The Position Pt 01

NOTE: This is the first story I've written newly for Literotica. Let me know what you'd like to see in the comments! This is a fairly tame beginning but I'm sure we'll get into it in future chapters...

The lobby was colder than I'd expected. Air-conditioned and expensive. The kind of place where even the light through the windows feels deliberate. I stepped inside clutching my company tote like it might prove I belonged there. White blouse buttoned to the collar, a short pleated skirt swishing just above the knee. I'd tried so hard to look professional, but as I glanced at myself leaving the flat I was sure I just looked like a student in costume.

He was standing just by the doors. Tall. Black. Broad in a way I'd only seen on rugby players and men in porn. The line of his jaw as deliberate as the cut of his jacket. One foot forward like he'd planted it there to stop something, arms crossed. No lanyard. No name tag. Just a look on his face like he didn't need one.

As I approached him, I smiled - maybe too brightly.

"Hi, sorry. I'm here for the internship programme? I think I'm supposed to ask you to take me through to reception?"

He didn't answer. Just stared. Not impolite. Not leering. Just... assessing. I felt it in my throat first, like I'd spoken out of turn. I flushed, immediately, babbling before he could reply.

"I'm Ruby. Ruby Withers. Sorry, it's my first day."

Still nothing. His eyes dropped, slow and deliberate, to the thin stretch of pale thigh visible where my coat had shifted. I didn't move. Couldn't.

"Do you think I'm security?" he asked.

His voice was velvet wrapped around gravel. Not loud. But deep. Like it knew how to make people listen.

"I... well. I mean. It's not because..." I swallowed. "You were standing by the door and..."

"You thought a big Black man was here to open doors for you?" He raised an eyebrow. Just one. Not angry. Just letting me feel it. The stupidity. The assumption. The heat bloomed up my cheeks.

"No! God, no, I just didn't..."

He took out his phone. Leather-backed, matte black, expensive. His fingers were huge. His gold ring caught the light like it was watching me too. He typed something without looking away from me.

A few seconds later, the elevator pinged and a woman in narrow heels and a sharper dress strode across the floor.

"Mr Duncan," she said, with a nod that made my knees lock. Then, to me: "Ruby Withers? Come with me, please."

My lips parted. I didn't move.

Mr Duncan.

The CEO?

Fuck, Ruby, that's not the first impression you were aiming for. I followed her, head down, ears throbbing. I didn't dare look back. The elevator doors hadn't even finished closing before I felt him behind me.

"Thank you, Andrea, I'll take her." he said.

The woman practically stopped mid-step. Then, like she knew better than to question him, handed over a leather folio and slipped back out into the lobby without a word. The doors closed. He pressed the button for the 42nd floor. Then turned to me, the faint scent of something woody and expensive drifting from the sharp fold of his collar.

"I like to greet my new employees personally," he said. There was nothing casual about the way he said it. Not warm. Not welcoming. Just... final. Like this was already his moment, not mine. I managed a smile - polite, apologetic, corporate. "I'm so sorry again. I didn't realise you were..."

"Didn't realise I was what?"

I looked up, instantly caught in the weight of his stare. His eyes weren't hard, but they held me like a grip around my neck.

"Someone important," I said, quietly.

His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek again. I watched the movement like it meant something. Like he was deciding how to taste me.

"Some would say I'm the most important man in this building," he mused aloud, "but I tend to think a ship can't stay afloat unless every rivet is doing its job." The lift hummed softly. We were alone. Sealed. He turned to face me fully now, and I felt like the air changed temperature - denser, heavier, hotter. His eyes travelled over me again, but slower this time. Taking in the neat collar, the nervous hands clasped in front of my tote bag, the faint curve of my breasts behind crisp polyester. The conservative skirt I thought made me look mature.

"You're young," he said. Not a question. Just an inventory item.

"Twenty-two," I replied, like that mattered.

"Fresh out of uni?"

"Yes, I-"

"You've never worked somewhere like this before."

"No."

"You want to impress."

"Yes, of course!"

His hand came up - two fingers under my chin, lifting it just enough to make me shut up.

"You'll be working for me now."

My breath caught. "Sorry?"

He tilted his head. "You don't want that?"

"I just, well, I was assigned to the data team, I think?"

"You were." His fingers slid back, just brushing the underside of my jaw before dropping. "You're not anymore."

My heart thudded. I didn't know if I was scared or excited. Or both.

"What will I be doing?"

His smile was subtle, but there.

"Whatever I ask you to."

The elevator chimed. Floor 42. The doors opened to soft carpet, low lighting, and silence. No open plan, no hot desks. Just glass walls, art that probably cost more than my tuition, and the corner office at the end with its door already open. He stepped out first. Didn't look back.

I followed. Terrified. Burning with something I hadn't felt before, something I didn't yet have a name for.

"Shoes off." He instructed. "No outdoor footwear in my office." I slipped out of my plain black flats and lined them up next to the door. "We'll get you some office shoes tomorrow." he said. I padded into the office, my bare feet sinking into the deep, luxurious carpet. He shut the door behind me.

The office was silent, but not sterile. It was like the inside of a luxury watch, every surface gleaming, expensive, intentional. Deep carpet, dark wood. A single long window stretched the entire rear wall, pouring light over a low, modern desk and two black leather chairs that looked too soft to be professional.

And the view - god! London spread beneath it in layers of wealth and history: the sharp glint of The Shard, the grey-boned stretch of the Thames, the ancient sprawl interrupted by steel and ambition. I felt impossibly small. Out of place. Like I was intruding.

He crossed to the window, stood with his back to me. His silhouette was obscene. Wide shoulders, narrow waist, thick arms flexing against the line of his jacket as he slid it off and hung it on a silver hook. Underneath, his shirt clung to him like wet paper. It outlined everything.

"Sit," he said, not turning. I sat. My thighs stuck together beneath my skirt. I kept my bag clutched in my lap like it could shield me. He turned slowly. Walked toward me, deliberate. Took his time. Then he leaned against the edge of his desk, looking down.

"So, Ruby."

"Yes?"

"Ever worked for a Black man before?"

My stomach flipped. "I... no. Not directly."

"Ever had a Black tutor? Professor?"

"I, um... No. Not that I can remember."

"Advisor? Manager? Mentor?"

"...No."

He said nothing. Let the silence do the work. Let me stew in it. I felt myself go red. Flushed and small and obvious.

"It's not that I wouldn't," I rushed. "I mean, obviously. It just... hasn't happened. But I'm - I'm very open to learning. To doing things properly."

He raised an eyebrow, slow. "Doing things properly. I see." I wanted to vanish. I wanted to rewind. He stepped closer, his body taking up too much space, too much air, too much of me.

"You will," he said, voice low. "You'll learn."

My mouth parted. Dry. My heart was racing in my throat. He leaned down, closer now.

"I promise," he murmured, "you'll learn exactly what working under me means."

I swallowed. I didn't nod. I didn't speak. Because somewhere - deep in the tight, pulsing heat between my legs - I already knew.

He circled me once, like a lion scenting new territory. Close enough that I felt the heat of him through the fabric of my blouse, through my hair, straight down my spine. I didn't dare turn my head. I didn't know if it would be seen as bold, or worse - eager.

"Your title," he said, and I felt the low rumble of his voice in my bones, "is Personal Assistant to the CEO."

He moved back in front of me. Opened the folio Andrea had given him. Slid something across the desk. A sleek black card. Unbranded. Weighty. Menacing in its simplicity.

"This is for you."

I stared at it like it might electrocute me.

He leaned back against the desk again, watching me with something close to amusement. Or maybe hunger. It was hard to tell.

"You have the rest of the day off. Consider it onboarding."

"I - what do you mean?" My voice came out too soft.

"You're going shopping, Ruby." Shopping. He said it like an order. Like a commandment.

"I don't - what should I buy?"

He tilted his head slightly. "Clothes."

"Yes, but - "

"Shoes. Accessories. Lingerie if you want. Whatever you need to look like you belong in this office."

My breath hitched.

"I want you in something befitting your new position. Something that makes everyone here stop breathing when you walk in tomorrow. They have to understand straight away that you're my eyes and ears, my voice. And you can't do that if you're still dressing like this is a job interview you might not get."

My chest fluttered. "I - I don't know how much to - "

He leaned forward and tapped the card once with his thick finger.

"It's pre-loaded with £2,500. Spend it all, though, the amount resets every day at 4am."

"With respect, Mr Duncan, basically everything I'm wearing is from Primark! I think it cost £45 total! You want me to spend £500 per outfit?!"

He smiled, slow and visibly amused.

"No, Ruby. That's £2,500 for one outfit."

"You'll spend every pound. Today. And if you get it right I'll give you enough tomorrow to buy the rest."

"But - how... where do I even start?"

"Harrods. Bond Street. Covent Garden. I don't mind where. But when you walk in tomorrow, I want to see that money on you."

I was already sweating. That was more than I'd ever held in my account, even with student loans and overdraft extensions. Rent, bills, tuition - my money was always gone before I could enjoy it. Now I was expected to burn it. On clothes. On heels. On... did he say lingerie?

"I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do with it, Ruby." Then he stepped back, and I knew I was being dismissed.

The card trembled in my fingers as I headed to the door. I pressed it to my chest like it could steady my pulse. Embarrassed. Exhilarated. I was... god, I was SO wet. My fingers gripped the door handle, but as I was about to pull he called from across the room.

"Oh, Ruby, one last thing..." I turned around to face him.

"Yes, Mr. Duncan?"

"What do you say?" I blushed a little at my own bad manners.

"Thank you, Mr. Duncan."

He nodded, and I stepped out of the room.

* * * *

The card was warm in my palm as I stepped out of the cab on Brompton Road, my coat flaring in the wind like it was trying to escape me. Nearby, Harrods gleamed. I felt like everyone would know I wasn't supposed to be here. The people going in and out were a mixture of tourists and upper class rich women who didn't have, didn't NEED a job. I hesitated at the doors, suddenly conscious of my frizzy ponytail and H&M shoes. Then I stepped inside.

The scent hit first: amber, leather, jasmine. Then the hush. Like a cathedral for money.

Heels. I started there. Top floor, of course. In the Christian Louboutin department, the clerk raised an eyebrow as I asked for a size six, but she softened the moment the card flashed between my fingers. I chose black patent stilettos with a sharp arch and that infamous blood-red sole. I walked a few trembling steps in them and felt my cunt twitch. Not gently. Not figuratively. They made me taller, made me a silhouette, made me something men turned for. I paid £795 for them, then placed them back into the box. Office shoes.

Next were the dresses. Oh God, the dresses. I tried a lemon silk slip from Jacquemus that clung to my tits and hips like a jealous lover. A backless black halter from Alaïa with slits so high I'd need his permission to sit. The one I picked? A deep emerald wrap dress from Mugler. Structured. Slick. The neckline plunged between my tits like a challenge. £980.

Next: lingerie.

I stood in the dressing room at Agent Provocateur with my nipples tight against a sheer black mesh bra that framed them like art. A matching G-string with delicate gold chain sides. I tried a corset. Then a harness. Then a quarter-cup bra that made my reflection look like it had plans. He must know, I thought, he must know that they enhance my confidence. Why else would he care what I had on under my clothes?

I bought them all.

Covent Garden was just for the scent. I walked into Diptyque and asked the assistant to show me something dangerous. I left with a bottle of "Fleur de Peau" and a trace of something darker on my wrist, like powdered musk and sin.

By the time I got back to Shoreditch, my arms ached. Six bags. Luxury branded. No way to hide them. I hovered outside the flatshare, keys tight in my hand, listening for voices. One flatmate in the lounge, shouting at FIFA. The other laughing in the kitchen. I slipped through the door like a thief. Bags rustling. Eyes wide. Down the hallway. Up the stairs. Past the creaking floorboard I knew to avoid. I didn't want them to see. I didn't want them to ask questions.

My room was a disaster.

Single bed. Unmade. Laundry in the corner. Posters from uni still clung to the walls with tired Blu-Tack, like relics of a girl I hadn't admitted I'd outgrown. I suddenly felt stupid. Was this the bedroom of someone who was going places? I dropped the bags on the bed. Sat. Then stared.

The Louboutin box. The dress. The underwear. Total cost for the day: £2,473.69.

I'd done it. I'd spent it.

And I was soaked.

I lay back on the bed, still half-dressed in the mess of my room, the branded bags fanned around me like trophies. My heart was beating so fast it felt like it was trying to shake something loose. I reached for the zipper at my hip with trembling fingers and yanked it down, hard. The skirt bunched and peeled away, my tights following in a tangled rush. I didn't bother folding. Didn't care where they landed.

My panties were soaked, clinging to me like second skin, sticky with a heat I didn't know how to carry. I pulled them down and felt the cool air between my thighs. My cunt was already fluttering, lips slick and twitching like they were begging for company.

I'd been wound up since the elevator. No, since the lobby. Since that first moment I looked up at him and saw the smirk in his eyes and the thickness of his arms and the way he didn't need to say a word to make me squirm.

Usually I thought of celebrities. Anonymous hands. Maybe a sweet uni crush who'd been too scared to pull my hair.

But tonight? Tonight it was him. The way he said "you'll learn," like he was going to teach me.

The way his eyes pinned me in place while his voice stayed calm.

His body so impossibly big, so deliberately contained. The fingers that brushed my neck like he was marking me without even touching my skin.

I'd never been with a Black man. Never let myself even think that way. But he made it impossible not to. There was something about him. His power. His confidence. I slipped one finger through my folds and almost gasped. I was dripping. My clit ached - tight and swollen, pulsing like it was trying to speak his name. I circled once, slow, then pushed two fingers deep inside, curling them on instinct.

My hips bucked as I spread my legs wider, shameless now, creating space for him to climb between and take me.

"Fuck," I whispered. "Oh fuck..." My fingers worked faster, wet and needy, knuckles gliding over that spot that made me see stars. I was panting, writhing, hips lifting off the bed.

And in my head - his voice.

"Are you going to cum for me, Ruby?"

I moaned. Loud. My eyes squeezed shut.

"Yes. Oh FUCK! Yes, Mr Duncan!"

I nearly shouted it as I came, hand flying to my mouth to muffle the noise. My cunt clamped down around my fingers in sharp, rhythmic waves, and I felt it gush - slick, warm, messy, spreading under me.

I shook. Legs trembling. Chest heaving. Laying there in my rumpled blouse, soaked through with the filth of a fantasy I hadn't even earned yet.

My hand was still between my thighs. My lips were parted. And all I could think was -

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?