Since the blackmail started I've been in a constant state of dread at work. I'm sure that Tom has something awful and degrading in store for me, but he acts like nothing happened between us. He says hello each morning and when we pass in the hall but no longer stops by my desk to chat, like he used to. He doesn't get handsy or make inappropriate comments or otherwise do anything to make me uncomfortable. Not even when I wear slightly snugger clothes or show a little cleavage.
I start going to the gym almost every night to vent my anxiety. I work up quite a sweat on the treadmill. In the shower afterward, I touch myself and think of Tom and his cronies did to me. I bring myself off to a shuddering orgasm in seconds, with tears of shame in my eyes.
My husband seems to sense something wrong. He compliments my appearance for the first time in years. "Have you lost some weight?" Philip asks, "Done something different with your hair?" Before my new job, he scarcely looked in my direction when I got undressed. Now he tries to initiate sex a few times per week. Of course I shut him down immediately. The idea of sleeping with a wimp like Philip makes me ill.
***
One day, Tom's girlfriend comes to the office to meet him for lunch. We both have pretty faces but the similarities end there. Angela is in her mid-twenties. I'm forty-five. She has long blonde hair. My dark auburn hair is cut shoulder length. She's willowy and slender. I'm very thick and uncommonly busty.
From my desk, I can hear them chatting and laughing through the door to Tom's office. He gives her a kiss right in front of me when she leaves. I'm seeing red for the rest of the afternoon.
Late that day, Tom stops by my desk for the first time since the blackmail started.
"Hi Emily, got a minute?" he asks, in his usual happy-go-lucky voice. "I want to talk to you about something."
I follow Tom into his office. He closes the door behind me.
"I'm going to the Four Points for a few beers after work and I'd like you to come with me," he says.
"Too bad. I have dinner plans with my husband," I lie. Philip left for another of his business trips that very morning.
"Cancel them. Work comes first." Tom drops a rumbled paper bag on his desk and pushes it toward me. "I brought you something to wear."
"No," I tell him. "I won't do it."
"No? Suit yourself."
He taps a few keystrokes into his phone. I know exactly what he's doing. He's sending a picture to one of my son's friends through social media. He's done this before, when I've displeased him.
"No! Tom, please don't!" I beg him, panic rising in my voice. "I'll do it! I'll wear whatever you want!"
"Shut up!" he shouts. Tom's face goes red, nostrils flared. "Just shut up and listen, because I'm only going to tell you this one more time."
His outburst snaps me out of my blubbering. I choke back a sob.
"From now on, you do what I say, with great enthusiasm. Otherwise, the next picture I send is going to your little boy. Got it?"
I nip my lip and stare down at my feet.
"Now you're going to go home, get yourself dolled up and put on the pretty little costume I bought for you," he continues. "Then you're going to meet me at the Four Points. If you're not there by eight o'clock, your poor little boy is going to see his thick Slutty mommy sucking and fucking."
***
The Four Points Cocktail Lounge is a tiny dive a few miles from the office. When I arrive that evening my stomach is in knots. I've always been a conservative dresser, but tonight I'm wearing a cheery red cocktail dress with narrow spaghetti straps, a matching pair of block heel strap sandals, and sheer lace-top thigh high stockings. The dress is very short and totally inappropriate for a woman my age or with my curves. The shape of my nipples is plainly visible through the cheap stretchy fabric.
The bar is near empty except for a handful of drunks and some men shooting pool in the back. Everyone turns to stare at me when I enter. I feel naked and vulnerable in such a revealing outfit.
I find Tom at a high-top near the pool table.
"I was beginning to think you weren't going to show."
"I didn't have much choice in the matter, did I?"
"I suppose not," he says. "Have a seat."
My unsupported breasts rest against the tabletop. A few other patrons glance over at me and Tom. Trying to figure out if we're a couple or otherwise make sense of our age difference.
Tom pushes a cocktail toward me. It's an enormous goblet of Windex-blue liquid.
"I took the liberty of ordering you a drink."
"No thank you," I tell him coolly.
"That wasn't a suggestion. Drink up."
I sip at the cocktail. It's cold and surprisingly sweet.
