Chapter 7: The Front Desk Initiation
The fifteen minutes felt both instantaneous and eternal. Aidan stood by the water cooler in the hall, staring at the paper cone he’d crumpled in his fist. The sound of the break room door opening and closing—Clara leaving—echoed down the corridor.He didn’t turn.
He went to the men’s room, splashed water on his face, and avoided his own eyes in the mirror.The reflection showed only a suit, a pale face, a man going through motions. When he straightened his tie, his fingers were steady.That was the worst part. The tremor he expected, the breakdown, it wasn’t there. There was just a hollow, humming space where his outrage should have been.At fourteen minutes past the hour, he walked to the front of the office.
The reception area was a bubble of quiet calm.The polished wood desk shone under the overhead lights. Millie sat there, her usual bubbly smile present but tighter, focused. She was typing something rapidly, her long nails clicking a frantic rhythm on the keys.She looked up as he approached. Her eyes, always bright and welcoming, held a new, assessing glint.
“Hey, Aidan,” she said.Her voice was lower than usual. She flicked a glance at her computer screen—the Slack window was open, a single message visible from Catriona: Proceed with orientation.
“Millie.” His own voice sounded flat, far away.
“So,” she said, pushing her chair back.She stood up, smoothing her floral wrap dress over her hips. “Lobby’s clear for the next twenty.” She walked to the glass entrance doors, turned the deadbolt with a decisive click, and pulled down the roman blind over the inset window. The daylight faded, leaving the room lit by the harsh, artificial glow of the desk lamps. The office beyond the inner door felt suddenly very distant.She came back to the desk, her heels muffled by the thin carpet. “Catriona said… to make sure you’re comfortable. To do it properly.” A faint blush crept up her neck.“Sit.”
She pointed to her own ergonomic chair.
He sat. The chair was still warm from her body, and it adjusted with a sigh under his weight. It smelled like her perfume—something sweet, vanilla and peony—over the scent of lemon polish.Millie didn’t hesitate. She hitched her dress up around her waist, revealing sheer stockings clipped to a lace garter belt.No underwear. Her practicality was disarming.She turned and, with a fluid movement, lowered herself onto his lap, facing him. Her weight was solid, real.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She reached between them, her fingers deftly unbuckling his belt, unzipping his trousers.She freed him, her touch clinical until her fingers curled around his shaft. She gave a soft, appreciative hum.“God. The rumors didn’t do it justice.”
She guided him, positioning herself. Then she sank down, a slow, deliberate descent that forced a sharp breath from both of them.Her eyes closed for a second, her lips parting. She was tight, and wet, and the warmth was a shocking contrast to the sterile chill of the room.
“Always wondered,” she murmured, beginning to rock her hips, a slow, grinding rhythm.Her arms looped around his neck. “Ever since you started.That shy-boy thing you do. It’s cute.” She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. “Bet you never thought your biggest work perk would be me.”
It wasn’t aggressive like Catriona, or grimly passive like Clara. This was different.Millie was enjoying this.She was claiming a curiosity, making it transactional but personal. Her hips found a steady, practiced cadence.The chair squeaked faintly under them.
Aidan’s hands hung at his sides for a moment before, driven by some base instinct, they settled on her waist.The lace of the garter was rough under his thumbs. He was hard, responding physically to the friction, the heat, the sheer outrageousness of it. Arousal coiled in his gut, tangled inextricably with shame.
“That’s it,” she encouraged, her voice a throaty whisper.“Just let go.It’s just stress relief, right? For both of us.” Her movements became more urgent, her breath coming in shorter gasps. Her polished facade cracked, revealing a raw, hungry edge beneath.“Come on, Aidan. Fill me up.”
Her words, the command in them, triggered something.The coil snapped. His grip tightened on her waist, and he thrust upwards, meeting her grind.A low groan escaped him. It was over quickly then, a rushed, intense climax that left him lightheaded, buried inside her as she shuddered through her own, a soft cry muffled against his shoulder.
For a long moment, they just sat there, breathing heavily in the silent, blinded lobby. The only sound was the distant hum of the central air.Millie shifted first, lifting herself off him with a wet, soft sound. She stood on slightly unsteady legs, letting her dress fall back into place. She didn’t rush to clean up.Instead, she grabbed her phone from the desk.
“Gotta document the onboarding,” she said, her cheerful customer-service tone returning, but laced with something else.Amusement.Pride.
She hiked her dress again, angling the phone down. Aidan, still sitting, still exposed, saw the screen: a close-up of her inner thigh, a trickle of white already making its way down her skin.She took the picture.The shutter sound was obscenely loud.
She typed rapidly, her tongue between her teeth in concentration. A moment later, Aidan’s own phone buzzed in his pocket.He didn’t need to look. He knew it was the group chat.
Millie bent, plucked a tissue from the box on her desk, and dabbed between her legs.She tossed the tissue into the small trash can by her feet. Then she looked at him, still sitting in her chair.
“All good?” she asked, as if asking if he needed more office supplies.He nodded, mechanically tucking himself away, zipping up. The hollow feeling was back, wider now.“Cool.” She walked to the lobby door, raised the blind, unlocked it. The mundane world flooded back in. She turned, her smile wide and bright, the perfect receptionist once more.“See you at the meeting tomorrow, Aidan.”
He stood, his legs feeling weak. As he walked back toward the inner office door, he pulled out his phone.The notification was there. He opened the chat.The photo glared up at him.Millie’s thigh, his cum. Below it, her message: Orientation complete.Welcome to the team, handsome. xo
Beneath that, other replies were already popping up.
Delia: Get it, Mills!Sarah: Saving me a spot for tomorrow?
Irina: Efficient.And finally, from Catriona, a simple: Noted.
He pushed the door open.The main office buzzed with normal afternoon activity—phones ringing, keyboards clacking. No one looked at him.Or everyone did.He couldn’t tell anymore. He walked to his cubicle, sat down, and opened the Montgomery file.The numbers swam before his eyes. He had ten names left. The list was no longer etched behind his eyes; it was a living thing, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, marking its territory on his skin with every glance from his colleagues.He was no longer just an accountant. He was a resource, a checked box, a post in a group chat. And the workday wasn’t over.