Under Her Desk

Cleophus Radcliffe is one of the worst people I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Here I am again, standing outside her upscale condo, holding a two-piece women’s outfit that costs more than my entire week’s paycheck. If I were a more outspoken person, I would remind her that none of these after-hours tasks are in my contract. As a legal aide, I know exactly what my contract covers… but I don’t have the balls to say it out loud. I’m scared to death of Cleo. She would probably snap her fingers, ask if I’ve lost my mind, then jab her freshly manicured nails into my chest just to remind me of my place. Her stare alone is enough to send a shiver down my spine.

Her elevator is private and requires a code which, of course, I have. What kind of lackey wouldn’t? I still can’t believe I passed the bar exam just to end up doing this. I was supposed to become a lawyer like my family wanted, but I never had the nerve. So here I am, working odd hours for the goddess of hell.

I punch in the code and step inside.

“Morning, Miss Cleo. Are you ready to head to the office?” My voice comes out as meek as always.

Cleo looks up from the couch. Her braids are pulled into a neat bun, and her skin has an almost golden shimmer under the soft morning light. She’s still in her undergarments, a deep ivory-green bra struggling to contain her full breasts, with a matching pair of panties just barely visible. I know this because I was the one who picked them out. The woman does almost nothing without me.

“Hey, love. Took you long enough. I’ve been waiting all day,” she pouts, pushing out her bottom lip. Those lips are glossy and plump, just like the rest of her body.

“I had to get myself dressed as well, Ms. Cleo… and pick up your laundry on the way,” I reply, keeping my tone polite.

“I told you to leave some suits here. I could help you get dressed,” she says, staring a little too long.

Even though I’m a year older than her, she still talks to me like I’m a child.

“Cleo…”

I’m interrupted when she suddenly stands and steps very close. Without warning, she slides her hand down my body and presses against the front of my pants, almost searching for something. After a moment she looks dissatisfied.

“Let’s go, Kyle.”

Her mood has turned sour.