All I need to do is reestablish professional boundaries.
When I put it like that, it sounds simple. Clinical. Routine. That's good. I can do simple, and clinical, and routine. That's exactly what I need after yesterday.
After yesterday...
I don't remember what happened. Not exactly. I remember Ivy bringing me my morning coffee, and then it's just a blur. When I peer into my memories, it's indistinct. Like paint going down the drain. But I remember Ivy said some things, and I remember I did some things. Humiliating things.
I'm glad to be riding the elevator up to the office alone. There's nobody here to see me blush.
As far as I can tell, I spent the rest of the day in a haze. It was like I was out of myself, out of my own body, watching from the other side of a screen. Unable to take control. Unable to do anything at all to keep myself from working far, far too late. Eventually--maybe just out of habit--I left the office and headed home, zombie-like. Luna, my girlfriend, hadn't been pleased. We talked, but not really. She did all the talking.
For the entire day, I was just a spectator. For some reason, that specific word sends a throbbing shiver down my spine.
Waking up clear-headed this morning had brought back all the shame, clear and sharp like ice, even as the memories stole away. I considered calling in sick, but that would have felt too much like running away. I can't do that.
This is my life. Mine. Ivy might have controlled me once, years ago, but I won't let it happen again. Not again. Not again.
That's the other half of my refrain, as the elevator door opens and I step out into the office. Not again. All I need to do is reestablish professional boundaries.
Then I see her. I freeze.
More than ever, Ivy is a queen holding court. As usual, there's a gaggle of women standing around one of the desks, chatting, catching up, as they wait for the workday to kick into motion. This time, it's Ivy's desk. She's at the heart of it, and I recognize all too well the fawning, sycophantic looks on their faces as they bend at her, and coo, and giggle.
It's just like college.
That singular thought churns my stomach. I just stand there, stupidly, watching. The coward part of me starts suggesting: why not do it later? I could call her into my office. That would be easier--except it wouldn't, not at all. As much as I don't like crowds, I do need witnesses. Just in case Ivy does... something.
Then, after a moment, it strikes. It isn't just like college. It's like high school too. I'm on the outside looking in. Watching forlornly as another group of girls chats.
"Hello, Olive," Ivy says, looking up. She's neither surprised nor concerned to see me. I don't panic the way I feared. I just feel myself growing smaller as I slip under her gaze. "Good morning."
"Ivy." My voice is shaky. It's hard to talk while some of the other office girls are giggling at Ivy's informality with me. To them, it's daring--but innocent. To me, it's anything but. "I... um... there's something-"
"Oh, hey, chief," says one of the other girls. Amanda. She doesn't mean to interrupt. She probably didn't notice I was talking. "We were just checking out Ivy's new watch! Ivy, show her."
With a wordless smile, Ivy lifts her hand and lets me see what's on her wrist.
It's fancy. Luxury, I presume, although I don't know watches. The brand--Cartier--means nothing to me. It's nice, anyone could see that. But that's not what gets me. What gets me is that it's new, and that, with all that gold, it's plainly very, very expensive.
Beads of incriminating sweat form on my forehead.
"Isn't it lovely?" Amanda prompts.
"Y-y-yes, lovely," I stammer.
"I can't believe you could afford something like this," another girl admired. "Was it a gift?"
Ivy is turning her hand this way and that, letting me admire the watch from all angles. I'm all but hypnotized by it.
"Something like that," Ivy remarks. That all but confirms my suspicions.
I paid for this watch. Last night, with the money I sent to her. Until this moment, I hadn't been sure it had really happened.
While I'm stewing in unfathomable emotion, the girls gathering around Ivy are just making adoring little noises. "Lucky!" one of them says. "From family?"
"Nope," Ivy replies. She just keeps looking straight at me. It's unmaking me. Why are my cheeks so hot?
"A lover?" another guesses.
The mirth in Ivy's voice is merciless. "Absolutely not."
I'm lucky that all my coworkers are too busy fawning over Ivy and her watch to register the utterly stupid, stunned, humiliated look on my face. I'm offended, of course. Ivy is shamelessly flaunting the money she... stole? Took. Took from me. The sheer audacity is staggering. I'm forced to quietly pray and plead that Ivy doesn't tell all the other girls just where that money came from. I would never live down the reputation it would give me.
I hate it. I should hate it. And yet.
Why am I so wet I can already feel the dark stain forming on my panties?
The sense of violation is transmuted in my stomach, becoming a nauseous, queasy thrill that sets me hopelessly off-balance. It's like I'm falling, and falling, and falling, and I can't stop. Maybe I don't want to stop. Sometimes, when you're standing on a balcony or at the edge of a tall rooftop, you feel this paradoxical urge to throw yourself into the open air and let gravity take you. This is just the same. One of the reasons I can't speak is that I have to bite down on my tongue, or else I might find myself offering Ivy even more.
Why? Why would I do that? Why would I want that?
Because Ivy deserves it.
I can't explain the answer. But it is the answer. She deserves it. And I don't.
The whimper that escapes my throat can't be heard over the ambient conversation going on in the office.
"Something wrong, Olive?" Ivy asks. She knows. "You look a little peaky."
"I'm f-f-fine." I don't sound it. I have to remind myself. Not again. "Ivy, I... I need to speak with you."
"Of course," Ivy replies, unperturbed. "In your office?"
"No!" I blurt out. I need the safety of the crowd. "Here is fine. I, um..."
I pause. Where to begin? I rehearsed what I was going to say a dozen times in the mirror, but not the start. Why didn't I practice the start?
"Perhaps you wanted to follow up on the conversation we had yesterday?" Ivy suggests sweetly.
"N-no." I pale. "No, that's, um..."
Everyone is looking at me. Why does everyone have to look at me? It's not fair. I can't take it. I try to look down, but Ivy's watch catches my eye instead. It's so bright. All that gold. Gold has never really suited me--but it certainly suits her, with her height, and her immaculate makeup, and her rich, dark skin. She's so glamorous. So graceful. I could never be those things.
She's so much better than me. That's why I pay for her to be glamorous instead.
Pleasure throbs from between my legs. I almost moan.
"I-I-In my office!" I cave. "Yes. Yes, that's... fine. Um."
I need it, it turns out. The safety and privacy of that familiar space.
Waving a quick goodbye to the other girls, Ivy follows me inside. I shut the door. In my office I do, indeed, feel safer. Stronger. Even if being in such close quarters with Ivy is almost painfully distracting. I draw a deep breath.
"Yesterday," I begin, launching into my spiel without prelude. "What happened between us was entirely u-untoward. I won't... um... that is, ideally, there's no need for us to involve anyone else, but I think it's important that we put an end to... to whatever that was. For the sake of p-professional boundaries."
I sound just like a kid on the first day of school. It's pathetic, and Ivy knows it. Her amusement and disapproval are like hot smoke on my skin, itching at me. She lets me stew in it for a beat.
"Or what?" she says eventually.
I clench my eyes shut for a moment. I was hoping she'd simply agree, but I'd prepared for this.
"Or," I recite calmly, "I'm prepared to raise this matter with HR."
It's my killer threat. And after a moment, Ivy just laughs in my face.
"You'll go to HR?" she mocks. "Olive, Olive, Olive. You really didn't think that one through, did you?"
Suddenly I feel so small. How can she do that to me? I'm not small. I'm not inferior. I'm not.
"W-what are you talking about?" I demand.
"You'll go to HR and tell them... what, exactly?" Ivy asks.
Already, I'm deflating. "I'll tell them exactly what happened," I bluster. "That you... that you coerced me into t-that transfer. The watch! It's evidence, even. I-"
"Is that right?" Ivy interrupts. "You'll tell them that I, your employee and new hire, was bringing you coffee in the morning, and then you started touching yourself in front of me. You'll tell them that?"
My cheeks turn the deepest red. It wasn't like that! Was it? I don't remember. The coffee. Wasn't there something about the coffee?
"B-but the watch," I protest. "It-"
"And tried to bribe me into silence, too," Ivy laughs. "Wonderful story, Olive. Shall we go right now?"
