I slammed my office door shut so I could leave hours earlier than usual. I was storming down the hallway toward the lobby when Harry called me from his office.
"On my way out," I shouted back at him.
"Michael, about the personal assistant," he said.
I waved my hand back at him. "All solved," I said. "The old girl's coming back."
Harry stuck his head out of his office. "Michael, that's the thing."
This made me pause. I looked at Harry over my shoulder. "What's the thing?"
"Well, she said, 'No.'"
I whirled on Harry, who retreated back to the protection of his desk as I barrelled into his office. "She said what?"
"I'm sorry, Michael. Ms Miller won't be coming back. She said, 'No.'"
"She said no?" I asked, incredulous.
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, adjusting pens and legal pads and picture frames on his desk in an attempt to hide his discomfort.
"Harry?" I pressed.
"Well, those weren't her exact words, apparently," he said, still not meeting my eyes.
I crossed my arms over my chest, fingers tapping impatiently and irritably against my sleeve.
"And her exact words were what, exactly?" I asked.
Harry cleared his throat and mumbled something incomprehensible as his cheeks flared bright red. I leaned forward slightly.
"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."
Harry adjusted the frames of his glasses and reached for a glass of water as his blush deepened. After a sip, he looked up at me. I threw my hands up in frustration.
"What?"
"She said, 'There're better ways to get fucked in the ass than working a single minute for Michael O'Sullivan.'"
A devilish grin tugged at the corners of my lips. "Did she now?"
Abbi
Mr Pinkman was a disgusting man.
Shaking his hand felt like slipping your fingers between two McDonald’s burger patties that had been left on a park bench for a sunny afternoon. His breath smelled a mound of garbage, made only slightly better by the Tic Tacs he consumed like candy, which smelled like those cheap car air fresheners shaped like trees. His shirt bulged and puckered from the protrusion of his stomach, leaving a fun little peek-a-boo hole of pasty white skin that draped over his belt buckle.
But hey, looks aren't everything, right? Maybe Mr Pinkman donated a large share of his income to deserving charities. Or maybe he tutored underprivileged children in after-school literacy programs. Or maybe he volunteered at local nursing homes, kindly giving his time to men and women who longed for just an hour or two of nice company.
Or maybe he was a sleazy life insurance salesman who overcharged and never paid out despite the dozens of lawsuits against him.
Like I said, Mr Pinkman was a disgusting man. And I'd just agreed to be his personal assistant.
I hesitated at the door to his office, which was a small rental in a strip mall between a Vietnamese Pho place and a cash advance place. I tugged up the top of my shirt, even though it was a thick turtleneck and physically couldn't get much higher unless I wanted to cover my face. I grimaced as I saw Mr Pinkman coming toward me, his hulking frame lumbering from side to side. I kind of wanted to cover my face.
The door swung open and Mr Pinkman gestured me inside, despite leaving only enough space for me to slip past sideways. I supposed it was the modern gentlemanly thing to leave the lady the choice: to rub her ass or to rub her tits. Was that Shakespeare?
"Morning, Mr Pinkman," I said, placing my hand on the door and nodding toward the interior of the office. "Please, after you."
"A gentleman always lets a lady go first," he said, sweat beading across his pink forehead despite the blasting A/C.
"And they say chivalry isn't dead," I mumbled as I went with ass, mostly so that I wouldn't have to see his face as I squished myself through.
The office was old, dated and crammed full of disorganised filing cabinets and shelves, perhaps to make it harder when the IRS came to audit the asshole.
"Is that my desk?" I asked.
There were two desks in the whole place: one made of wood with a panel in the front and one made of glass without a panel in the front. It was really silly of me to even ask; I already knew.
"This is you here, hun," Mr Pinkman said, slapping a hand down on the essentially see-through desk.
I made a mental note to not wear any skirts above the knee. Scratch that, I thought. I wouldn't wear any skirt at all. I'd go out and buy the most unflattering, loose-fitting black slacks I could find. And even then I'd feel exposed.
I nearly yelped when I tried out the desk chair, only for it to shrink down half a foot. I leaned forward to find the lever and as I did so, I noticed Mr Pinkman's eyes hungrily sneaking a glance at my chest, despite my attempts to hide it beneath my turtleneck.
"Let me take a wild guess," I said, leaning back away from his predatory eyes, "the chair is broken?"
Mr Pinkman laughed, and even his laugh somehow sounded greasy. "Now how'd you know, doll?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Lucky guess."
After that Mr Pinkman gave me the “grand tour”. I made sure to double-check that the lock for the single stall bathroom at the back worked. I was so surprised when it did that I grew suspicious. I paused and searched for any hidden cameras and
