But I stuck with him. I wanted the broken parts of him because I thought if I could love him through the storm, I would be rewarded with a love that was more intense and intoxicating. I was wrong. Instead of appreciating me for staying with him at his worst, he blamed me for little things when his life seemed to be going right. I wasn’t the glue that held him together; I was the glue that held him in his pain and reminded him of his past.
After work, I head straight for the mall, because I don’t own a damn thing a secretary would wear. I’m imagining a silk shirt and pencil skirt, so that’s what I’m going for. It’s actually a lot harder to find than I expected.
But I do eventually find something. A black polyester pencil skirt that even I have to admit makes my ass look like a million bucks. An almost see-through white sheer blouse, and then, just for fun, I pop into the lingerie store to get a smoking hot black bra with panties and those little clips that hold up my thigh-high tights. Buying lingerie for a new secretary job is gratuitous, but I’m just in that kind of mood. Also…with what I know about his business, I kind of want to feel sexy under my clothes.
As I stand in front of the mirror in the dressing room, looking at myself, I think about what Emerson said in his office. Do most people really have a hidden kink they’re too afraid to admit? It makes sense. I think most people probably do think those hidden desires are wrong and sinful, but what’s so bad about it? I mean…I never considered myself sexy before, but as I stare at my full curves and the fleshy softness of my belly, I love the way I look in this. I see something sexy I never saw before. My ass is tight and round, and the fullness of my thighs looks hot in these stockings.
What could possibly be so bad about being someone’s pet, sub, or slave? In the playful sense, of course. As long as it’s consensual and everyone has something to gain, I don’t see why it’s so taboo.
I’m not going to beat myself up for wanting to feel the way I felt on my knees for him. A man like Emerson…I could be that girl. I mean…in the fantasies in my head, of course. He’s just hiring me to do paperwork—he’d never really want a girl like me for that.
For one thing, he’s so far out of my league, he might as well be in space. Emerson Grant probably dates women who don’t live in their mother’s pool house. He’s so mature and handsome and rich, I bet they breed girls especially for him. They probably don’t bite their nails or eat fried food and definitely don’t take their little sister roller skating every Saturday night. Meanwhile, I get my underwear from Target, and I don’t buy shampoo that costs more than six dollars.
For another thing, he’s Beau’s dad. That’s weird. And wrong. Beau would lose his mind if he knew. I’m pretty sure he’d go apeshit if he found out I was even taking this job, but I’m no longer subscribing to ‘things Beau cares about.’
Wait, does he know about his father’s company at all? Surely, he does. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t like him. Maybe he doesn’t approve. Makes sense, I guess.
After buying the underwear in both black and white, I spend my whole check from the coffee shop on clothes for my new job.
As I’m walking across the mall with about eight bags in my hands, I spot a familiar gait walking in front of me. Beau is crossing the aisle from the food court to the video game store. He’s with…a girl.
And try as I might to stop and turn the other way, he spots me. Then it becomes an awkward stare-off where we both wish we hadn’t just locked eyes. At this point, it would be too weird to turn around and avoid each other altogether. So I keep walking until we are standing just a foot apart.
“Beau, hi,” I stammer, readjusting the bags cutting off the circulation to my hands.
“Hey, Charlie,” he says very unenthusiastically. “Uh, this is Ella.”
I give her an awkward wave.
“You did some shopping,” he says, and I look down to notice the huge lingerie bag in front.
“Yeah, well, I got a new job,” I say proudly. You’re damn right I’m going to brag about it a little bit, even if I choose to omit where it is or who I’m working for.
“What is it?”
“Ummm…a secretary position,” I say.
He scoffs, a half-laugh, and I feel a cool breeze of disappointment trickle over me. Then he eyes the pink lingerie bag again, his eyebrows lifting. “You need something from that store for your new secretary job?”
“Nope. That’s just for me,” I reply.