Chapter 9: The Boss's Request
The taste of Mark’s shame was still a faint, metallic memory on her tongue when Lacy walked into the accounting firm the next morning. She’d applied a fresh coat of bubblegum-pink gloss, smoothed her sensible pencil skirt, and pasted on the vacant, eager smile that was becoming her uniform. The argument in the alley, the theoretical debate about her own body—it all felt like a distant, thrilling dream. A secret that warmed her from the inside.
The receptionist, a weary woman in her fifties, didn’t look up from her monitor. “Mr. Harrison wants to see you. Now.”
A flutter, not quite nervous, sparked in Lacy’s chest. The CEO. She’d hadn't seen him since her interview, a flash of silver hair and a tailored suit in the elevator.
His office was at the end of a silent, carpeted hallway. She knocked, the sound swallowed by the thick oak door.
“Enter.”
His voice was deeper than she remembered, a resonant baritone that vibrated through the wood. She pushed the door open.
The room was immense, a testament to cold success. The skyline stretched behind a vast, empty desk. Mr. Harrison wasn’t sitting at it. He was standing by the sideboard, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass. He didn’t turn around.
“Close the door, Miss… Lacy, is it?”
She did, the click of the latch sounding final. The air was cool, scented with lemon polish and something richer, spicier. Cigar smoke, she realized. It clung to the leather chairs.
“Sit,” he said, still not looking at her. He took a slow sip of his drink.
She perched on the edge of the visitor’s chair, her knees pressed tightly together. Her portfolio felt childish in her lap. He finally turned, and she understood the silence that followed him in the halls. He was lean, almost sharp, with the alert stillness of a hawk. His silver hair was brutally short. His eyes, a pale, watery blue, moved over her with a methodical lack of interest, as if appraising a piece of office equipment. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Tell me why you’re here.”
Lacy summoned the ditzy lilt. “Oh, I just love numbers! And I’m such a hard worker, I—”
“Stop.” The word was quiet, flat. It cut her off more effectively than a shout. He placed his glass down with a precise tink. “We’re past that. I’ve heard other things.”
The flutter in her chest became a hard, quick drum. She kept her face blank, wide-eyed.
“Rumors,” he continued, his gaze pinning her to the chair. “About your… extracurricular activities. Friday night. In the men’s room. And after.”
She felt a hot prickle at the back of her neck. Derek. Tom. They’d talked. Of course they’d talked.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she whispered.
He studied her for a long moment, then leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms. The leather of his jacket creaked. “Derek from analytics stopped by my office first thing this morning. He was quite chatty.” He picked up his glass again, swirled the liquor. “Said you have a… condition. That you can’t resist. That once you see one, you just have to get it in your mouth.”
He let the statement hang in the perfumed air, watching her. Lacy’s mind raced, a dizzying calculation. Denial was pointless. He knew. The innocent act wouldn’t work here, not with those cold eyes dissecting her. She forced her shoulders to slump in a gesture of defeated confession.
“Derek talks too much,” she said, her voice losing its high pitch, becoming something lower, more real.
“Derek talks too much,” she said, her voice losing its high pitch, becoming something lower, more real.
Mr. Harrison’s expression didn’t change. “He does. But he’s rarely wrong about these things.” He finally moved behind the desk and walked around to his leather chair, the well-oiled casters whispering against the polished floor. He sat, the chair groaning under his weight. “I run a disciplined firm, Lacy. I don’t tolerate distractions. Unless they serve a purpose.”
He let that sink in, his pale eyes holding hers. The morning sun glared off the glass building across the street, painting a hard white line across his chest. “Your file says you’re single. Ambitious. You need this job.”
It wasn’t a question. Lacy felt the familiar shift inside her, the cool detachment settling over her panic like a sheet of ice. This was just another transaction. A different kind of power.
“I do need it,” she said, her gaze not wavering.
“Then prove Derek wrong,” Mr. Harrison said, his tone conversational, as if discussing a quarterly report. “Or prove him right. But prove something. I don’t hire potential. I hire known quantities.”
He reached down, his movements deliberate and unhurried. There was a soft click of a buckle, the whisper of a zipper. He never broke eye contact.
It was an automatic response, her mouth just preparing itself. A technician reviewing the tool. He was already fully erect, thick and flushed against the stark white of his shirt, the coarse grey hair at its base a stark contrast to the polished leather. His grin was a cold slice, all satisfaction and ownership.
She moved to kneel beside him on the lush carpet, but he held up a single finger, stopping her.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “The stories were about your mouth. But I want to see the rest of the inventory first.”
A real jolt went through her then, a spike of something that wasn’t fear or excitement but pure exposure. This wasn’t a dark alley or a filthy bathroom stall. This was the brilliant, sterile light of day in the highest office in the building.
Her fingers trembled only once, on the first button of her blouse. Then the muscle memory of performance took over. She stood and let the silk slip from her shoulders, pooled it on the chair behind her. The pencil skirt followed, then her heels, her stockings. She stood before him in just her lace bra and panties, the city sprawling behind her like a backdrop.
“All of it,” he said, sipping his whiskey.
She unhooked the bra, her full breasts falling free. She stepped out of the panties, kicking them aside. The conditioned air felt shockingly cool on her skin. He let his gaze travel over every inch of her, clinical and slow, noting the faint ghost of a tan line, the slight shudder in her thighs. He didn’t touch her. He just looked.
“Good,” he said, finally. A simple appraisal.
Then she knelt. The carpet was softer than she expected, swallowing her knees. The smell of him—starch, cigars, clean sweat—filled her space.
He lounged back, one arm resting on the chair’s wing, the other holding his glass on his stomach. He watched her over the rim as she leaned in. She didn’t tease or play. She took him into her mouth in one smooth, deep swallow, her lips stretching wide. He was bigger than Mark, with a different taste—saltier, more assertive.
A low, gratified hum vibrated in his chest. “Derek wasn’t wrong,” he said to the ceiling.
She established a rhythm, her head bobbing steadily, one hand wrapping around the base he’d left exposed for her. She focused on the mechanics: the pressure of her tongue, the controlled pull of her cheeks, the quiet, wet sounds that were the only noise in the vast room. She thought of Mark’s devastated face that morning, his body’s terrible betrayal to her story. This was cleaner. There were no messy feelings here, just a simple, brutal exchange.
Mr. Harrison took another slow drink, his other hand coming down to thread roughly through her blonde hair, not guiding, just possessing. He didn’t thrust. He just let her work, occasionally tightening his grip to hold her in place for a moment, testing her resolve. She didn’t gag. She adjusted, her eyes watering, and pushed deeper.
“The virgin,” he mused, his voice a lazy rumble above her. “A fascinating technicality. It explains the… dedication.”
She moaned around him, a sound she manufactured to feed his theory. It was all a performance, but her body, trained and eager, responded to the audience. A thin thread of genuine heat unspooled low in her belly, a purely physical echo to the act.
He finished his whiskey and placed the glass on the desk with a definitive click. The hand in her hair fisted, suddenly urgent. His hips lifted minutely from the chair.
“Now,” he commanded, his voice tight.
She increased her pace, her jaw aching, using her hand in tandem. His breathing hitched, turned ragged. With a grunt that was more effort than pleasure, he emptied into her throat, his hold on her hair becoming almost painful. She swallowed, milking him through the last pulses until he went slack, his grip loosening to a pat, like rewarding a dog.
She pulled back, catching her breath, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. He tucked himself back into his slacks with swift, efficient motions, the zipper sound loud in the quiet.
“You can get dressed,” he said, not looking at her. He was already swiveling his chair to face his computer monitor, as if she’d just delivered a memo.
Lacy paused, one hand on the door handle. The taste of him was still in her mouth, a new secret layered over the old ones.
“Thank you, Mr. Harrison,” she said, her voice perfectly even.
He finally glanced at her, that cold flicker of a smile returning. “Mind your hours. And your… habits. This office is for work. The right attitude earns flexibility. You understand?”
She understood completely. She nodded, the bubbly, ditzy mask firmly back in place, and slipped out. The hallway carpet muted her footsteps as she walked away, the phantom weight of his hand still tangled in her hair.