The Submissive Intern

The office was quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that settled into your bones like a second skin. The hum of the server room, the distant clatter of a cleaning cart in the hallway, the occasional click of my heels against the polished concrete—all of it wrapped around me like a well-tailored coat. I swirled the last of my scotch in its glass, the amber liquid catching the dim glow of my desk lamp.

I should have been reviewing the quarterly projections. Instead, I was staring at a photograph.

It was an old Polaroid, the edges slightly curled, the colors faded. A younger version of myself stared back at me—black hair teased into a mess of spikes, raccoon eyeliner smudged like war paint, lips painted the color of dried blood. I was wearing a collar, thin and black, the kind that didn’t just adorn but claimed. My Domme at the time, a woman whose name I could barely remember now, had taken the photo after a particularly intense session. I looked feral. Hungry. Alive.

I traced the outline of my younger self with my fingertip, my nail clicking against the plastic. How long had it been since I’d felt that way? Not the hunger—that never really left—but the certainty. The knowledge that someone else held the reins, and all I had to do was obey.

I set the photo down and finished my scotch in one smooth motion. The burn in my throat was familiar, grounding. I had spent years burying that girl, trading in my fishnets for silk stockings, my combat boots for Louboutins. I had built a life on control, on precision, on never letting anyone see the cracks.

And then she walked in.

Kelly.

I first noticed her during the new intern orientation. She was the kind of girl who tried to disappear—oversized cardigans, thick glasses, hair pulled into a frizzy bun that looked like it had been attacked by a particularly aggressive bird. But there was something about the way she moved—the way she lingered in doorways, the way her fingers twisted in the hem of her sweater when she thought no one was looking. It was the kind of body language that screamed I want to be seen but I’m terrified of it.

I had been that girl once.

I watched her for weeks. Not in a creepy way—well, not just in a creepy way. More like an anthropologist studying a particularly fascinating specimen. She was always the first one in the office, the last one to leave. She brought her lunch in a Tupperware container, ate it at her desk, and never made eye contact with anyone. But then there were the moments. The way she’d bend over the printer just a little too long, her skirt riding up just a little too high. The way she’d sit in the break room with her legs slightly apart, her fingers tapping nervously against her thigh. The way she’d flush when I walked by, her breath hitching just slightly.

It was deliberate.

And I was intrigued.

The night it happened, I was working late. Again. The office was empty, the only light coming from my desk lamp and the glow of my laptop screen. I had just finished a particularly brutal conference call with our Tokyo team, my voice steady and commanding even as my mind wandered to the way Kelly’s skirt had ridden up that afternoon when she’d bent to pick up a fallen pen.

I was about to pour myself another scotch when I heard it—the soft click of heels against the concrete. I turned just in time to see Kelly hovering in the doorway of my office, her fingers clutching a manila folder like a lifeline.

“Ms. Voss?” Her voice was soft, hesitant. “I—I didn’t realize you were still here.”

I leaned back in my chair, my lips curling into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”

She swallowed, her gaze flickering to the floor. “I just wanted to drop off the revised data sheets. For the Zurich project.”

I gestured to the desk. “Leave them there.”

She hesitated, then stepped forward, her movements stiff and awkward. She set the folder down, her fingers lingering just a second too long. When she turned to leave, I caught the faintest glimpse of pale skin where her skirt had ridden up.

No panty line.

I felt a slow, delicious heat unfurl in my stomach.

“Kelly,” I said, my voice smooth as silk.

She froze, her back still to me. “Yes?”

I stood, rounding my desk until I was standing just behind her. Close enough to smell the vanilla in her shampoo, close enough to see the way her pulse jumped in her throat. “You forgot something.”

She turned slowly, her eyes wide behind her glasses. “I—I don’t think so.”

I reached out, my fingers brushing against the hem of her skirt. She flinched, but didn’t pull away. “I think you do.”

Her breath hitched as I lifted the fabric just enough to confirm what I already knew. No lace. No silk. Just her.

I met her gaze, my voice dropping to a murmur. “No underwear. How careless of you.”

Kelly’s cheeks flushed crimson. “I—I must’ve forgotten—”

"Forgotten." I let the word hang in the air between us, savoring the way her breath hitched. “No, Kelly. You remembered. You remembered exactly what you were doing when you bent over that filing cabinet. When you ‘accidentally’ brushed against me in the break room. When you sat in my office with your legs just far enough apart.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

I stepped closer, my heels clicking against the floor. “Tell me, darling. Do you like being seen?”

Silence. Then, a whisper: “Yes.”

I smiled. “Good girl.”

I reached out, my fingers brushing against the choker she wore—a thin, silver chain with a tiny pendant. It was the kind of thing a girl wore when she wanted to feel pretty but not seen. I traced the chain with my fingertip, feeling the way her pulse jumped beneath my touch.

“You know,” I murmured, “I used to wear a collar just like this. Only mine was black. And it wasn’t just for decoration.”

Kelly’s breath came faster. “What—what was it for?”

I leaned in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “It meant I belonged to someone. That I was hers to command. To expose. To ruin."

Kelly shivered.

I pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “Tell me, Kelly. Have you ever belonged to anyone like that?”

She swallowed, her voice barely audible. “No.”

I smiled, slow and dangerous. “Would you like to?”

Her breath hitched. “I—I don’t know.”

I reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Liar.”

She didn’t deny it.

I stepped back, smoothing my blazer. “We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow. In my office. Alone.”

Kelly’s eyes widened. “But—”

"Eight o’clock." My voice brooked no argument. “And Kelly?”

“Yes?”

I let my gaze rake over her, lingering on the way her skirt still rode high on her thighs. “Wear something easy to remove."

Kelly left in a hurry, her heels clicking against the concrete like a countdown. I watched her go, my fingers tracing the edge of my desk, my mind already racing with possibilities.

I poured myself another scotch and sat back down, my laptop screen glowing in the dim light. The quarterly projections were still open, the numbers blurring together as my thoughts drifted.

I had spent years burying the girl in the Polaroid. The one who craved the sting of a crop, the weight of a collar, the certainty of being owned. But Kelly—with her nervous fingers and her “accidental” exposures—had woken something in me. Something dark. Something hungry.

I took a sip of my scotch, the burn grounding me.

Tomorrow, I would see just how far Kelly was willing to go.

And I would enjoy every second of it.