The office, Friday afternoon fading into evening. The sound of the cleaners in the corridor. You stare at your computer screen. The report has to be finished before you leave. It's for Ms Sinclair.
You look across the open-plan part of the office to her own separate glass-walled room. There she is, her pale face lit by the light of her screen. She is tapping away at the keyboard. She was first in this morning and she will be the last to leave tonight, as always.
Leanne Sinclair, new Managing Director of UK Operations. High flyer, troubleshooter, mover and shaker - and ballbreaker. Brought in four months ago when Head Office had finally tired of the more ... well, "relaxed" style of her predecessor, good old Mike. Good old beery-breathed Mike with his cigarette breaks, his three hour lunch hours, phones routed to voicemail on a Friday afternoon, works trips to the dog track, radio constantly tuned to whatever sport was going on. Good old Mike. Good old Mike who tried to put one piss-up too many through expenses and was sent packing.
Ms Sinclair promptly sacked the half dozen poorest performers, instituted rigorous new accountability policies, pushed up profits in her first quarter by 20%, expanded the business with new accounts, generally made a name for herself and scared the crap out of everyone she came into contact with. Not that she ever shouts at anyone. She is far too much in control to raise her voice or indeed show any emotion at all. Always calm, always in control, issuing precise instructions in a quiet but firm voice with a hint of a northern accent. Works harder than anyone, that's for sure. Attends company social functions alone, drinks a couple of glasses of the best wine going, makes polite small talk with the more lowly minions and more intense conversation with her senior staff, then leaves in a taxi before it gets rowdy. No wedding or engagement ring.
Because the thing is, you think to yourself, she's a looker. Mid-thirties as far as you know but could pass for younger. Small, petite. Pale skin and dark blue eyes behind the glasses. Always immaculately dressed - today in a very expensive-looking crimson silk blouse and knee-length black skirt over black tights or stockings. You think probably stockings. Black patent high heels. Simple gold chain round her neck. A diamond ring on her right middle finger. Long, thick dark hair which is the only thing about her that is not under control. However she styles it, a few strands always escape and have to be constantly pushed away from her face.
Oh, and then there are her breasts. Impossible not to notice, and the tailored, fitting blouses she wears do little to conceal them. Large, full, firm breasts almost out of proportion to her small, neat figure.
Every bloke in the office - and maybe some of the women, for all you know - regards her with a mixture of fear and lust, like schoolboys with a sexy but strict teacher. Despite all the after-hours banter and speculation about her, nobody - NOBODY - would for one moment consider trying it on with her. Inconceivable.
A new email shakes you out of the daydream. It's from her. Shit, shit, shit. Half an hour has passed and you have done nothing. You open the mail.
"Gareth - please come to my office. LS"
Oh no, this is it. Time to face the music. You walk over to the office and knock.
"Come in."
You enter and stand in front of her desk. It really is like being at school. Your heart is sinking, your mouth dry.
"Gareth - you know what this is about." It is a statement, not a question. Looking up at you over the thin black rims of her glasses.
"The report, you mean? It's nearly done, it has been more complex than I thought. You will have it first thing Monday morning, I can commit to that."
"Not good enough, Gareth. My own report to the Board is needed for Monday midday, I intend to write it over the weekend. And I can't start that without the data from your report. You see the difficulty." Again, not a question. She continues. "But it's not only the report, is it, Gareth? Your performance since I took over has been barely acceptable. You narrowly missed the first phase of downsizing and I am asking myself whether that was the right decision. This cannot continue."
"Ms Sinclair, things have been difficult at home, I am aware that I have fallen behind but I promise you I am doing all I can ..."
She interrupts: "Not good enough. If you have personal business to attend to then you take annual leave, do what you need to do, and return to work fully focused. Your personal life must not impinge on your work." Then a very slight mellowing of tone. "You're not a bad person, Gareth, but you're weak and poorly focused. It's starting to be a problem. I think that you have potential but I'm not sure how best to realise it and this can't go on much longer."
"Yes Ms Sinclair," for all the world like a 13 year old boy.
"But while I think about how best to deal with you, there's one thing you can help me with."
"Anything you say, Ms Sinclair," you say, glad of an opportunity to please.
"Are your hands clean?" You nod. She stands up and turns her back on you. "My shoulders are tense, it's beginning to affect my work rate," she says. "Please would you massage them, Gareth?"
You are stunned, excited and frightened all at once. This must be the closest anyone in the office has got to Ms Sinclair. Tentatively you place your hands on her shoulders and start to squeeze and knead. You're not sure if this is the right way to do it and pray it's not going to piss her off even more.
"Good, Gareth. A little harder, please." You oblige. You can feel through the silk that her muscles are toned. Her bone structure is small and delicate. You can feel where her bra strap crosses her shoulder. At that thought you have to stop yourself from breathing more heavily. You are so much taller than her that you can look down over her shoulder to where the pale skin of her chest starts to disappear under the crimson silk. Careful, Gareth, you think. You make sure that you do not stand too close behind her, so that in the unthinkable event of you starting to get aroused she will not notice. You look down again. It looks as if her nipples are starting to get hard, showing through the silk. Don't even think about it, Gareth!
"You look at me, don't you, Gareth?"
"Er ... Miss?"
"You and the other men, I see you looking at me."
