The Intern

So, yeah, I'm an idiot. I'd managed to stay at the unpaid intern job twice as long as anything I'd worked at before, and then I went and fucked everything up by grabbing the CFO's ass in the elevator, and then arguing him into letting me give him a blowjob in his office instead of going out to dinner. I have some weird defense mechanisms. I was considering the dwindling likelihood of getting through the next 10 months at the job, as I drove into the annex overflow parking lot and began my hike up to the main building. Parking spots reserved for interns are more of a punishment than an honor.

Forrester was stuck in my head. He'd surprised me. He hadn't turned my ass-grab into something to leverage against me, but instead he'd taken care of me. Why? It wasn't even his coffee that spilled on my sweater. He had a whole stack of shirts in that cabinet and he'd given me the Charvet. Was he trying to impress me with money? It didn't seem likely. If anything, I'd shown how much our differences were a chip on my shoulder. Well, one of the chips, anyway. And when I told him that I didn't like being touched by strangers, instead of getting defensive or entitled, he just went with it and didn't push me for what he wanted instead.

The guy had power, discipline, and patience. He could have humiliated me and made a slave out of me with any one of those advantages, but he didn't. Instead, it felt like he was using them to play chess with me, and my pieces were my pain, my walls and my anxieties... all the things that kept me safe. Why? What did he hope to gain? A fucked up young woman that gave good head? We're a dime a dozen - and we certainly don't stay young. Forrester seemed smarter than that, but I guess some people never learn to look out for themselves.

Ten more months at my job and I could get control of the trust fund and get the hell away from people. Ten more months and I didn't have to feel like I would disappoint people no matter how much I wanted to be different. I was tired. I was only 23, but I was tired, and I began to worry that maybe I wasn't just tired. Maybe too much had happened to me... maybe I no longer could bounce back from things. What if my past had hardened and solidified around me, defining me forever? What if, even if I did somehow get away from people, what if I had become so worn that nothing would ever change again... and then nothing would get better. Fuck. I was too young to be this old.

I put my stuff into my cubicle cabinet and booted up my laptop. Besides lunch madness, I expected only 6 food deliveries today, but I couldn't remember if I had one coming in 15 minutes or in 45. I pulled up my calendar and relaxed a little. I had 45 minutes before I started filling rooms with food that would mostly go uneaten.

Then, I noticed it. On my desk was a clay vase, like something in the break room cupboards left over from a flower delivery that was made to show one of my socially-attached co-workers that they were loved or wanted. There were no flowers in it now, though. There was a stick. Figures. Loved people got flowers, I got a stick. Morning wood for the amazing cock-sucking girl.

A notice popped up on my screen that I'd gotten a chat message from "Forrester, Gregory" and my stomach flipped and said 'yay!' My brain told my stomach to go eat something and shut up. My stomach said it wanted to go eat Forrester again. My heart ducked down and pretended not to be home. My brain told me to open the damn chat already.

Forrester, Gregory: Good morning...

Good morning? What is that supposed to mean? What do I do with 'good morning?' Who the fuck says 'good morning' anymore? And what's with that ellipsis? Shit!

Sherwood, Gillian: Good morning, sir

Forrester, Gregory: Sir... hmm

Sherwood, Gillian: Sorry, your ellipsis threw me off. That, and you're supposed to be ignoring me.

Forrester, Gregory: I did ignore you. All night. I'm done now.

Sherwood, Gillian: Well done, sir. Very efficient.

Forrester, Gregory: That's two sirs, now. Did you see what I left you?

Sherwood, Gillian: You left me the stick?

Forrester, Gregory: I did.

Sherwood, Gillian: Okay?

Forrester, Gregory: It needs to be misted daily and the water changed every few days.

Sherwood, Gillian: I'm not good at taking care of things.

Forrester, Gregory: I am... and I have faith in you.

Sherwood, Gillian: Why am I doing this, sir?

Forrester, Gregory: That's three... I'm tempted to think you're trying to negate past events with imposed formality. You're doing this because sometimes things bloom when taken out of their comfort zone.

Sherwood, Gillian: Yeah... or they just die.

Forrester, Gregory: Nice ellipsis. As I said, I have faith in you. Have a good day.

His status changed to "offline" and that was the end of our chat. I looked over at the stick, feeling a little lost. Did he get it himself? Just go out and cut a branch off something and fill up a vase? It was just so strange. I couldn't imagine Trudy doing it for him, so he must have done it. I shook my head, imagining the company's CFO wandering around the intern slums with a stick in a vase trying to find my cubicle.

I looked around my workspace, wondering how it had looked to Forrester. It utterly devoid of any personal effects except the piece paper with my name printed on it that someone slid into the Plexiglass name holder on the wall. Verdana font. I looked up at it and blinked in surprise. In pen, next to my name, someone had drawn a picture of the stick, only this one was covered with leaves and flowers in bloom. Each pen stroke was light, but confident, as if the drawing had been done as a quick afterthought, but drawn with a deftly skilled hand having decades of practice. It was whimsical and effervescent, like someone old that felt new. Why would someone like that have faith in me? I told myself that it didn't matter. I needed to deliver food.

At lunch, I loaded the cart with all the food deliveries and began making the rounds, heading to the C-level first. It's actually a tricky job because so many people feel obligated to make chit-chat with you. I don't know if it's an "I need to think I'm above class distinctions" thing, or a "I like the way your tits look when you bend over and push the cart" thing, but chit-chat with everyone will really screw up your delivery timing. My trick is to avoid chit-chat altogether by pretending to be on a call with someone that is actually a book on tape. If the call appears urgent enough, the person getting their food will be happy enough with just a smile and nod or wave. Well, most people, anyway.

So, I was wheeling around the C-level delivering food and having an important discussion with Thomas Erikson, author of "Surrounded by Idiots," which was not at all the kind of book I thought it was going to be when I saw it in Gladys Fernbridge's collection. Erikson actually wanted me to have successful social interactions instead of avoiding them entirely. Fucking Swedes... don't they ever get tired of being annoyingly healthy and mature about everything?

Forrester's door was closed the entire time, which was good. My most successful social interactions are the ones I avoid. Unfortunately Trudy, my last potential social interaction on the C-level floor, was not in a mood to be put off.

"Where's the shirt?" she asked me, after I handed her a salad in a Panera bag.

I gave her a politely confused look, pointing apologetically to my earbuds, and said "Well, I can see how you might think that, Mr. Erikson, but there's no need to use that kind of language when—" I jumped in alarm, feeling one of the earbuds pulled out of my ear, and the nearness of a person presuming to use it to listen in on my contentious "call."

Turning my head slightly, I saw Forrester leaning his head down and nodding with a frown on his face as he listened to how "blue" personality people should communicate with "red" personality people. Trudy sat back in her chair with a less bitchy look on her face, though she clearly would not let go of the issue. My mind was racing with questions. Where was the shirt? Had it been cleaned? What if it still had the cum stain on it? Would Trudy know what it was? Had Trudy ever seen cum or heard of its existence, even in theory? I was almost hyperventilating and felt "bunker mode" getting ready to launch when I felt a hand gently touch the middle of my back. Again, against my will, which was soooo ready to deal with Trudy, I felt my pulse slow down and my shoulders drop slightly. Forrester had turned into fucking Calming Guy again.

"Mr. Erikson, this is Gregory Forrester, Chief Financial Officer of StoneBrook Corporation. I'll have you know that Miss Sherwood is one of the brightest young people in my company, and I will not tolerate anyone abusing one of my employees. In fact, I have just assigned her to work on more important matters, so you will no longer be forced to deal with her red personality. If you have any other concerns, I'm sure we can find someone less competent and decisive to address your needs. Good bye." Forrester tapped my phone and turned off the audiobook, looking disgusted. "Trudy, if Tom Erikson ever calls back, you have my permission to call him an idiot and hang up," he grumbled. "Is that my Green Goddess?" he asked me, taking the bag I was handing over to Trudy.

Trudy blanched and stammered, quickly checking through her emails. By the glint in his eye, I was pretty sure Trudy was looking for a lunch order from Forrester that he never sent her. I snatched the bag out of his hands. "No, it is not! This is Trudy's Strawberry Poppyseed with Chicken salad. She orders it every Wednesday. You have no business stealing this poor woman's lunch just because you forgot to order yours," I said, handing the bag back to Trudy who looked both relieved and annoyed. Forrester grinned, looking far too pleased with himself. I turned back to Trudy, "The shirt should be ready this afternoon. I took it in to the cleaners this morning. I just didn't want to add to your burdens," I said to Trudy, "You obviously have your hands full, here," I added, glaring at Forrester who just stood there bouncing on his heels.

********

Sherwood, Gillian: So, where's the shirt?

Forrest, Gregory: I'm hungry...

Sherwood, Gillian: Tell me where the shirt is and I'll pick something up for you on the way back.

Forrest, Gregory: The shirt's... not available.

Sherwood, Gillian: Your ellipsis use is disturbing. So, what do we do?

Forrest, Gregory: Go to my place, get a new one and put it in my cabinet here. She won't know the difference.

Sherwood, Gillian: Fine. Send me your address and tell me how to get past the doorman without wearing Prada or having a Boston Brahmin accent.

Forrest, Gregory: You should give me your phone number instead.

Sherwood, Gillian:?? Just give me the address. Why do you need my phone number?

Forrest, Gregory: Because work chats are monitored and it would be best if HR didn't know what I'm in the mood to eat.

After delivering the rest of the lunches, I got in my car and headed into the city to pick up the shirt. I was almost sick with worry. Forrester was flirting with me. I loved it... and I needed to stop it soon. I needed to stop it while I could still be calm and not go into bunker mode when I told him why there was no hope of anything between us. I would tell him. Just... not today.

I had just parked in the underground garage and gone up to street level of his upscale condo building, when my phone chirped. "Tell Daryl that you're here to mix meat into the compostables and eat durian," the screen read.

"I'm not doing that. Weirdo. Don't you have a company checkbook to balance?" I typed, shaking my head.

"You really have no idea what a Chief Financial Officer does, do you?" Forrester replied. I giggled and sent him a raspberry emoji. Stop flirting, Gillian.

"May I help you?" asked a big guy in a uniform behind a desk in front of the elevator bay, a golden nametag on his chest reading "Daryl." He looked up at me and smiled when he finished typing something.

"Yeah, I'm here to pick up something for Gregory Forrester. He said you'd be able to let me in..." I said.

Daryl looked on his computer, frowning. "Mmm... Sorry, Miss, we have no 'Gregory Forrester' here," he said, then went back to typing.

I blinked. What? Did I get the address wrong? I tried again. "Greg Forrester, maybe? Lives in the penthouse?" I pulled up a browser with Forrester's LinkedIn page, "This guy..." I said, showing him the screen with Forrester's business photo.

The guy leaned forward and squinted at the picture. "Doesn't ring a bell..." He turned back to his monitor and typed some more, and then I saw it: his mouth twitched slightly.

Really? How old are we, Forrester? I sighed. "I'm here to mix meat into the compostables and eat durian," I said, rolling my eyes.

Daryl grinned. "Dreadful habits, Miss. First elevator on the left, I'll buzz you up."

A few minutes later, I walked into Forrester's penthouse condo, my heels clicking on the marble entryway. I kicked off my shoes and padded barefoot into the penthouse. As I expected, it was perfect in a way that only money can buy. Some people spend a ton of money on a place and leave it looking like a czar's whorehouse - guilded crap too big for the space it's in, every single piece demanding attention for how special and unique it is. Those people will walk you through their place, telling a story about every single thing in it and then you want to just hide in the closet until your head stops spinning. Forrester's place was the opposite. It looked elegant to the point of being almost plain, but I could see, feel and hear money in the quality of every surface. I rubbed my toes against the carpeting, feeling it tickle and massage my feet at the same time. Everything in his place was a sensual temptation. I wanted to be Forrester's cat and just lie naked on everything all day until he came home to pet me.

Light poured into the room from a wall of windows that opened onto a spacious rooftop terrace that was filled with growing things. I walked to the doors that opened onto it, but didn't go out. That wasn't my purpose for being there, but looking out, my eyes quickly found a bush that had branches similar to the one in the vase at my desk. Maybe it was just a stick, but hey, it was his stick.

I took in the layout of the apartment and went to the master bedroom where I figured his clothes would be. Then my phone buzzed again.

"Put your phone in the wireless charge port on the wall to your right," Forrester said. Looking over, I saw a small platform hanging. I put my phone onto it and suddenly heard his soft breathing through speakers that seemed to be everywhere.

"Shouldn't you be working right now?" I asked.

"I am. I'm going over our quarterly financial disclosures... I'm also watching you," he said, chuckling.

Watching me? I scanned the room, furtively. "How did you know where I was?"

"Motion detectors... they said you'd entered the master bedroom. So, what do you think?"

"Probably what everyone else thinks... unattainably beautiful, but not exactly warm. It's a place that should have a party or be empty," I said, leaving out the part about wanting to lie naked on everything he owned. "I like the terrace."

"Me too," he said, and I heard a smile entering his voice. "I spend most of my time out there."

"You said you were watching me... how? Are you telling me you have a camera in the bedroom? Kinda kinky for a CFO. Shall I pose?" I asked, and stretched out across his large bed.

"You can do whatever you like in my bed... and I think we have established that you have no idea what a CFO does, much less how kinky we might be. CFOs like data... cameras collect data. But if it puts you at ease, the only camera in the bedroom is the one you brought in. The charge port is... useful in a few ways."

I crawled to the head of the bed, giving him a prime view of my ass in the skirt, then looked over my shoulder at the camera. A low chuckle came out of the speakers all around me. I bent down to the pillows and smelled them. Finding the one I wanted, I pressed my face into it and inhaled deeply. It smelled like him. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Nothing..." I hummed, dreamily. Men smell so good when they're sleeping... if a man smells good when he's awake, his pillow is damn near intoxicating. Forrester's pillow was no exception. I replaced the pillow and turned over, leaning my head back into it with a smile.

"Would you like me to leave you alone for a bit?" he asked.

I looked up at my phone, confused. "Why?" I asked.

"Well, last night... you didn't want me to see you... having pleasure," he said, with a note of disappointment in his voice.

"Oh..." I said, reminded of my need to end whatever this was with Forrester. "That was... for the best, but it wasn't about you. It's just usually better for everyone if I keep things at a certain distance."

"Well... if you say so. Looking at you now, I have to admit that you're probably right. If I was in that bedroom, I'm not sure I'd be able to just watch..." he murmured.

Don't you ask him, Gillian. Don't you ask. No. Don't ask. Don't— "What would you do if you were here?" I asked, as my conscience handed in her resignation with a rude gesture.

A sound like a dark, purring sigh filled the room. "Well, first of all, I'd turn on the lights..." and at the sound of his voice, the room filled with a soft golden light. "I'd want to see you... see your beautiful face, your reactions to what I was doing... what made you gasp... what made you bite your lip..." I smiled and imagined him walking into the bedroom and discovering me in his bed.

"Mmm hmm..." I said, waiting to hear what he would do next. It felt strange, because I almost always was the one to start sexual misadventures, dictate the terms, and drive them to swift and definite conclusions. Now, I just lay back and listened... and waited... and felt what I was feeling. Even more strange, I found myself wanting to feel things that another person made me feel. Why did I feel so safe with Forrester? Who was he that he could just brush aside all my defenses and make me purr? "Just some lights? Is that all?" I asked, teasingly.

"Not even close to all. I'd go to you on the bed and slowly take your blouse off, making you hold still and watch me open it, plucking one button at a time..." I closed my eyes and reached my hand up, imagining it was his, opening the fabric with impossible slowness. As it opened, I felt the air play across my skin and shivered with pleasure.

"And then...?" I asked.

"Why then, I'd bend down and kiss you... your lips... your neck... your collarbones... your nose... your ears... everything. I would just kiss you... and kiss you... and kiss you again. I'd kiss you until you melted into the bed, and then I'd cover the puddle of your body with mine," he murmured, as my breathing turned to soft panting.

I moaned, reaching up and pinching my nipple through my bra, my back arching up under me, wanting more. The speakers around me filled the room with the sound of a long slow exhale of breath.

"Please... please, go on sir," I begged.

"Keep doing that..." he said, and I tugged and pulled on my nipples under the silky cloth for him. It was so good, I pressed my head back into the pillow under me, my body twisting in pleasure. The sound of his breathing in the room had become more ragged. "I'd free your breasts, then... slowly," he said. I looked at the phone again, uncertain, and undid the clasp at the front of my bra. They bounced slightly upon their release, still loosely contained in their cups. Then, one at a time, I lifted the cups away, baring each round breast, then looked up for his approval. Silence filled the bedroom, his labored breathing having stopped. I dropped my eyes and continued waiting, feeling his eyes on me. A low groan ended the silence and after he took a shuddering breath, "Gillian... you're going to be the death of me... and I won't even mind when it comes," he gasped.