(Briana's POV) Her first assignment

The lock clicks into place, and the sound echoes through the office like a door slamming shut on everything I thought I knew about myself.

I turn back to face Richard, my hands clasped in front of me, my heart hammering against my ribs. He's still leaning back in his chair, watching me with that same cold, appraising expression—the one that makes me feel like a specimen under glass, pinned and examined and found wanting.

"Have a seat," he says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

I walk over and sit down, my movements stiff and mechanical. The chair is leather, expensive, and it swallows me whole. I feel small in it, diminished, like a child called before the principal. My pencil skirt rides up slightly as I cross my legs, and I tug at the hem, suddenly aware of how much skin I'm showing. The skirt is navy, knee-length when I'm standing, but sitting makes it creep up my thighs, exposing the sheer black stockings I chose this morning. Professional, I'd told myself. Modest. But now, under Richard's gaze, I feel anything but.

His eyes travel over me—slow, deliberate, possessive. They linger on the cream silk blouse I'd buttoned to the collar, on the way the fabric drapes over my breasts, on the curve of my waist where the blouse tucks into the skirt. I'd chosen the outfit carefully, wanting to project competence and professionalism. But the way he looks at me makes me feel like I'm wearing lingerie.

"Nervous?" he asks.

"A little," I admit. "It's my first day."

"Understandable." He picks up a pen from his desk, twirling it between his fingers. "But you'll settle in quickly. I have a feeling you're a fast learner."

The words are innocuous enough, but the way he says them—slow, deliberate, with that hint of amusement—makes my skin prickle. Fast learner. He's not talking about filing or scheduling or answering phones. He's talking about last week, about the study, about the way I learned to take him deeper when he pushed.

Stop it, I tell myself. It's just a job. Just a normal first day. Don't read into everything he says.

But I can't help it. Every word out of his mouth feels loaded, every glance weighted with meaning. The office itself seems designed to intimidate—floor-to-ceiling windows, dark wood paneling, a desk the size of a small car. It's a room that says I have power, and you don't.

"Let me explain how this is going to work," Richard says, setting down the pen. "Your official title is Executive Assistant. Your duties will include managing my calendar, screening my calls, drafting correspondence, and handling various... personal tasks as they arise."

Personal tasks. The phrase hangs in the air, and I feel my stomach clench. I know exactly what he means. I knew it the moment I accepted this job, the moment I said yes in that kitchen while my boyfriend watched with confused, trusting eyes.

"Personal tasks," I repeat, my voice flat.

"Yes." Richard leans forward, his elbows on the desk, his eyes locked on mine. "I think we both understand what that entails. Don't we, Briana?"

I should say no. I should stand up, unlock the door, and walk out of this office and this building and this life. I should call my boyfriend and tell him everything—the party, the study, the blowjob, the internship—and let the chips fall where they may.

But I don't. Because the email is still in my pocket, the rejection letter that told me I wasn't good enough. Because my summer is a gaping hole, and my future is a question mark, and Richard Hartley is offering me a lifeline—even if that lifeline is wrapped around my throat.

"I understand," I whisper.

Richard smiles—that thin, predatory smile that makes my blood run cold. "Good. Then we won't have any problems."

He stands, moving around the desk with the easy grace of a man who's used to being in control. I stay seated, my hands gripping the armrests, my knuckles white. He stops beside my chair, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive, the same scent that clung to me after that night in the study.

"Stand up," he says.

I do, my legs unsteady, and I find myself standing inches away from him. He's taller than I remember, broader, and the proximity makes my breath catch in my throat. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, the weight of his presence pressing down on me like a physical thing.

"Turn around," he says.

I hesitate, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. But I turn, my back to him, my eyes fixed on the door I locked just minutes ago. The door that separates me from the rest of the office, from the receptionist with her severe bun, from the world outside where I'm still just a college student with a boyfriend and a future.

Richard's hands settle on my shoulders, and I flinch. His touch is light, almost gentle, but it sends a jolt through me—fear, yes, but something else too. Something hot and shameful that I refuse to name.

"Relax," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to see what I'm working with."

His hands slide down my arms, slow and deliberate, and I feel goosebumps rise on my skin beneath the silk of my blouse. He reaches my waist, his fingers tracing the curve of my hips through the fitted fabric, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. The skirt is snug, hugging my hips and the swell of my ass in a way that suddenly feels obscene. I'd thought it was flattering this morning. Now it feels like an invitation.

This is wrong, I tell myself. This is so fucking wrong. You should stop this. You should walk out that door and never look back.

But I don't move. I stand there, frozen, as his hands explore my body through the thin fabric of my blouse. He cups my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I feel them harden under his touch. The silk is so thin that I can feel the heat of his palms, the rough texture of his fingertips, the way he squeezes just hard enough to make me gasp. My nipples are tight, aching, pressing against the lace of my bra, and I hate myself for responding to it.

"You're tense," he observes, his voice low and amused. "I thought you'd be more... eager. After last time."

Last time. The words hit me like a slap. Last time, I was on my knees in his study, choking on his cock while my boyfriend slept upstairs. Last time, I told myself it was a one-time thing, a transaction, a mistake I'd never repeat.

But here I am, a week later, standing in his office with his hands on my body, and I'm not stopping him. I'm not even trying.

"I'm not eager," I say, but my voice comes out weak, breathless. "I'm just... doing my job."

Richard chuckles, low and dark. "Is that what you call it?" He turns me around to face him, his hands still on my waist. "Your job?"

I meet his eyes, and I see the challenge there—the dare. He wants me to admit it. He wants me to say out loud that this isn't just a job, that I'm not just an employee, that I'm here because I want to be. Because some part of me—the part I've been trying to bury since that night—wants this.

But I won't give him that. I won't give him the satisfaction.

"Yes," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "My job. That's all this is."

Richard's smile widens, and I know he doesn't believe me. "We'll see," he says. "Now, on your knees."

The words are familiar, and my body responds before my mind can catch up. I sink to the floor, the carpet rough against my knees through the sheer stockings. I can feel the fabric snag slightly, a tiny run starting near my knee, and the thought of it—the evidence of this moment, written on my body—makes my stomach clench. I look up at him, my hands resting on my thighs, and I watch as he unbuckles his belt with unhurried, almost casual movements. Like this is just another part of his morning routine.

It's just a job, I tell myself. Just a task. Just something I have to do to get through the day.

But my hands are shaking as I reach for his zipper, and my mouth is dry, and I can feel the heat building between my legs despite everything I know. The stockings are damp against my thighs, and I wonder if he can smell it—the evidence of my arousal, the way my body is betraying me even now.

I take him out, and he's already hard—thick and heavy in my hand, the same cock I choked on a week ago. I stare at it for a long moment, my mind blank, and then I lean forward and take him into my mouth.

The taste is familiar—salt and skin and something muskier underneath. He groans softly, his hand coming to rest on the back of my head, and I feel the weight of it, the pressure, the silent command to take him deeper. My blouse is still buttoned to the collar, but I can feel the heat rising in my chest, my breasts swelling against the silk, my nipples so hard they ache. I want to touch myself. I want to press my thighs together and relieve the pressure building between them. But I keep my hands on his thighs, my fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his trousers, and I focus on the task at hand.

Good girl, he said last time. Good girl.

I want to hear it again. I hate myself for wanting it, but I do. I want his approval. I want his praise. I want to be good for him, even though I know it's wrong, even though I know it's destroying me.

I start to move, bobbing my head the way I know he likes, and I feel him swell against my tongue. He's bigger than my boyfriend, thicker, and the stretch of my jaw is both painful and familiar. I breathe through my nose, relaxing my throat, and I take him deeper, deeper, until I feel him hit the back of my throat. My eyes water, and I can feel my mascara starting to run, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

"That's it," Richard murmurs, his fingers tightening in my hair. "Just like that."

The words wash over me, and I feel a surge of something dark and electric. I'm doing this. I'm on my knees in his office, sucking his cock, and I'm good at it. I'm good at something, even if that something is this.

This is for my future, I tell myself. This is for my career. This is for my boyfriend, so he doesn't have to know what I did to protect him.

But the justifications feel flimsy, even to me. The truth is, I'm not thinking about my future or my career or my boyfriend. I'm thinking about the weight of Richard's hand on my head, the taste of his skin, the way he's looking down at me like I'm exactly where I belong.

He starts to move his hips, slow and deliberate, and I let him set the pace. My jaw aches, my throat burns, and the wet sounds of my mouth on his cock fill the quiet office. I can feel the dampness spreading between my legs, soaking through my panties, slick against my thighs. The stockings are ruined now, I'm sure of it—wet with my arousal, torn at the knee from the carpet. The thought should horrify me, but instead it just makes me hotter.

I'm a mess, I think. I'm a complete mess, and he's barely even touched me.

Richard's breathing changes, growing heavier, and I know he's getting close. His hand tightens in my hair, and he pulls me deeper, until my nose is pressed against the fabric of his trousers. I gag, my throat convulsing around him, but I don't pull away. I take him deeper, breathing through my nose, letting him use my mouth the way he wants.

"Swallow it," he says, his voice strained. "Every drop."

I moan around him, and that's all it takes. He comes with a low grunt, his cock pulsing in my mouth, flooding my tongue with hot, bitter liquid. I swallow, again and again, my throat working to take it all, and I feel a surge of something dark and shameful.

I did this. I made him lose control.

But underneath the shame, there's something else. Something hot and hungry that I refuse to name. I swallow the last of it, my throat working, and I tell myself it means nothing. It's just a bodily function. Just a task completed. Just another thing I've done for my boyfriend.

When he finally pulls away, I'm gasping, my lips swollen, my chin slick with spit and come. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and I keep my eyes down, not wanting to see the satisfaction on his face. My blouse is still buttoned, but I can feel the sweat on my skin, the heat radiating off my body, the ache between my legs that's become almost unbearable.

I haven't come, I realize. I'm so wet, so desperate, and I haven't come. And he's not going to let me.

The thought makes me want to cry. Or scream. Or beg. I don't know which.

Richard tucks himself back into his trousers, his movements calm and unhurried. He doesn't look at me. He just walks back to his desk, picks up his coffee mug, and takes a long sip.

"Clean yourself up," he says, his voice cool and businesslike. "There's a bathroom down the hall. Then come back here and we'll go over your actual duties."

Actual duties. The words hit me like a slap. This wasn't my actual duty. This was something else—something dark and shameful that I let happen because I was too weak to stop it. And now he's dismissing me, like I'm nothing, like what just happened was as routine as fetching his dry cleaning.

I stand, my legs shaky, and I smooth down my skirt. The fabric is wrinkled, the hem slightly askew, and I can feel the run in my stockings spreading up my thigh. I look like exactly what I am: a girl who just got used.

"Briana," Richard says, and I freeze. "This stays between us. Understood?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

"Good." I can hear the smile in his voice. "I'll see you back here in ten minutes."

I unlock the door and step out into the hallway, my heart pounding, my body still humming with unfulfilled need. The receptionist glances up as I pass, her expression unreadable, and I wonder if she knows. If she can tell. If the evidence of what I've just done is written all over my face.

It's just a job, I tell myself, but the words are hollow now. It's just a job. It's just a job. It's just a job.

But I know it's not. I know it's so much more than that. And I know that when I walk back into that office, I'll be walking into a trap I might never escape.

The bathroom is cold and sterile, all white tile and fluorescent lights. I lock myself in a stall and lean against the door, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. I can still taste him—bitter and salty, clinging to the back of my throat. I can still feel the weight of his hand on my head, the stretch of my jaw, the ache between my legs that won't go away.

What's wrong with me? I think. Why did I let him do that? Why didn't I stop him?

But I know the answer. I know it because I can still feel the slick heat between my thighs, the way my body responded to him, the way I wanted more even as I swallowed his come. I wanted it. That's the truth I've been running from since that night in the study. I wanted it then, and I wanted it now, and I'll probably want it again the next time he calls me into his office.

I'm broken, I think. I'm broken, and he knows it, and he's going to use it against me until there's nothing left.

I clean myself up as best I can, using wads of toilet paper to wipe away the evidence. My reflection in the mirror is pale and drawn, my lipstick smeared, my eyes bright with unshed tears. The run in my stockings has spread, a thin ladder of nylon climbing up my thigh, and I know I'll have to take them off. The thought of walking back into that office bare-legged, with the evidence of my arousal still damp on my skin, makes my stomach clench.

It's fine, I tell myself. It's fine. He won't notice. He won't care. It's just a normal first day.

But I know that's a lie. He'll notice. He'll care. He'll look at my bare legs and know exactly why the stockings are gone.

I peel off the ruined stockings, balling them up and shoving them into my purse. Then I fix my makeup, smooth my hair, and practice my smile until it looks almost real. The blouse is still buttoned to the collar, but I can see the faint outline of my nipples through the silk, still hard, still aching. I should have worn a different bra. I should have worn a different outfit. I should have never come here at all.

But it's too late for that now.

I flush the toilet, wash my hands, and walk back out into the hallway. The receptionist is still at her desk, still watching me with that unreadable expression. I force myself to meet her eyes, to smile, to act like everything is normal. But my heart is pounding, and my hands are shaking, and I know she can see right through me.

It's fine, I tell myself. It's fine. She doesn't know anything. She can't know anything. It's just a normal first day.

But as I reach Richard's office door, I hesitate. My hand hovers over the knob, and I think about running. I think about calling my boyfriend, confessing everything, letting him decide what happens next. I think about walking out of this building and never looking back.

But I don't. Because the email is still in my pocket, and my future is still a question mark, and Richard Hartley is still the only person who can give me what I need.

It's just a job, I tell myself one last time. Just a job. Just a summer. Just a way to get ahead.

I open the door and step inside.

Richard is sitting behind his desk, his suit jacket back on, his expression cool and professional. He looks up when I enter, and for a moment, I almost believe that nothing happened. That I imagined the whole thing. That I'm just a new employee reporting for her first day of work.

"Ah, Briana," he says, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Have a seat. Let's go over your schedule."

I sit down, my legs pressed together, my bare thighs sticking slightly to the leather chair. The skirt rides up again, and I tug at the hem, but it's no use. I can feel his eyes on me, on my legs, on the places where the stockings used to be.

He knows, I think. He knows exactly what he's doing to me.

But I don't say anything. I just sit there, smiling my fake smile, and I listen as Richard explains my duties in that calm, measured voice.

"You'll be responsible for managing my calendar, screening my calls, and drafting correspondence. You'll also be expected to accompany me to certain events—client dinners, networking functions, that sort of thing." He pauses, his eyes meeting mine. "And of course, you'll be available for any... personal tasks I might require."

Personal tasks. The phrase hangs in the air, and I feel my stomach clench. I know exactly what he means. I knew it the moment I accepted this job, the moment I said yes in that kitchen while my boyfriend watched with confused, trusting eyes.

"Understood," I say, my voice steady.

Richard smiles—that thin, knowing smile that makes my skin crawl. "Good. Then I think we're going to get along very well."

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of paperwork and phone calls and the constant, gnawing awareness of his presence. He's professional, courteous, almost fatherly—but every time he looks at me, I see the glint in his eye, the reminder of what happened on my knees just hours ago. And every time I shift in my chair, I feel the ache between my legs, the dampness that hasn't gone away, the desperate, shameful need that he's left me with.

It's just a job, I tell myself, but the words are meaningless now. It's just a job. It's just a job. It's just a job.

But I know it's not. I know it's so much more than that. And I know that when I walk out of this office at the end of the day, I'll be walking out a different person than the one who walked in.

The question is: who will I be when I come back tomorrow?

The day ends at five o'clock, and I gather my things with a sense of relief so profound it almost makes me dizzy. I've survived. I've made it through my first day without falling apart, without confessing, without running screaming from the building.

You did it, I tell myself. You made it. Now go home, take a shower, and forget this ever happened.