The intern

Tammy stared at the email until her eyes burned. Her chest was tight, her skin clammy. The picture was burned into her brain.

And the line.

What would your husband think?

She wanted to smash the screen, throw the phone, scream, but all she could do was sit there, ridged at her desk, pretending to type while her whole life trembled on the edge of ruin.

Then another email dropped.

Her gut twisted as she opened it. No picture this time. Just a short command:

“Unbutton your blouse. Take off your bra. Leave it open.”

Her throat went dry. She looked around. Jill was yammering to the girl opposite. Phones were ringing. No one was paying her any attention.

Her finger hovered over delete. But then her mind snapped back to the photo. The proof. The way Graham would look at her if he saw it. His face, his voice, the trust she’d already shattered.

Her hands moved like they didn’t belong to her. One by one, she unbuttoned her blouse under the desk. Her bra clasp gave way, and she slipped the straps down her arms, stuffed the bra into her handbag.

Now her blouse hung open, nipples hard against the thin fabric, each breath threatening to expose her.

Her face burned. She shifted in her chair, praying no one would notice, but humiliation gnawed at her gut like acid. The worst part, deep down, under the shame her pussy throbbed. The risk, the exposure, the filth of it made her wet.

Another email pinged.

“Now. Hand under the desk. Don’t stop until I say.”

Tammy’s stomach flipped.

She clenched her thighs together, whispering a frantic “no” under her breath. But her hand slid anyway. Down her belly, past the waist of her trousers, between her legs. Fingers pressed against the slick heat of her folds, and her head spun.

She tried to keep her face neutral, tried to look like she was focused on her screen, but the first drag of her fingers made her shiver. Her nipples pressed harder against the blouse. She bit her lip, pulse pounding in her ears.

Her inbox dinged again. She risked a glance.

“Harder. Don’t stop. Even if someone comes over.”

Her breath caught. No. She couldn’t. She’d be ruined. But her fingers moved faster anyway, obscene little circles, the wet sounds masked by the office noise. Every click of a keyboard, every laugh across the room, made her wetter.

Then it happened.

“Tammy?”

Her head jerked up. A young analyst, she didn’t even know his name, was at her desk, holding a file. His eyes met hers, innocent, oblivious.

She froze. Her fingers were still moving. Her blouse hung open, the swell of her breasts visible if he just leaned a little closer.

Her stomach dropped, terror and arousal colliding. She should have stopped. Pulled her hand out. But the command echoed in her mind: Don’t stop.

Her cheeks flamed crimson as she **** herself to keep going, every nerve screaming. She prayed he couldn’t see, couldn’t smell her, couldn’t hear the slick slide of her fingers.

“Yes?” she managed, her voice strangled.

He placed the file on her desk, gave her a quick smile. “Just need your sign-off on this one.”

She scrawled her initials, hand shaking, her other hand still working furiously between her legs. He didn’t notice. Or pretended not to. He just thanked her and walked away.

The second he was gone, Tammy sagged against her chair, thighs quaking, blouse damp with sweat. Humiliation tore through her, raw and vicious.

Another email.

“Good girl. You’ll do exactly as I say.”