One morning, Mr. Potts asks me to step into his office. "Do you have a minute, Emily?" he says. "There's something I want to talk to you about."
Mr. Potts is the principal attorney at the law firm where I've worked for the past few months. He's a kindly gentleman in his sixties, with a gray beard and horn-rimmed glasses. I follow him into the office; he closes the door behind us.
"I get so busy sometimes that I forget to ask my staff how they're doing," he says. "Is everything okay, Emily?"
"Yes, Mr. Potts."
"Still enjoying the job? I'm not working you too hard, am I?"
"Not at all. The job has been great."
"Things going alright at home?"
"Everything is fine," I lie. Things are definitely not going alright at home. In fact, I'm on the brink of divorce. "Why do you ask, Mr. Potts?"
He studies me for a moment.
"It's just that you've seemed a little ... different, lately, Emily." He chooses his words carefully. "I just wanted to make sure everything is alright."
I blush terribly and stare into my lap. I know exactly what he means. When he hired me, I was a typical middle aged suburban mom. Forty-five years old, pretty face, conservative dresser, chubby.
Everything changed after I met Tom, a young lawyer at the firm. With his encouragement, I've changed my entire look. New hairdo, more makeup, tighter clothes. My coworkers take note. The men stare. A few make flirtatious comments. The women gossip and give me dirty looks.
I'm mortified, but I have no choice. Tom has amassed a large cache of pornographic pictures and video. He threatens to send them to my husband or, most alarmingly, son at college if I don't do what he says. I'll do anything to keep that from happening.
"Really Mr. Potts, everything is fine." I force a smile, to reassure him.
"In that case," he says, "there's something *else* I'd like to talk to you about."
Mr. Potts tells me that he will be retiring at the end of the month. He's had a few investments mature sooner than expected, and his wife is eager to move closer to the grandkids. The firm has already backfilled his position with a new hire.
I get a little choked up. Partly because I've grown fond of my boss these past few months. But also because I'm worried. Mr. Potts' presence has been the only thing that's kept the blackmail from getting fully out of hand.
"Congratulations," I manage to tell him. "I'm so happy for you and your wife."
"Thank you Emily. I appreciate that. And I don't want you to worry about your job at all. We have a succession plan in place. We're going to make Tom a partner and transfer you over to him."
The room spins. I can feel the floor drop out from beneath me.
"I've noticed the great chemistry you seem to have with Tom," Mr. Potts adds. "It seemed like a natural fit."
***
On a Friday night, the company holds a happy hour at a cocktail lounge not far from the office, to congratulate Tom on his promotion.
It's late, and nearly everyone has left except for a handful of young, hard-drinking attorneys. I wear my black hair in Betty Boop curls. My fingernails are painted a glossy red, to match my lipstick. I'm wearing a variation of the 'sexy secretary' type outfits that Tom likes. Snug white sweater, shirt plaid skirt, shiny black pumps. My breasts strain against buttons of the sweater and bulge lewdly at the plunging neckline
The men are all at least fifteen years my junior. They crowd around me, making lewd innuendoes and openly ogling my chest. I bat my eyes and giggle girlishly in reply. They've been plying me with alcohol all night and Tom spiked my last cocktail with his special drug. He calls it The Juice: a powerful narcotic that makes the user unbearably horny and open to suggestion. My nipples are stiff. A slow warmth runs up my inner thighs.
From across the room I see Tom chatting with a stranger at the bar. The men push their way through the crowd and Tom hands me a fresh cocktail.
"I brought you another drink."
He gives me a wolfish grin. Tom is undeniably good-looking, with sandy brown hair, two-day stubble and a lean, cyclist's build. Despite the blackmail, I can't help but find him attractive. Especially when I'm drugged.
"I'm not sure I should have another ..." I tell him. My speech is badly slurred.
"Nonsense! You're *much* more fun when you're drunk," he says. "Now take your medicine like a big girl, Em."
I sip my drink. The cocktail is cold and sweet and goes right to my head.
"I've got someone I want you to meet." Tom gestures to the stranger beside him. "Emily, this is Keith, our new hire. He starts Monday."
Keith is blandly handsome in a clean cut, catalogue ready way. His dark hair is neatly parted to the side. He wears a navy blue suit, tie loosened, and a gold wedding band. He's a little taller but has none of Tom's charm.
"Keith, this is my new assistant, Emily Pritchett," Tom says. "But we all just call her Mrs. Bigtits."
