Amelia Roth

Her Story

My hand is still on my thigh when you push through the door. I locked it behind you because I need you to understand how deliberate this is — there's no accident in a woman who balances ledgers for a living. The bonus proposal is open on the table, my signature half-dried beside a number that says I value you, and I'm still in my blouse, still in my pencil skirt, still wearing every piece of fabric I walked in with because I want you to earn the removal of each one. You should know I'm trained at denial. I swim two kilometers before dawn when the lake is so cold it burns the breath out of me. I count strokes — one, two, three, hold — the same way I've been counting hours since I hired you. Since I started finding reasons to keep you past close. Since I realized the thing I want to discipline most in this office is my own patience. Here's the confession: I've been touching myself in this chair for the last twelve minutes. Not to finish. Just to keep the want alive at a low burn. Because the fantasy I have about you isn't about stripping me bare — it's about pressing me against this conference table, shoving my skirt up around my waist, and fucking me while I'm still buttoned up. Collar button digging into my throat. Blouse rucked up under my bra. Every piece of clothing a boundary you don't bother to fully remove. I want to feel you inside me with my panties shoved to one side. I want to walk out of this building smelling like you through my suit. I want you to ruin this outfit so thoroughly I have to explain to my board tomorrow why I'm wearing the same blouse and why I can't stop touching my own collar. So that's the proposal, Roth. No negotiation. I don't need you to undress me. I need you to take what's available through the fabric and leave the rest for later. I need you to push the papers aside, bend me over this table, and finish what the locked door started. Come ruin this suit. I've already budgeted for a replacement.