This is a follow up to my other story "A Hard Day". I'm not likely to write any more with these characters. I'm fairly uncomfortable with the power dynamic. I've tried to put in as much consent as I can, but there's still too much non-consent for my tastes.
But other than that, I think they're both pretty good stories.
Friday is supposed to be a good day, everyone said so. The work week was over, and the weekend would be full of happy hours, late night clubs, afternoon barbecues, Netflix and chill, Tinder swiping, brunch, church socials, and activities galore. Your co-workers spent the three hours between noon and around two talking about it, and then left early to get a head start on their exciting plans.
You had nobody to do any of these things with, couldn't stand the thought of Tinder or other random hookups, couldn't get fast enough internet to stream anything, and otherwise had a weekend full of chores and doing desperate math to out how to balance payments for all the bills you can't afford; all intermixed with periods of soul-crushing nothing to do.
You knew your boss wouldn't normally let you leave before the official end of day, at 5:00. But you'd seen him leave the building with a crowd of other people at around 2:30. You let a tiny bit of hope seep into your heart while you ground away at the monthly profit/loss report. The report itself shouldn't have taken very long, but you could never get the data from the finance department on time, and you always had to spend several hours turning the data into something useful.
At 4:45, this tiniest bit of hope was ground under the heel of his body odor and the cheap cologne that he used too liberally. He loomed over you in your cubicle and snapped "Stop being so lazy. I need you to do a quarterly report on all our inventory broken out by day and individual SKUs. I need to see it in my email tonight!".
He leaned in closer to your face wearing a spiteful grin "And get it right! I'm not going to spend my personal time fixing your mistakes!" His breath reeked of onions and bad alcohol choices.
It took you ten minutes to calm yourself after he stormed off, and another ten minutes before his smell cleared enough that you could breathe.
This report was straightforward, you could get access to the data in a usable form without relying on anyone else. But he was asking for a report covering thousands of items over 90 days. You finally finished up by 9:30 pm and slumped your way home. The tiredness filled your body; your brain buzzed from trying to keep focus on that many numbers for that amount of time; you missed the last bus home and had to walk 11 blocks to your apartment.
At least the elevator and the AC were working.
You stepped into your apartment. It was dark, but your senses flared into life by the smell of smoke, leather, and salt. It had been five weeks since the incident in the stairway, but you knew that it was him. Your hands shook a little bit; but your face flushed, and your nipples started hardening and tingling.
A light turned on. He was sitting on your couch next to an end table; still immaculately dressed; still emanating a combination of charm, sex, dominance, and masculinity.
He said, in a low and deep tone, "Turn on the lights" -- you did. Looking him over, you noticed that although his cloths were still clean and sharply pressed, he was wearing work boots, and rugged pants. He still wore a business casual shirt, but he was also wearing a tie.
You kept your hands from trembling, but your heart did a quick rat-tat-ta-ta-tat.
On the coffee table in front of him -- on coasters -- were an empty wine glass, a bottle of red wine, and large pitcher of ice water.
"Have a glass of wine". It wasn't exactly a request, but you wouldn't have refused it no matter what. With the day you'd had, if he weren't here, you would have rushed into the kitchen and poured a full glass of cheap wine to calm down before you crawled into bed.
Trying to keep steady, you walked over, opened the bottle, and started pouring.
"Stop".
Your glass was less than half full. Inside, your heart sank. You took your glass and started walking toward the side chair.
"You aren't allowed to sit. Drink your wine."
You took a sip -- it must have been an expensive cabernet. It was rich and tasted of blackberries, spice, and a bit of tobacco. You'd never had wine this good before. You drank the rest of it in three swallows.
You wanted to pour another glass, but he was staring into your eyes with a force and intensity that matched the wine.
"Say yes."
You stammered a bit, "Yes".
"Say Yes, I submit".
