An Assistant

"Molly!" I called out. "Molly, I need some help!"

"Coming, Sir," my personal assistant called back. I heard the creak of her chair as she stood up and then saw a look of confusion cross her face as she came into my office and noticed that I wasn't at my desk. Her ginger curls bounced as she whipped her head around, but the look on her face softened into an expectant half-smile when she saw me sitting on the sofa with my laptop and some papers scattered across the coffee table.

"No need to close the door," I said, waving her over. "Just a tech problem." Molly's face fell, but still she walked over dutifully. She was wearing the shortest dress I had ever seen on her, a flowy floral sundress in blues and greens, and I couldn't help but notice the way she folded her legs daintily at the ankle as she sat down beside me on the couch.

"What's the problem, Sir?"

"I'm trying to share this spreadsheet with you."

She nodded, reaching over me towards the keyboard. Her perfume filled my senses. "You should just be able to send it as an email."

"But I want you to be able to enter numbers here," I said, pointing with my finger at the screen. "Without being able to change the number down here."

"You can just make them protected..." Molly started, trailing off as she noticed what the spreadsheet contained. It was all very simple and plain, one column labeled 'Date'--just under two weeks of those--and a second labeled 'Tasks Completed,' with a goal of 200 at the bottom. "Oh." She looked up at me, hands still on the keyboard, but her blue eyes glowering.

"Do you see, Molly?" I couldn't suppress my grin. "See, you enter the number you do each day and they subtract from the number you have left to do at the bottom." I was very, almost childishly proud of myself for figuring out that simple bit of code on my own. "And do you see the dates? All the way up to the 26th?"

"Yes, Sir," Molly responded. Her cute, girlish vocal fry was flattened a little by her obvious frustration, but the rising blush in her cheeks showed me that she clearly understood what what I was leading up to. "And are you going to tell me what these 'tasks'"--the word dripped with sarcasm--"are supposed to be."

I was still grinning. "That's the best part. You came up with them yourself." I brushed her away from the keyboard and flicked over to the private web browser window I had open. A photo appeared, a nude, showing a young woman with her legs splayed over the black plastic armrests of a cheap desk chair. Although the photo did not show Molly's face, I knew it was her. She had posted it online the night before under her profile 'your_perfect_girl' and, after all the hours I had spent studying her photos, I could recognize every curve of Molly's body. I was also coming to recognize her bedroom. This was not the desk chair that she occupied right outside my office door. Nowhere at our office had a floor covered in dirty laundry like that, nor did I think that Molly could have kept a vibrator at the office without me knowing, and definitely not one as large and heavy as the one she brandished in this photo.

Molly slumped back on the couch beside me. "Sir," she huffed indignantly, uncrossing her legs and crossing her arms across her chest instead.

"Do you remember how to read a caption, Molly?" I tried to keep my voice stern in response to her brattiness, but I was having too much fun.

Without moving, she flicked her eyes up to the open door and then down dutifully to the laptop screen. "'Daddy's little edgeslut is at it again!!!'" Molly read with mock enthusiasm. "But, Sir..."

I interrupted her angry little squeal of protest, my voice dropping to a hungry growl. "Are you telling me you didn't use that vibe on yourself last night?"

"Sir!"

"Don't lie to me, Molly." I jabbed my finger at the picture on the screen. "Look how wet your cunt is."

"I mean, I

did

, Sir, but..."

"Did you have an orgasm?"

"No, of course not, Sir, but..."

"Then you just edged yourself? Because you're, ah, 'Daddy's little edgeslut'?"

"Sir..." Molly's tone was beginning to soften from protest to indignant resignation, but she stomped her foot on the carpet for punctuation. I laughed out loud. Although she had never behaved like this before, I was enjoying her brattiness, as if this little bit of grit gave some traction to my usually gentle domination. "But, Sir, the 26th," Molly groaned. "You promised..."

"'Promised'? I have a meeting scheduled with my personal assistant on April 26th." I counted down all the conditions on my fingers. "At which point she will present a written report, explaining how she has earned at most one orgasm before going back on denial. That's not exactly a promise."

"But... But..." Molly's dress was sticking to the leather surface of the couch and slipping up her legs as she slid down deeper into her pout. I was gratified to see a dark spot of wetness forming in the crotch of her simple white panties as they were revealed between her thighs. It was a welcome surprise, but not a huge one. By that point, Molly had gone a little over three months without an orgasm. Most of that time was self-imposed--or maybe more justly imposed by a fantasy version of me that she had concocted on her own. In the few days since I had actually taken control, she had made perfectly clear that--despite how much she loved being denied--she was becoming terribly, terribly desperate.

"I think I'm being very generous, Molly." I gestured at the computer sitting on the table. "Here's a very clear, ah, what do they call it now? Oh yes, a clear

deliverable

. Did you reach your goal or not? Very simple."

"Sir," she responded flatly, sinking deeper into the couch.

"And what's also great about it, Molly," I continued, leaning forward towards the screen again. "Is that I can just raise this number. Look." I turned the laptop back towards her. "Because you decided to take this tone with me, now it's 250 edges before our meeting." Molly groaned and flopped her head away from me against the cushioned back of the sofa. "If my coffee's cold... Teeth on my cock..." Molly shook her head violently back and forth. I paused for her to finish. "You're right Molly, I think 300 is a nice, round number."

"No, no, no, no,

nooooo

!" Molly exclaimed, jumping forward towards the laptop. "I'm being good! I'll finish your stupid spreadsheet for you..."

"I don't know, I think 300 will just be easier for you to remember."

"It's too many!" I saw Molly's eyes reflected in the computer screen, darting back and forth before she turned to look at me. "You haven't even included the weekends!"

"Well, no, Molly," I grinned. "Obviously edges will have to happen at the office to count."

Molly groaned and hung her head as she turned back to the computer. "There," she announced after a minute or two. "I've finished it and sent it to myself." She flounced back against the headrest again. Her voice had softened almost entirely, with just a hint of annoyance left. "Set whatever number you want."

"Good girl," I said, placing my hand on her bare thigh as I checked my outbox for the email. She had sent it, sure enough. I closed my laptop. "250 it is."

"Thank you, Sir," she responded. I felt her body relaxing under my touch.

Keeping one hand on her leg, I reached out with the other and picked up a black marker from the table. "Here," I said, before biting off the cap. "Just as a reminder..." Molly shivered softly when the cold felt tip touched her skin. In thick black letters, I wrote 'EDGE' and 'SLUT' upside-down across the top of each thigh, just where they would be legible to her when she was sitting down.

As I removed my hand from her leg to recap the pen, Molly settled back against the couch with her eyes closed and reached to slip one hand under her underwear.

"What are you doing?" I murmured darkly, taking firm hold of her wrist to stop her.

"Sir!" Molly's eyes shot open with shock at my touch. "I have so many to do!"

"You can work at your desk," I teased.

"I can't do

this

at my desk," Molly stage-whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because people might see!"

"I don't think you mind people seeing you touch yourself, Molly," I said. "And I have the photos to prove it." I stood up, pulling her up with me by the wrist. Her skirt slipped down and, despite what I had just said, I was relieved to see that it covered the words I had written across her thighs.

"Yes, Sir." She sounded nervous, but offered no resistance as I marched her towards the door, one hand still gripping hers firmly and the other holding my laptop under my arm.

Our building was built like a thick-bottomed, brutalist 'U' around a large inner courtyard. My office was located at the end of one of its arms, and so what I always thought of as the 'hall' was actually just a narrow strip of carpet stretching towards the elevators, split down the middle by a stubby half-wall to create an awkward area on its far side. About 5 years prior, a rather expensive interior designer had done her best to create a modern, open-plan office space in that area, although it was only slightly wider than the hall itself. Further down our wing, closer to the elevators, she had devised a more traditional layout, with pairs of desks pushed together under the large courtyard windows, but directly across from my office--to take advantage of the natural light on two sides--the designer had seen fit to scatter three long, low tables for the purpose of 'hot-desking,' a practice I was still not sure I totally understood. Thankfully, no one was attempting a demonstration as I led Molly out of my office. The tables were empty, although I could see a few people working at the double desks a little further away.

Molly's desk backed onto the wall directly to the left of my office door, facing the little wall and the hot-desking space beyond it. There was a large potted fern a few feet down the hall past her desk and her large, curved computer monitor was angled just so to avoid passersby peeking at her screen. While it was not the most exposed place she could sit, it was certainly not the most private, and she sighed loudly as she dutifully took her seat and jiggled her mouse. Smiling to myself deviously, I squatted down beside her chair and flipped open my computer on the desk beside hers. "Let's just make sure the email arrived."

"Yes," Molly said in a quiet, focused voice. "I have it here." The spreadsheet opened on her screen.

"Can you enter anything?"

She tapped on her keyboard. "Yes."

I saw the numbers she was entering next to today's date appear on my screen a moment later. "And what about this?" I tapped on my laptop keyboard in turn, changing '200' into '250.' Molly sighed dramatically when the numbers changed on her screen, too. "And you can't change it back?"

"No, Sir, I can't. Look." I watched her click a couple times on the cell with the new target number, to no avail, then delete the random string of numbers she had entered at today's date so that she could start in earnest. She swivelled towards me in her chair as I clicked my tongue softly in approval. "So what do you want me to do now?"

I knew my face was beaming with wicked glee as I looked up from the computer screen. Why hide it? I was thrilled with the way my plan had come together. With my eyes locked on hers, I slid the hem of her skirt up her left thigh, revealing just the word, 'EDGE.' She looked down and back up at me.

"That's an order."

***

Molly knocked 18 edges off her goal on that first day. She had figured out a technique that worked pretty well for touching herself in her seat: pulling her chair as far forward as it could comfortably go, so that the edge of the desk dug into her round belly and hid her left hand in her lap, then popping in her headphones to discourage interruptions. And 18! It was a pretty good showing--much better than I had expected--even though I never got the sense that she would have chosen so many edges on top of her denial. But still, that was the fun of the game, and when she squeaked a tremulous goodbye as I walked past her desk with my jacket folded over my arm at 5pm, I felt unexpectedly proud of my demure, innocent little office edgeslut.

I arrived the next morning with a spring in my step, but not, apparently, as much as Molly. She wasn't at her desk when I walked past, which was a small surprise. Instead, I discovered her at the coffee bar in my office. She looked up with a smile as I walked in. "Good morning, Sir. Coffee's on!"

"Uhh," I started. "Good, uhh, coffee." I bundled past towards my desk. Something was up, but I couldn't just put my finger on it. Was I upset to see her so chipper?

"Did you have a nice evening, Sir?" Molly asked as she placed my coffee down beside me on my desk. "Traffic okay this morning?"

"Yes, uhh. Fine." I looked quickly at the door to insure we were alone and dropped my voice to just above a whisper. "You didn't post anything last night."

"No, I didn't. Was I supposed to?" Her voice still had a slightly teasing, fake-innocent tone, like she was keeping a secret from me. "But first there's an urgent callback request for you... See my note, there... I'll dial for you."

Molly lifted the receiver out of its cradle, pressed it into my unresisting hand, and leaned forward to type the number into the number pad. My mind was still racing as I put the phone to my ear.

Why was she showing off like this, leaning her whole body across my desk? Fuck, she was so hot, that tight sleeveless top, her ass in those jeans...

I dimly heard the distant dial tone as something clicked faintly, somewhere in my subconscious. Molly stood up and looked at me, barely suppressing a self-satisfied little grin. "Don't worry, Sir," she said, the half-demure tease in her voice rising right to the surface. "I double-checked the dress code and I am allowed to wear jeans"--the phone was ringing now--"if they won't interfere with my work." An answer on the line. I held up my hand.

Damn her

. Molly winked and mouthed

Enjoy your call

, turned around, and let me watch her walk out of my office, closing the door behind her with one last smirk over her shoulder.

The call turned out to be pressing, but I was badly distracted the whole time.

What was she playing at?

"Uh-huh, yes..."

There was no way...

"Oh, mhmm, I remember, yes..."

How could she manage... At her desk...

"And in those?"

"In what?" I heard after a pause down the line.

"Sorry, sorry, another thought... I'm listening now. Wait, please, no, repeat that..."

And so the call took twice as long as it should have. I had already pulled the tracking spreadsheet up on my computer before it ended and when I hung up, I sat there, phone loose in my hand, watching the little empty box where Molly would record today's completed 'tasks.' "But would she even

dare

?" I asked out loud as I leaned forward, eyes still glued to the screen, and replaced the receiver.

When the little digital '1' finally appeared in its box on the screen, I felt myself grunt with bitter satisfaction in the back of my throat. "Molly!" I called out loud, halfway to the door. "Molly!" I called a second time as I flung it open. Why was my pulse pounding?

She was sitting at her desk, her back to me. I was dimly aware of the handful of people out in the office space, half-rising from their tables to gawk at us, as Molly nonchalantly pulled out her earbuds. "Oh, Sir," she said coyly, finally looking up at me with her blue eyes narrowed mischievously. "I didn't hear you."

"We need to talk," I said after a heavy breath in. "Now. In my office. Urgently." The gawkers were tittering out on the office floor. "And no interruptions!" A clatter as they dropped back to their desks.

"Well, yes, Sir," Molly said, standing up.

I turned immediately on my heel. "Close the door after you."

She did. "How did the call go, Sir?"

"Uhh, the call..." I muttered as we reached my desk, her one pace behind me. I had totally forgotten about the call. "That's not what I want to talk about, Molly." I sat down and leaned back in my seat behind, my back to the window. Somehow, I felt something like exhaustion. I gestured at the computer still open on my desk as Molly came around to stand beside me. "How do you explain this?"

Molly leaned down to ostentatiously study the screen. "Well," she said, straightening up. "Yesterday, my very

mean

boss set me a certain number of tasks..."

"I know that!"

What did she mean by 'mean'?

"Just this one! Today's!"

"Oh, that's easy," she responded, turning back to look me in the eye. "While you were on your call, Sir..." Her voice dropped into a husky little purr. "I was edging my clit at my desk like a good girl."

I looked at her carefully.

So she wants to play, huh?

"I don't believe you."

"No?" She leaned forward, one hand on each of the armrests of my chair, her nose nearly touching mine.

"I don't think you can touch yourself through those jeans, no," I said, trying to keep an authoritative tone in my voice. I was transfixed by this aggressive, bratty side of her that I had never seen before. I could feel the heat of her body so close to mine, could smell her perfume, hear each deep intake of breath.

She leaned her head to one side and crinkled her nose. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Well, you're in violation of the dress code, for one. I'm going to send you home to change."

"I don't have to go home. I have my gym clothes with me. I could..."

"No," I said sharply, interrupting her. There was a company gym on the ground floor of our building, so I had seen Molly in her workout clothes before.

Those leggings... That little, tight, cropped... With her hair up... All sweaty...

Just imagining it made me twitch. "I don't think... I think that would still get in the way of your work."

She pulled back a little, so that only her fingertips were still touching my chair. "But my jeans aren't getting in the way, either."

"I can't imagine any work that's more important than completing these tasks I've set," I continued, leaning forward myself into the space she had just vacated. The shift of position made me sharply aware of my erection, hard against my thigh.

"I'll get them done." A significant pause. I raised my eyebrows and she rolled her eyes. "Sir."

"It doesn't really matter to me. I'm not the one on denial." I shrugged. "But I'm going to delete this fake entry you tried to sneak in."

"It's not fake, Sir!"

"Really?" I said, leaning back again. "Prove it."

Molly studied me for a moment. "I'll show you how I do it if you knock 50 off my target."

"I'll add 50 if you don't."

Another moment. "Fine," Molly said coolly. An admission of defeat, I guess, but why was she still smiling? She turned around and pushed everything to one side on my desk--laptop, landline, pens clattering from their cup as she shoved them aside. "But no touching. It wouldn't be a proper demonstration if you interfered, would it?"

"Suuuuu-re," I agreed in a soft, slow exhalation. Molly took a seat on the edge of my desk, facing me, and spread her legs as wide as she could. God, what a sight. Still fully clothed, she looked almost as pornographic as any picture I had seen of 'your_perfect_girl.' Her high-waisted, straight-cut jeans sat flatteringly snug over her belly and hips, with her tight, cream-coloured top tucked into them. She leaned back, supporting herself with one hand, and began massaging one of her breasts roughly with the other.

"So I first figured out this technique..."

I laughed. "So you just play with your tits at your desk?"

Molly glared at me and moved her hand across to squeeze the other breast. "Rude." She flung her head back, tossing her hair out of her eyes. "As I was saying, I first learned this technique when I was in college. I had this professor, he was really hot... Kind of looked like you... Mmmm... Thick arms, beard..." She rolled her body once, luxuriously, and I saw that she was biting her lower lip. When she spoke again, her voice was hushed, focused, raspy with desire. "It was this old lecture hall with these crappy wooden seats and they were so uncomfortable, but I didn't care. I sat right in the front row and just...

God

, I was such a little whore..."