaze, I heard the sharp sound of a zipper. I didn't think much of it, wondering whether I had imagined it, until Mr. Godfrey's voice sounded through my fog-- "You like this, huh? You like taking my orders?"

"Yes, sir," I whimpered, my lashes fluttering.

Mr. Godfrey gave a small, choppy exhale through his nose. "Damn right you do," he muttered under his breath. "I knew who you were the second you walked into my office. Knew you'd like this shit, you sick freak."

My breath caught, and just as I tried to clamp my thighs together, he forced them apart again.

"Don't do that," he said, tone flat. "Don't make me stop this now. It was just starting to get fun."

I whimpered again, nodding, my whole body fighting itself-- one half trying to escape the intensity of the vibrator, and the other half begging for more. I wasn't even sure which side was winning anymore.

Mr. Godfrey's fingers dug into the insides of my knee, bruising and possessive. There was another sound-- a belt unhooking, fabric shifting. "You poor thing... Didn't even last a week when you started working for me," His breath caught in his throat, like saying it out loud set him on fire. "It was so stupid. Stupid little girl, thinking I wouldn't notice... You wanted me to find out so bad, hm?"

The pressure in my core intensified until it felt like I was falling apart, my legs twitching under the restraint of his grip. I couldn't even think anymore-- I was a mess on his table, unraveling with every humiliating word that struck me with the most delicious pleasure.

My eyes fluttered open, desperate to meet his beautiful green eyes, but that was when I saw it-- Mr. Godfrey's fingers were wrapped around his cock, breath catching in his throat as he stroked himself to the sight of me, wet, squirming, whimpering, and locked beneath him with a vibrator unrelenting against my clit.

I wanted to stare; I wanted to look at him like this forever, but I was almost scared to. Would he stop this if he caught me looking? God, he was gorgeous like this, lips parted, pleasured. I had dreamed of seeing him like this for way too long-- I'd definitely get in trouble if I kept staring at his dick, that was for sure.

But then, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes snapped to mine, inviting me in. "Look at you now," he went on, choked out. "You proud of yourself, you sick fuck? Like me seeing you like this?"

I whimpered again, ashamed and undone, but somehow still nodding. "Y-Yes, sir,"

"Oh, I bet you are," His thumb grazed over the head of his cock with a sigh, and he stared at me like I was something on display. "You get off on being treated like fucking crap... What do you think that makes you?"

I could only look up at him through hooded lids, too far gone to answer.

"Go ahead," he said, towering over me as he stroked himself faster, his other hand digging deeper into my thigh-- I so desperately hoped it would leave a mark. "Say it. What are you?"

I wanted to cry from the heat crawling up my throat, from the way his words seared into me and made something inside me twist into a helpless, building knot; "I'm... I'm your-- your secretary," I managed, nearly choking on it. "Your secretary, your-- your--"

That was it. My thighs quivered as my back arched off the table, toes curling inside my heels as the knot in my abdomen only tightened. "Sir, I'm gonna-- gonna--"

Mr. Godfrey's fist didn't slow around his cock, but his eyes sharpened, locking on mine. "Yeah?" he breathed. "You that close already?"

I whimpered, nodding furiously, barely able to speak. "Please, sir-- I need, please--"

He let out a rough, satisfied sound, like he was drinking this in; he leaned in over me, stroking himself faster, his other hand still firm on my thigh. "Be a good fucking secretary... Cum for me, cum for your boss,"

It hit like a wave crashing through me. My whole body snapped taut before unraveling all at once, back arching off the table, thighs quivering as I whimpered at the unrelenting stimulation. The vibrator ground against my clit like it had been waiting for this moment, dragging the orgasm out until I was shaking, choking, nearly convulsing beneath him.

My head lolled to the side, tears slipping down my temple as the aftershocks made my body jerk and flinch beneath him. I was floating, dripping, barely alive-- what the fuck had just happened?

And just before I managed to answer that question, I felt two hands on my underwear, pulling it down with urgency, and I had no control over my body as it was pulled over my thighs, my legs, and threaded past my shoes. It was a relief for the vibrator to leave my aching, overstimulated clit, yet now, I felt my slick hit the cold office air, and it almost made me hiss-- I had never been this wet before, and it was almost worrying.

My lashes fluttered open at the sound of hitched breath. Mr. Godfrey's green eyes scanned the way I glistened beneath him, took in the sight of me being exposed like this, and the fact that I was allowing him to expose me in such an obscene way in his private dining room.

"Fuck," Mr. Godfrey groaned. His cock twitched in his hand as he jacked himself even harder, face flushed, mouth open. "Such a pretty fucking pussy-- knew you'd be-- perfect--"

Then, hot and sudden, he spilled across my stomach in thick, endless streaks, groaning from the base of his chest like he'd never felt anything so good as the last drops dripped down on my sex, a warm droplet of cum landing perfectly on my clit. I could only whimper at the warmth and the heavenly sight of him-- undone and real.

Mr. Godfrey stayed there, breathing hard, his hand still wrapped around himself like he hadn't realized it was over. For a second, I thought he might say something cruel again, or tell me how pathetic I looked spread out like this (not that I'd protest).

But... he didn't.

Instead, Mr. Godfrey blinked, glanced down at the mess between us, and gave a quiet, almost sheepish exhale; "Jesus Christ," he muttered, but there wasn't any bite to it. He sounded... surprised? Like he couldn't believe what we'd just done either, like he hadn't planned that last part, and it made my heart jump; what was I witnessing? Had this happened with his other women as well, those that came before me?

Or... was he still seeing other women on the side? I didn't want to think about it, didn't want it to be real.

Then, after a beat, Mr. Godfrey shifted awkwardly, tucking himself away. "Alright, then... Ten minutes," he said under his breath, almost like he was reminding himself more than me.

Right-- I was promised ten minutes with him every time something like this happened between us. He was supposed to act normal and not bark orders at me as usual. I nodded faintly, still lying back on the table, completely dazed. The air was too quiet. The vibrator had stopped buzzing somewhere, and all that remained was the echo of our breathing and the low hum of the light overhead.

I felt sticky. Exposed. And then, I felt his fingers, gentle this time, as they peeled off my thigh with delicate precision, as if to make up for the improvisation at the end there. "That got out of hand," Mr. Godfrey mumbled, mostly to himself, as he reached for a napkin nearby.

I blinked; "Did it?"

Mr. Godfrey remained quiet for a beat or two, assessing how to answer. "Didn't plan it at least," he mumbled.

Something about the confession made a faint blush appear in my cheeks. "It was nice, though,"

"Yeah?" he said, absentminded, before he crouched and started cleaning me up without saying a word. No comments, no smug remarks-- just the press of warm fabric against my skin as he wiped his release from my stomach, from between my thighs, from the softest part of me that still pulsed in the aftermath.

Despite the fact that I had been exposed to him like this for a few minutes now, I still felt shy about Mr. Godfrey seeing me like this; I wanted to close my legs, hide, disappear, yet I couldn't with him between my thighs. But then, I remembered-- "So... you do think I'm pretty?" He'd said it enough times today to convince me, no matter what he answered. Perfect, too, for the first time.

With a sharp sigh, Mr. Godfrey rose up, smoothing down his sleeves even though they hadn't moved. The napkin was bunched in his fist before he put it down somewhere. "That's not a relevant conversation," he answered, reaching for my underwear, which had been messily tucked into his pocket in the heat of the moment. "I'm much more interested in how you're feeling. Was this alright?" His voice was steadier now, but it didn't match the faint twitch in his brow, or the way he kept his eyes down as he handed my underwear back like it was evidence.

Huffing, I sat up slowly, legs still trembling a little, and took the fabric from his hand; I handed him the vibrator that was tucked in it. "I'm okay," I said. "Just... a little wrecked."

That got a flicker of a smile from him, barely there; "Noted,"

I started to slide my underwear back on, glancing at him once, half-daring, half-curious. He turned his back to me before I could finish, which surprised me. Mr. Godfrey didn't usually give me modesty-- it felt deliberate.

With slow moves, I managed to get off the table without falling to my knees. Thank fuck. "What's freaking you out?" I called out, scanning him from top to toe. He was so tense now, like he hadn't cum all over me just minutes ago.

Mr. Godfrey turned to look back at me, brows drawn in offence. "I don't know what you're talking about,"

"Are you freaking out that I saw your dick?"

"That's not!--"

"At least I didn't touch you this time, right?"

I watched him suck in a sharp breath like he wasn't sure whether to argue or walk out; but a rule is a rule, right? "You're getting too comfortable," he huffed, contained. "You and that fucking mouth of yours will be the death of me."

I grinned as I smoothed the hem of my skirt like it hadn't just been bunched around my waist. "You say that like it's a bad thing, sir,"

Mr. Godfrey shot me a look, but didn't take the bait. Instead, he walked around the table and sat back down in his chair. He put the vibrator back in its box before he reached for the neatly folded copy of The New York Times that still waited for him, as if none of this had happened.

"It is a bad thing," he said, not looking up at me. Was I imagining things, or was he sort of ashamed to have cum on me in such an obscene way? But then-- "You're distracting. Infuriating. Impractical. And quite frankly, a walking HR liability. It is a bad thing, because despite all of that, I thought more about this lunch with you than I thought about any of the important things I actually had to do today. You fog up my brain."

... What?

Mr. Godfrey looked up, too fast, too quickly, and for one suspended second, we just stared at each other. The air between us crackled, my breath caught in my throat, he didn’t blink, didn’t move, until his gaze flicked to my lips. And just like that, I knew-- he was thinking about it what it would feel like to kiss me, didn't he? Or was I imagining things again?

The corner of his mouth twitched like he might say something more, but he tore his gaze away and muttered, sharp and sudden, like it would erase everything he'd just said; "I'm going to Geneva tomorrow,"

I blinked; "...What?"

"Geneva," he repeated like I was hard of hearing, going back to The New York Times and flipping a page. "Flight leaves early. I'll be gone a week."

A week? A week?! A whole week without Mr. Godfrey? I felt my brain actively melt with shock-- how was I supposed to function in the meantime? That week was going to feel like a decade. I already knew that I was going to miss him. My voice came out lower than I expected, like I had just gotten scolded; "I didn't know that," I softly whined. "That's not on your schedule, sir."

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes darted up from the edge of the paper. "I was invited this morning. I'm speaking at a conference,"

"Shouldn't you have... told me?" I continued, breathy with hurt. "I'm your secretary, I should-- I need to know these things to add them to your calendar, and-- and now I just feel incompetent. You already think I'm incompetent, but you're not making my job any easier!--"

"I should've told you," he echoed. "But I didn't. Get over it." With a loud sigh, he removed one hand off the newspaper and motioned for me to come sit down in his lap.

I lingered on the edge of the offer like I needed permission to accept it. "I'm... sticky," Imagine I stood up from his lap and he had a fucking stain? Hell no.

But-- "I know," Mr. Godfrey said, his palm still out, waiting. "Sit."

Carefully, I lowered myself into his lap, feeling the brush of his trousers under my thighs and the quiet weight of his body beneath mine. He shifted just slightly to accommodate me, one arm curving around my waist as if it belonged there, the other folding the paper back with one hand like he didn't care that I was in his lap in a post-orgasmic sulk.

Still sulking, I decided to be crass; "Will you bring me something from Geneva?"

Mr. Godfrey didn't look up from his newspaper, flipping to the next page. "Brat," he mumbled under his breath. "I'm not so sure. Depends."

"On what?"

"On your behaviour when I'm gone,"

“What is that supposed to mean?” It came out fast, defensive, and a little too soft to sound convincing. "Seriously, I'm not incompetent, and I do a decent job! It's not like I crawl around the office on all fours and eat food off the floor! I behave just fine!"

With a hint of a quirk at the corner of his lips, Mr. Godfrey's thumb pressed slowly against my hip, a gesture so subtle it barely qualified as touch; it felt like a warning. “Right... that might be true on some level, but let’s not pretend you don’t crave consequences,”

I made a noise, part groan, part protest, but Mr. Godfrey just adjusted me more securely against him. I felt him rub slow circles into my hip with one hand, coaxing me into stillness. It was odd to feel him like this, almost affectionate-- was this maybe just part of aftercare? I had read about it on the web, heard that it was a vital part of a dom/sub dynamic, but it felt personal, and it was therefore deemed dangerous territory in my mind.

I shifted, reaching for the salad I never finished. Stabbing an innocent tomato, I tried to make casual conversation; "Who will be interim CEO? It better not be me,"

Mr. Godfrey almost laughed; "There will be no need for that, I'm sure," he said, skimming the next page of the New York Times. "I'll be available on email, but in case of a crisis, my uncle Norman will be instated. I'll still be in charge."

Norman Godfrey? I had met him several times while I shared a dorm room with Letha in college. That was going to be a really awkward conversation if he saw the way I dressed around the office-- you best believe I didn't look like this outside of these four walls. "And what counts as crisis, sir?"

Mr. Godfrey didn't even glance up from the paper. "If someone's bleeding out in reception, or even worse, painting it orange, then you'll know. And if a government agency shows up unannounced, or if you decide you can't go seven days without begging to be put in your place in one way or another, those would all qualify,"

I nearly choked on the tomato I'd just bitten into. "Excuse me?"

"I'm being thorough," he said smoothly, flipping the page with one hand while the other pressed more firmly around my waist, holding me in place like I was something that might run. "You asked."

"I was talking about company policy!"

He hummed, patronizing. "And I was talking about you,"

My whole body went still against Mr. Godfrey. It was unfair how calm he remained.

He finally folded the paper and looked down at me like I was something he might study for fun. "You want rules?" he asked. "Fine. No playing snake. No trying to access my calendar while I'm gone, which I know you do. And absolutely no short skirts, because you never know what perverts lurk in the office when I'm not around."

I blinked at him-- did he not hear the irony? "Sir," I breathed, biting down on a smirk. "I think all the perverts will be gone when you leave."

I knew I was testing the waters with that one, perhaps even treading on flaming charcoal, but Mr. Godfrey tilted his head slightly, his eyes sharpening with that dangerous flicker of interest he usually reserved for moments right before saying something that made me feel feral. "Funny you say that..." he said.

"Because I know about at least one that's gonna remain behind her desk all week."

(a/n: GAHHHH I WANT HIM SO BAD?? finally he whipped out his cock<3333 AHAHIFDJFI ILY IF YOU GOT THIS FAR, THANK YOU FOR ALL THE MOVE AND SWEET MESSAGES, I HAVE ENJOYED THEM ALL AHHHH MWAH MWAH!!<333)

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