Fuck me, Mr. Locke (7)

Chantelle

I looked at my reflection that morning; there I was, wearing a white cropped shirt, a short leather skirt with fishnet hose, and black pumps.

I took extra care with my hair and makeup too; I almost burnt my hair. I couldn’t believe I was doing all of this for him.

When he arrived, I was typing a report at my desk. He paused in front of me, eyes scanning me slowly, expression unreadable. Then he smirked, the kind that made butterflies flutter in my stomach.

“Good,” he murmured, walking past me toward his office. “Come on. We need to discuss your new role.”

My throat went dry.

I followed him inside, trying to seem unfazed, even though my heart was beating faster in my chest. He didn’t look up as he handed me a folder.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“I’m offering you a new contract,” he began. “Look at the terms…”

I opened it, flipping through the pages. It was not a normal employment contract. The heading was Terms of Submission.

There were clauses about “discretion,” “availability,”