To the outside world, Troy is your standard heterosexual alpha male: white-collar, boring, golf-playing, with drinking buddies and an appropriate level of disrespectful lust for the opposite sex. He reminded me of every Chad, Derek and Chip who bored me half to death. Tight blonde curls. Tanned. He looked exactly like he spent his weekends on a yacht and waxed lyrical about his share portfolio to anyone who would listen. To me, this wasn't just unattractive, it was the kind of thing that made my cunt feel as dry as the Sahara: the WASP alpha male-induced cunt drought.
When I met him, properly; that is to say, when we mutually noticed each other for more than one or two odd moments, he was in the elevator heading upstairs to his office, as I headed to mine. I was on the phone with Adrian. I hung up, saying, "You be a good boy for me, now," and then I was alone in the elevator with Troy. I felt his eyes on me from behind. His brain was sharp enough to detect that my tone was not that of a mother speaking to her child.
Score one small point for Troy.
For the next five days, every morning, in the elevator, Troy stared at my legs and feet, not permitting himself to raise his eyes above the knee. I could feel that, that he didn't quite dare.
On the fourth day, my assistant advised me we had a new client. Another small firm that worked in the building wanted our services. It would be so convenient, after all. And nobody knows advertising like we do.
I suspected it might be Troy. On that fifth morning, when I rode up the elevator with Troy, I was on the phone with Adrian. "You don't want to go back to being a bad dog, do you, Adrian?" I said. "No. I didn't think so."
Troy sharply exhaled as I hung up the phone. I felt his eyes clinging to the backs of my knees.
As expected, Troy, his deplorable business partner Damian, and their assistant, Karen, walked into my office and I struggled, really struggled, to contain my amusement.
Damian attempted to defer to my assistant, Alberto, and he referred to me as "Miss", telling me at once he took his coffee black, no sugar.
I rolled my eyes and gazed straight at Troy, who said, "Actually, Dr Mammides is the boss in these parts, I believe," proving my theory that he'd been doing his homework on me.
"Doctor? You?" said Damian. He looked me up and down skeptically. "Wait. Do you have a PhD in communications or something?"
"I'm a psychiatrist," I said. "It's what makes me so good at my job."
Damian looked ready to bolt, but he cracked out a wide fake smile. "Well, I'll be damned."
He gave me a lascivious long glance that repelled me, but I held my bile, giving Alberto a tight nod.
"Dr Mammides graduated from high school at sixteen, from college at nineteen and was top of her medical school class at Columbia. She does, as a matter of fact, also have a PhD in communications. In addition to providing advertising services to companies that need to rehabilitate their public images, we also provide courtroom support to legal teams-"
"You mean like helping them select juries?" said Troy.
"Indeed," I said.
"And Dr Mammides maintains a very small, selective psychiatric practice."
"Now, if we're quite finished with my CV," I said, "Shall we begin with your needs? Alberto, two coffees, black, no sugar, if you would be so kind." I looked at Troy, waiting for his coffee request, but he merely stared at me, his blue eyes honed tightly on my knees. "And a jug of water."
I started to feel a little less the Sahara, and slightly more along the lines of the Fertile Crescent.
Karen trotted out along with Alberto. As soon as they stepped from the room, she exclaimed, in a bubbly voice, "Wow! Your boss is amazing! It must be so hardcore working for her!"
I could imagine Alberto pinching the bridge of his nose in horror at Karen's enthusiasm. I don't lead with tooting my own horn unless I'm required to, unless the client needs a confidence boost.
I sat waiting for Troy and Damian to explain to me just what their company had done to make them so hated, and glancing between them to decide who was top dog in their relationship.
Troy's eyes were like little bolts of a welding flame and they never left my face, except for when he spoke directly to me, at which point they cast down to the floor, to my Louboutin-clad feet and stockinged legs.
As Damian explained the source of their woes - an unfortunate ad campaign that made them look both sexist and racist, which they'd taken out on the advice of Damian's older brother - I rubbed a long glossy fingernail across my lower lip. I was, in truth, hardly listening to him. He was to blame for the campaign. He had narcissist written all over him and all that was missing was the word cautery-branded across his ass. I leaned forward in my chair to tighten my cleavage, and crossed my legs to bare my thigh just slightly. Troy squirmed in his seat. I couldn't see his erection, but I knew it was there.
I was quite finished with believing Troy to be a standard WASP alpha male. He'd found the bars of the cage to which I held the key, and he was all but clawing at me to lock him in.
When Damian stood and walked to the corner of my office to make a call, I stood too, walking to where Troy sat. Damian walked out to continue his call in private, and I lifted my skirt in front of Troy's face. His eyes bulged out. He sucked his lip into his mouth in his eagerness. But he didn't touch me without being invited.
Which is precisely why I invited him.
I reached for his hands and hooked them into my blush pink satin thong. His motion was pliant; as directed. He peeled my thong down, and I stepped out of it. He held it in his hand, marveling at it as I straightened my skirt and sat back down behind my desk.
Troy brought my thong to his mouth and licked the gusset slowly and deliberately, before carefully folding the thong and putting it in his pocket quickly as Damian re-entered my office.
Over the next two weeks, Troy amassed a collection of my panties in this way. After the first week of it, I was beginning to despair over loss of underwear. I needn't have worried. Alberto signed to accept a delivery and left a low wide box on my desk. I peeled back layers of tissue paper to reveal silk, lace and satin nudes, blacks and blush pinks.
I sent him an email, just two words: "Very good."
#
One Friday evening, when we did not have an appointment and I was working late, Troy came to my office and simply walked in.
I flipped my laptop shut. "What are you doing?"
He looked at the floor somewhat mournfully, stuffing his hands into his suit pockets. "Damian is nailing Karen on my desk right about now."
"Do you have designs on Karen?"
"No."
"On Damian?"
He wrinkled his brow. "God no."
"So, what's the problem?"
"He always does it on my desk, not his."
"He prefers to shit where you eat, instead of where he does. That's a curious behavior. But I'm not quite sure why you're here."
"I thought ..." He looked down at my legs.
