Exposed

The silk of my blouse is a betrayal. Every breath sends the fabric sliding against my nipples, already tight and sensitive from the morning air and anticipation. I'd stood in front of my mirror for twenty minutes, watching myself follow V's command—professional pencil skirt, cream silk blouse, tailored blazer—and absolutely nothing underneath. I'd sent him the photo. His response had been immediate: Perfect. Now go make me proud. Now, sitting at my desk outside Victor's office, I'm hyperaware of everything. The cool leather of my chair against the back of my thighs. The slight dampness already gathering between my legs. The way my breasts shift when I reach for files, unrestrained, the movement visible if anyone bothers to look closely enough. No one has. Yet. "Amelia." Victor's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Coffee. Now." I stand too quickly, and the motion sends my skirt sliding against bare skin. A jolt of sensation shoots through me, and I have to grip my desk to steady myself. "Of course, Mr. Ashford." The walk to the break room feels like miles. Each step is a reminder of my nakedness, the friction between my thighs building with every movement. I'm already wet, already aching, and it's barely nine AM. You're doing this for me, V's words echo in my mind. Every step. Every move. I make Victor's coffee exactly how he likes it—black, two sugars, despite his claims he takes it straight. I've watched him add sugar when he thinks no one's looking. Small rebellions against his own rigid control. When I return to his office, he's standing by the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in clipped tones about the merger. I set the cup on his desk and turn to leave. "Wait." I freeze, heart hammering. Has he noticed? Can he somehow tell? He ends the call and turns to face me, those grey eyes sweeping over me with the same cold assessment as always. But then—his gaze catches. Holds. Drops to my chest for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up. "You're needed in the morning briefing." His voice is rough, strained. "Conference room. Five minutes." "Yes, sir." The word slips out, the same one I'd used with V last night, and Victor's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. I practically flee. The conference room is already full when I arrive—department heads, senior managers, Victor at the head of the table. I take my usual seat at the back, tablet ready for notes, and pray no one notices the flush creeping up my neck. Victor starts the presentation. Market analysis. Projected growth. Due diligence timelines. I should be taking notes, but all I can focus on is the constant, maddening stimulation of fabric against sensitized skin. I shift in my seat, trying to find relief, and the motion sends a wave of sensation through me so intense I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping. Victor's eyes find mine across the room. He stops mid-sentence. "Amelia, are you alright?" Every head turns toward me. Heat floods my face. "Fine, Mr. Ashford. Just—" I gesture vaguely at my tablet. "Technical issue." His gaze lingers, suspicious, before returning to his presentation. But I catch him glancing my way twice more during the meeting, his attention divided in a way that's completely unlike him. The hours crawl by in exquisite torture. Every movement is an exercise in restraint—bending to retrieve dropped pens, reaching for files on high shelves, crossing and uncrossing my legs. By lunch, I'm wound so tight I'm trembling. I escape to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and pull out my phone with shaking hands. Me: I can't take this anymore. I'm dying. V: Good. That means you're learning. How does it feel? Me: Like I'm going to combust. Like everyone can see right through my clothes. V: Can they? Me: No. Maybe. I don't know. My boss looked at me strangely during the meeting. V: Your boss? Tell me about him. The question catches me off guard. We're not supposed to share personal details. But Victor feels safe to mention—he's just my boss, nothing more. Especially after Friday night. Me: Cold. Untouchable. Barely acknowledges I exist. V:  Are you imagining what your cold, untouchable boss would do if he knew your secret? Me: NO. Yes. God, yes. The fantasy has been playing on loop all morning—Victor's eyes darkening with desire instead of dismissal, his controlled facade cracking, his hands on me, finally, finally touching me the way I've dreamed about for three years. V: That's what I thought. Use it, Amelia. Channel that want. Let it make you bold. I return to my desk just as Victor calls me into his office. He's standing behind his desk, loosening his tie—a rare crack in his impeccable armor. "We're working late tonight." It's not a question. "The Blackstone merger documents need review before tomorrow's board meeting." "Of course." I lean over his desk to retrieve the file he's indicating, and my blouse gapes open. For a heartbeat, everything stills. Victor's eyes drop to the exposed curve of my breast, the obvious lack of a bra, and something flashes across his face—shock, hunger, something dark and raw before his mask slams back into place. "That will be all," he says, voice strained. "For now." I straighten, pulse racing, and return to my desk. The email arrives an hour later: We'll review the documents at 6 PM. Don't leave early. But when I open the attached file, my blood turns cold. The timestamp reads 10 AM. This morning. Hours ago. He could have sent this anytime. He didn't need to wait until the end of the day. My phone buzzes, and my hands shake as I unlock it. V: Still at the office? Me: Yes. Working late. V: Perfect. Then you're ready for your second task. Me: What is it? The three dots pulse. My breath catches. Around me, the office is emptying, colleagues calling out goodbyes, elevators dinging. Soon it will just be me and Victor, separated by a single wall. The message comes through, and my world tilts. V: Masturbate in your office. Right now. And send me proof.