Sarah
That week hung like a boulder around my neck. I felt horrible and I know Dean could tell something was up. I had to explain away the phone call I made to him at work, make up some lie, I don't even remember what. He believed it though. He always believes my lies.
We would usually have sex a few times a week, but I'd been begging off each night. I couldn't get the memory of Munroe out of my mind. His dark eyes as he looked down at me. The musty smell of his aftershave. The salty tang of his heavy cock lying on my tongue. That joyful agony shuddering across his face as his orgasm approached. The honey-sweet taste as he came in my mouth. The heat in my throat as I swallowed it all.
I'd never felt so powerless before. Usually I would talk to Dean when I was feeling upset, but I couldn't talk to him about this. I knew he'd do something drastic, like freak out and murder Munroe. Then we'd be even worse off.
I avoided Munroe as much as I could that week. After two days, I realized the situation was untenable. I started working on my resume that night. I had to get out of that job. As I typed away at my computer, a sardonic thought crossed my mind: I wonder if Munroe will give me a letter of recommendation. I chuckled to myself.
Then a darker thought: what if he badmouthed me to every place I applied. Pretty much all my experience came from working for him. This job was the only serious entry on my resume. Shit.
Friday morning. Early. Waiting for the elevator. The lobby had the marble sheen and gaudy, warmed-over-shit aesthetic of the early 80s. All gold and brown. The company could probably afford space in a better building now, but this was all we could afford when we started out.
I'd been coming in early so I could leave before 5. It made it easier to avoid Munroe that way. The elevator dinged, doors opened and I stepped inside. Pressed the button for 16th floor. Waited. A little whirring noise and the doors started closing.
Just before they were fully closed, a hand snaked in. The doors reversed course, sprung back, reopening. I looked up to see who it...Munroe. Fuck. He stared into my eyes as he stepped on the elevator.
He somehow seemed taller. Or more massive. I felt my body tense. A fear rise up through me as I casually shuffled over into the corner. He pressed the door close button and stood silently next to me.
The musty smell of his aftershave filled the elevator. My skin prickled. Light headed. The whole elevator suddenly shifted his way, as if gravity was pulling me down to him. I held onto the railing to steady myself and watched, horrified, as the floor numbers ticked by at an ungodly slow pace. 2......3.......4.......5.......7.........8.......
My mouth felt dry and I licked my lips. I didn't want to look at him, but as we inched past floor 12, I worked up enough courage to give him a sidelong glance. But he was just staring forward.
Ding! Finally! The 16th floor. The longest elevator ride of my life. I waited for him to exit. But instead he turned and looked me up and down.
"Join me in my office," he commanded, raising his arm to indicate that I was to lead the way.
I looked at him for a moment. Stubble. He hadn't shaved today. I looked out of the elevator, looking for...an escape? All I saw was the cleaning crew, three men and one women, all Hispanic and as regular as a clock. Looked back at Munroe.
The elevator doors started closing. He pressed the door open button and they retracted again.
"Go," he said.
I feigned confidence. Stepped out of the elevator. Two of the cleaners looked up at us. I wish I'd bothered to learn their names. Could they help me? I wonder if they even spoke English. Too late, we were at his office. He unlocked the door and I followed him inside. The door shut behind me.
He rounded his desk and proceeded to start his computer. Then he unlocked a desk drawer, reached in and pulled out an expensive looking camera. He turned the camera on and looked up at me.
"Put your arms on the back of your head," he commanded.
"No." I spat back. He looked at me, unfazed.
"Don't make me repeat myself."
"I don't have to do what you say anymore. I don't care what you have..."
"The video of you embezzling money from my company? Forget the cops. What do you think your husband and family would think of that?" he asked, bemused. He called my bluff. Only one choice—double down.
"They won't care. Dean won't care. He loves me. And no video will change that!" He smiled and nodded at me, then reached into his desk and pulled out a tabletop tripod. He attached the camera to it and set it on his desk so it was angled it at me.
Then he started typing something into his computer.
"Well do you think Dean will still love you after he sees this video?" He turned his monitor around so it faced me.
Shit. I looked up at the ceiling, trying to find...there it was, off in the corner. A small, unobtrusive black dome. A camera. I watched the me on the monitor walk around Munroe's desk and crouch down between my legs. He'd somehow blurred his own face out, but mine was still plainly visible. My hand reached into his pants...
"So as I said," he interrupted, pausing the video, "hands on your head."
I stared into his eyes. It was almost as if I could see the scheming malevolence oozing from his irises. I thought I was afraid of him enough before, but I had clearly underestimated him.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!
I took a deep breath.
My arms trembled as I lifted them up, bending my elbows. I placed my hands behind my head. My fingers slid into each other. Interlocking. Munroe never took his eyes off me as he circled around the desk, walking in front of me, closer. Closer still. Inches. I could feel his warm breath on my face. Smell it.
Fuck him, even his breath smelled good.
"You're going to enjoy this," he whispered. He stepped to the side and pulled a small remote from his pocket. Flash! Bright white light suddenly blinding me. He'd used the remote to take a picture of me.
He stepped back in front of me and started unbuttoning my blouse from top to bottom. Slowly. Deliberately. Exposing my flesh to the cool air. Lower. Lower. Button after button. All the way to the bottom.
He grabbed the fabric and pulled violently up, untucking my blouse from my skirt. Lifted the blouse up, pulling it off my arms, and threw it on the floor next to his desk. My arms back on my head.
"Nice bra," he uttered while snapping the next photo. In the turmoil of the week, I hadn't had time to do laundry, so the only clean underwear I had left were my fancy things. The stuff I wore for Dean on his birthday. Sexy. Lacy. Black.
He walked behind me and grabbed my skirt waist, the zipper. His thick fingers on the small of my back. Lowering. The dull whisk of the zipper. His fingers traveling lower, down my butt. A looseness at my waist and the skirt dropped to the floor.
"Step out of it," he said, snapping another photo. I did as he commanded. "Kick it over with your blouse." I did.
