“I saw the video, Dana.”
I watched my boss’s drawn expression, as she leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. She looked pissed.
My heart hammered in my chest. I prayed that this wasn’t what I thought it was. If it was — the thought made bile rise in my throat — I didn’t know what I was going to say. “What video?” I asked.
“Don’t play fucking coy with me. You know goddamn well what video. The one of you fucking my husband.”
The last sentence was so full of vitriol that I could almost feel it burn my skin.
My mouth dropped open. I thought about that night, a week ago, when I had been at their house for the product launch party. There has been so much liquor, and he had cornered me in the hallway. I had tried to politely put him off, but he hadn’t taken no for an answer. As his hand had slipped around my neck and the other down the front of my panties, I cursed myself for wearing that short dress.
You’re practically asking for it, Dana. His fingers had slid through my slickness, an embarrassing testament to the truth of his words. He had tweaked my nipples, as if just to prove that he could.
I shuddered, at the memory.
My boss continued; if she had noticed my reaction, she didn’t remark on it. “You got a lot of fucking nerve. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” She gestured to the grand house around her. “Do you think I don’t have cameras everywhere? Did you think your little trust would be a secret?”
She drew in a breath and shook her head. Under her breath she added, “Fucking slut.”
I swallowed, hard. My chest felt cavernous.
How did I explain that I hadn’t wanted it? That he… forced me?
I could still feel his hands on my body, like a phantom assault. I hadn’t asked for it, but by the end, the weight of him had felt… good on top of me. The surety with which he had taken me and used me, had made me wet and needy for him.
Maybe I was a fucking slut.
“You’re not even going to say anything? I should fire your ass right now. That no-compete clause will keep you out of this industry for the rest of your miserable life.” She looked at me like she knew she had won.
I squirmed — squirmed — in my seat across from her. “I… don’t know what to say, Samantha.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No, it’s not Samantha, to you. It’s Mrs Santiago. Since you can’t seem to remember that I have a husband and a marriage.”
Yeah, a husband who forces himself on drunk party guests.
I really didn’t know what to say. If I was honest, I needed this job, and hot humiliation crawled over my skin, when I thought of what I had allowed him to do. I didn’t even try to stop him. As he had turned me around and pushed me against the wall, pulling my dress up to my waist, I had done nothing to stop him. Hell, I had leaned into him at that point. I had been so drunk. And he was so… forceful. Dominant. It was hot.
I knew what the video must have looked like.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Santiago.” I stared at her tan, nylon-clad legs.
Her voice was syrupy. “Oh, I’m sure you are, at this point. I’m sure you didn’t anticipate your whoring to be caught.”
A heated blush prickled over my cheeks, as her words seeped into my brain. I knew what had really happened, but whore and slut repeated in my mind, and each repetition seemed to make them more true. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t … mean, to do it.” I needed this job. “Please don’t fire me. I’ll do anything.” My eyes were glued to the floor. I felt like trash, begging like this.
My eyes met hers, just in time for me to see the feline smile creep across her face. It was the kind of look I imagine was the last thing a mouse sees.
“Whore. Of course you meant to do it.” She pulled her head back before pursing those gorgeous lips. A glob of her spit landed over the bridge of my nose.
I sat there, stunned. I closed my eyes, feeling like my cheeks were on fire. In a way, it felt almost right to have her spit dripping down my face. Shame washed through my body. I hadn’t even tried to stop him.
He had felt so good, with his punishing grip on my waist.
“You’re disgusting,” she said, her words dripping venom. “Now, strip.”
I looked up at her. “What?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve worked for me for a year. I didn’t think you were this stupid.” She leaned back and crossed her legs. “Fucking strip, whore. Or you can start looking for another job.”
I gaped at her. This felt like a precipice that I wouldn’t walk away from.
But I needed this job.
I was conscious of every muscle movement that brought me to my feet in front of her, the weight of her gaze on my body, and the cavernous shame that hollowed my insides. I began to unbutton my blouse, each tiny satin-covered button feeling heavy in my fingers. As I slipped the fabric from my shoulders, I wondered idly if I should be trying to make this sexy.
A new wave of humiliation crashed through my body, and suddenly everything felt hot and sticky. I could feel the tears prick the corners of my eyes and her spit slowly sliding down the side of my nose and over the crest of my cheek. I stole another glance at my boss.
She looked like she hated me. Everything on her face telegraphed it.
She didn’t care if this was sexy.
I reached back to unzip my skirt, before pulling it down over my hips and stepping out of it. I stood before her in only my sheer black bra and panties and black lace-top stockings.
She looked me up and down, as if appraising me. “I don’t know why I’m surprised at this point that you wear such slutty lingerie. How long have you been a homewrecking whore?” Disgust crinkled her features. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t really care. Get on your knees.”
I blanched.
“Don’t make me fucking tell you twice,” she snapped.
I dropped to my knees.
A predatory smile warped her lips. “Now that’s where you belong.” She uncurled her legs and reached out one shiny, patent-leather pump toward me. “Kiss it.”
I thought about my choices, at that moment.
Here I was, mostly naked and kneeling before my boss, after getting caught fucking her husband. Well, at least that’s what it had looked like. I swallowed hard; I didn’t have a lot of choices left. She had already made it clear what would happen if I refused.
I leaned forward to press my lips against the leather of her shoe, feeling filthy and ashamed. Some perverse part of my mind made me look up at her face as I did so, just to watch her expression.
She looked disgusted, angry, pleased. She worked the tip of her shoe between my lips, fucking my mouth in tiny little thrusts. The salty, earthy taste of the dirty sole overwhelmed my tongue as I felt the gritty grooves grind against the softness of the inside of my lower lip. I tried not to think about what was happening, tried not to gag at the vileness of what was in my mouth.
“That’s it, whore. In between your lips just like my husband’s cock. Does it feel good?” She punctuated that last sentence with a little kick against my teeth, pushing her shoe further into my mouth.
I felt my lips stretch, and I blushed at how ridiculous I must look. I shook my head, as far as she would let me.
“No?” She grinned. “Liar. I know that’s all you think about, is getting something between your lips. You love this.”
My tears finally spilled down my cheeks.
She pasted a cruel caricature of sympathy over her face. “Oh, the poor thing is crying. Are you finally starting to regret what you did?” She pulled her shoe out of my mouth and rubbed the sole of it across my face.
A choked sob escaped my lips. Never before had I felt so filthy, so degraded. “I’m… sorry, Mrs. Santiago.”
“Not nearly sorry enough.” She kicked me, and pain exploded across my face as I heard the cartilage in my nose move with a sickening crunch.
I fell backward, as a fresh wash of tears trailed down my face.
She stood up and closed the distance between us, seeming to tower over me. “You work for me, now, personally. You will report to this room every day promptly at seven in the morning. I expect you to be kneeling, dressed exactly like the whore you are.” She paused. “Show me how I’m going to find you.”
I felt like my ribs were being crushed. But still, I got back to my knees.
“Good. So you’re not completely stupid.” She inched her shoe forward. “How do we say ‘Thank you for not firing me like I deserve’?”
I looked at the shiny black leather, the taste of dirt and grime still assaulting my senses.
What choice did I have?
I leaned forward, bowing completely to the floor, so I could again press my lips to her high-heeled shoe. I kissed it, as I cried and felt the crushing shame of what I had done, and what further indignities awaited me. “Thank you for not firing me, Mrs. Santiago.”
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