Chapter 2 - Carrying The Abyss
Kink guilt.
It's a funny concept, but everyone who has a deep, self-destructive desire of this kind knows what I'm talking about. I feel dirty, impure, perhaps even vaguely nauseous with myself, and small wonder.
I've masturbated. Thinking about a man.
A subordinate at work, nonetheless. I did it while thinking about my ex, messing me up my mind. I did it while thinking about my entire career being destroyed by my fantasies, the workplace corrupted into a sick, sexual fantasy.
I wake up to the chime of my alarm, and reach over to silence it, my fingers fumbling in the dim morning light. Another day. I tell myself that I'm going to put boundaries in place, this time. Work is work. Kink is kink. If I need an outlet, I'll find it online, not at work. This dangerous, inappropriate behaviour stops, now.
Another day, another attempt at being normal.
I shuffle into the bathroom, the cool tiles underfoot making me shiver. I throw the reflection in the mirror a questioning look. Who are you, and why are you lying to me?
I'm Claire, the accomplished businesswoman.
I'm Claire, maladaptive lesbian that's never gotten over a bad break up.
I'm claire -- uncapitalised -- and I exist to be used and abused. Remy taught me that. Remy taught me well.
No. Remy taught me to internalise and fetishise my own abuse. I can only imagine how pathetic I'd look to her, if she could see me now. Hey Remy, I'm so not over you that I could suck my own assistant's cock in your honour.
That should shock me out of complacency. Instead, it makes me bite my lower lip.
I make my way to the kitchen. Expensive, immaculate, impersonal, and barely used. I feel like there's some metaphor in there, but I'm not sure what it is.
God. I've been alone too long. This is an empty home, empty in a way that no amount of tidiness can dispel. I'm almost eager to get out of here, and not because I like the work I do. It's because at work, I have my own, twisted, personal playground.
But I shouldn't do it. I need boundaries, I shouldn't do it.
But then what else do I have left?
... I can't believe I really just thought that. Is that all there is to my life? Am I nothing more than a collection of my own traumas, carefully nursed and refashioned into fantasies? Is the rest of my life just boring and miserable, or is this lust a black hole, devouring everything else around it?
With a resigned sigh, I place the empty mug in the sink and make my way to the closet. The power suit awaits, a uniform of authority and control. I slip into it, like putting on a costume, complete with mask. I'm pretending to be an adult, someone with their act together.
A dashing, independent woman fit for the modern times.
Right.
I collect my briefcase and head towards the door, telling myself, over and over, that today is going to be different. That I'm going to start over.
Another day... another lie.
***
My workplace is a gleaming tower of glass and steel. It looms ahead, like some kind of obelisk, a monument to corporate pride and futility. It's a factory of bullshit jobs. I suppose it's quite fitting that the building would look like this: soulless and impersonal, impractically tall because it needs to make a statement, but also cold and indifferent.
In my mind, I refer to it as the Mountain. It seems oddly appropriate, in a way I can't quite explain.
When I was a kid, I used to read stories where mountains represented hardships. Heroes would travel there, in search of wisdom, isolation, or perhaps some old messianic figure to ask a boon of. That's not really apt for this metaphor, though. If there is wisdom to be found in the office, I haven't seen it.
Mountains are were dragons make their lairs, too, guarding over piles of gold and treasure. The part about dragons rings truer, alright. Greed is the lubricant of this great machinery, and as for me, it is the place where I built my career, rising ever higher. Higher up the Mountain, I suppose.
And yet, that's not what I'm here for. Unlike the heroes, I'm not looking for wisdom, and I have all the material wealth I could care to acquire. It's not enough. Now, I visit the Mountain, not in search of enlightenment or glittering gold, but in search of that thrill that feels better than normal sex ever could.
The one you experience when impropriety and suggestion takes over. When you feel the tantalising danger of being found out, of the mask falling, of safety flying out the window. When insubordination, or workplace hierarchy, are warped and twisted away from their original social context, and repurposed into weapons of destructive, addictive arousal.
For example, when you offer your male administrative assistant to make him coffee...
I blush. I shouldn't do that. I need boundaries. I can't believe I did that.
It was hot, though, wasn't it?
The lobby is a flurry of activity as I arrive. Pointless activity, really, like hamsters on wheels. My colleagues are already engrossed in their tasks, the low hum of conversation filling the air. I exchange pleasantries and engage in the usual small talk, all while maintaining the air of confidence and authority that hides how broken I am inside.
But as the morning progresses, my attention starts to drift. Our lawyers want my follow-up on that potential IP infringement they were telling me about, and I really couldn't care less. They should settle it with a sex wrestling match, I want to tell them. Let them send the hottest girl they have. It'd be far more interesting than this... revolting mundanity.
I find myself stealing glances at the clock, counting down the minutes until I allow myself the next opportunity to play out inconspicuous submission with someone. Anyone, really. Someone dropping a folder, or needing a door opened, or standing in queue behind me at the cafeteria, or...
But I shouldn't. I need boundaries. I can already feel the rationalisations racing through my brain, though. Maybe I can have my cake and eat it. Maybe I don't really need to change my habits, just tone them down a little? Be more subtle?
God, I'm so fucked up. I need therapy.
