Bossy Daddy(7)

By: Mia Madison


“Here we are, Miss Tinder,” the elevator informs me, in a sweet feminine voice.

“Um, thank you,” I murmur, again embarrassed to be speaking to an elevator and looking all around in case someone saw me and thinks a crazy woman has joined the firm.

But there's no one around at all. Just a broad corridor, lined with soft lighting and some very expensive gigantic art pieces, suspended from the ceiling not nailed to the walls.

“Have a nice day, Miss Tinder.” the slinky elevator tells me. Her voice is actually rather seductive, if I was into elevators that is.

“Thank you,” I whisper again.

I look down the hall, wondering whether there might be a reception, or a secretary. Nothing. So I steel my nerve and walk toward the end of the hallway, at least I can check out the paintings.

I notice that the walls are all glass. It's one long glass corridor and at the end, another glass wall. As I come close to running out of passage, the wall slides back and a glass door opens, seamlessly integrated within the wall. A woman with an impossibly hour glass figure and red hair pulled back in a tight bun steps out.

“Oh, Miss Tinder,” she calls. “Sorry, I was on the phone with the Far East and couldn't hold. Please come this way.”

“I'm supposed to see Rachel,” I say, picturing some head honcho dragon lady.

“That's me.”

She sashays toward the end of the luxurious hallway, not like that of any office I've ever seen. Not even like any luxury hotel, not that I've been in many of those.

I get that I'm supposed to follow her so I do. All of a sudden I'm feeling very dowdy in comparison to her stylish outfit and screaming high heels, with those red soles that shout expensive. And sexy. And everything I'm not. Not yet.

As she approaches the end of the hallway, a panel in the opposite wall glides back and she steps through. I follow her and almost gape at the view through the office window. The sleek glass desk and white mesh executive chair are like something off a space station. There's nothing else in the office but those two pieces of furniture. And no one else. I expect Rachel to sit and tell me what I'll be doing, while I stand across from her.

She stretches out her hand and indicates the furniture.

What?

What does she want me to do? I look at her dumbly. Is she playing a prank?

She expects me to take the seat.

“This will be your office,” she says.

“Mine?”

“Yes. I hope it's okay.”

Her features look momentarily confused, like she's considering how she'll handle my displeasure if it isn't.

“It's fine, its great.”

It's absolutely fucking unbelievable.

I take a few tentative steps, my fingers trailing the length of the glass, then I sit down. Perching on the edge of the seat that seems to give just enough to cup my ass like a lover.

“Okay, have a great day,” she says and turns rather awkwardly to leave.

“Wait.”

She halts and turns back, swiveling, again slightly clumsy. I'm thinking she must have a backache or something. She couldn't be drunk at this hour.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Do?” she repeats like it's the weirdest question in the world.

“Yeah. I'm hired for a job but I don't know what it is.”

“Oh. Of course. Just sit at your desk and everything will be made clear soon,” she nods, satisfied with the answer.

“Have a great day,” she repeats and before I can form my lips into another plea to stay, she disappears through the opening and the door slides shut.

“What the-?” I breathe.

This is the weirdest job I've ever heard of. I stroke my fingers along the smooth desk and lean back in the ergonomic chair. I gaze out at the view of the city spread before me. My view.

This is the life.

For about an hour.

Then I'm bored.

I have nothing to do but look out the window. I want coffee but I didn't see a lunch room or anything so banal as a coffee station. I do hear voices and see shadowy figures pass along the other side of the glass. But no one comes in to tell me what I should be doing.

Finally I need to pee so badly, I can't hold it any longer. I step outside the door. It slides back the instant I approach, like it knew I was coming. Now, I wonder where on earth the washrooms might be located.

Another glass panel slides back and Rachel appears.

“Can I get you anything, Miss Tinder?”

It's not Rachel, but another assistant that looks very like her. Uncannily so. And she's dressed in the exact same outfit. The boss must issue a dress code for designer sexy secretary that makes me feel even more drab in my cheap outfit.

“Yes, just the washroom please.”

“End of the hall other side of the elevator,” she says. “Can I bring you coffee?”

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