Mr. Voss, why?

You could have simply shaken my hand and shown me my desk with a pleasant, “Welcome.” Instead of… 

You know what you did.

You’re too old to have acted that way. Didn’t you see how much I hated you that first week? I should have poked your eyeballs out with my letter opener or stapled your lids together? Then maybe…

What I’m trying to say is your eyes didn’t simply gaze or linger a moment too long when we first met. They fucking crawled across my skin. You left dirty streaks I couldn’t scrub off. Were you hunting for a way inside me? Didn’t you notice how I clenched my thighs together? I squirmed in my seat because your eyes pinned me down.

It was the way your brows arched then relaxed, resting closer to your lids as if you had discovered a secret about me that you then sadistically enjoyed. Your lips weren’t innocent either. I agree, they never moved, but only because they wanted to keep my focus on your eyes. 

And you didn’t simply undress me with your stare, you ripped the silk from my flesh. Stripped me! Then, left me shivering in the cold. You knew I’d eventually beg for your heat. You planned that. 

I warned myself to resist. How many times did I sit there struggling to focus on simple meeting minutes? I talked to myself. That’s it, just type one word at a time, and thoughts of him will pass. Except they didn’t. You had burrowed inside me like a parasite. Ate me from the inside out. 

“Hi, I’m just dropping off these reports for Mr. Voss.”

Her voice snapped me back to reality. Melanie from accounting was waving reports in front of me. “Oh yes, sure, he’s in his office,” I rattled off, then scolded myself. Get it together!  

So, if you needed me to draw a picture, yes, I was the trembling lamb; and you, Mr. Rourke Voss, were the wolf wrapped in a silk tie. 

I felt your watchful eyes as I sat at my desk. They burned me. You never closed the blinds on the glass wall of your office, leaving me exposed to you. When I turned to the side to type, I saw you—always staring. Elbows on your desk with fingers interlocked and resting against your chin. Your eyes seeped inside my pours, exploring every hidden place, doing what I imagined your large hands wanted to do. Forcing me over your desk by the back of my neck, never caring that you were squishing my cheek and breasts into the wood. You’d no doubt spank me when I kicked my legs. 

In the boardroom, your lips moved, but I only heard commands: kneel, spread, cum… mine. When you flashed your teeth, I wanted them at my throat. One look from you and my knees fell apart. My pussy needed you. Rourke, isn’t that what you wanted? Sorry, “Rourke” doesn’t work for us, does it? You’re Mr. Voss or more likely Sir.

“Emily, did you note the corrections on page four?” Ron asked beside me.

I jumped, feeling the blood rush to my face. “Yes, of course,” I answered, busying my fingers on the keyboard. When I looked up, there were your eyes boring into me. 

Didn’t you understand it wasn’t just us in the office? Others would see what you were doing to me. How it affected me. And it did affect me. 

I couldn’t sleep. You pried me open, but never finished. I was left alone with my own fingers, writhing beneath the sheets for a release that never came. My vibrator became too cold. There was no heated friction of your hard flesh against my soft insides. I tried to rub myself as raw as your raking eyes left me, but never got there. 

I couldn't shower without you either. I saw your stare cutting through the foggy glass, watching me suds my nipples, down my tummy to the sensitive skin between my thighs. I imagined you joining me, forcing my pace. One finger, then three plunged deep, feverishly fucking myself before your cock would take over. But it always ended with me collapsing against the tile, unfulfilled because you weren’t really there. Didn’t you hear me calling your name? 

Even at the fucking grocery, I picked through peaches and plums, squeezing with a force that wasn’t me. I glanced around, afraid someone had seen my bizarre man-handling of the fruit. I wanted your hands to bruise my tender flesh in the same way. In everything I did, I was tortured by a singular thought: if your eyes could split me open like this, what would your tongue do, or your… 

At home, I tried to keep things normal. I made the salad and poured the sauce over the pasta, but when I began to eat, my hand started to shake. You sat across from me, your eyes locked onto my mouth closing around the fork. You watched the movement of my throat as I swallowed. But it was no longer food in my mouth, was it, Mr. Voss?

One evening, I went to the mirror for answers. It had always told me the truth. Then I saw myself. I didn’t want to be pretty anymore. Not for you. I was your porn. You branded me with your eyes. I saw it in my reflection. I watched your lamb submit. Unbutton one more button. Redden the lipstick. No gloss. Something matte finish that would smear into a mess while you slapped, then jabbed at my lips with your cock. 

I think it was the tearing down of the woman I had meticulously crafted that really fucked me up. I wasn’t your secretary anymore. I was your quivering lamb, waiting as you closed in. I used to know what I wanted. Then I only cared what you wanted: my body bent however you willed it or my throat stuffed with something so swollen that I couldn’t breathe. 

Finally, I gave in. You broke me. Do you remember the messy bun? I did that so your eyes could find the keyhole in the back of my blouse. While you leaned so casually against your office doorway, your eyes crawled again, down my neck, slipped inside the silk, bit their way down my spine until they reached the cleft below. You must have seen the wet spot on the back of my skirt. 

It’s a sickness, you know… this hunger we now share. You’re obsessed with me. I’m obsessed with your obsession with me. It’s fucking twisted. You need to finish it. If I could survive it. I’m not sure I could. Do you even want me to? Or am I just another slaughtered lamb to you?

But, Mr. Voss, now that you know everything, don’t think I’ll just fall at your feet. 

It’s time to kneel.

I think you’ve been fattening me with arousal to make our fuck volcanic. I’m trembling thinking about what’s to come as I arrive early today. I’m ready, though. The office is empty. Dark. Only one fluorescent buzzes overhead in the far corner. I see you through the glass. I walk closer. I’ve been dripping in my panties all morning. You’ll like that, won’t you? 

You rise from your desk, jaw firmly set as you move toward the glass wall. Toward me. Your lined face is so attractive now. Your merciless eyes that promised so many things are aimed at my face, but… not in their usual way. Why do they seem to look through me?

You snap the blinds shut with a quick tug on the cord. But not before I see her—Melanie, slinking into view. 

The office door doesn’t just shut between us, no, that would be too kind, the lock clicks, and my heart plunges to the bottom of my feet and then breaks apart into tiny pieces that settle into my toes and stab my flesh with each stumbling step on the floor that’s beginning to tilt on my way back to my desk. 

The air leaves the office. Humiliation scorches my body, once heated by you.

I’m. Not. Special. 

Just one of many lambs in your flock. Or…

…maybe you never saw me at all.