Marceline Dubois

Her Story

The door locks with a sound I know by heart — that four-pin deadbolt. Tax season is the only time I let myself stay this late, when the building goes quiet and the vents stop breathing. Everyone else went home two hours ago. You stayed because I asked you to. I was halfway through reconciling a set of Q3 expense reports when my hand drifted south of my pencil skirt. Don't look at me like that. You knew exactly what you were doing when you let your cuff slide up and showed me that bit of wrist three desks ago. I don't miss details. I'm an accountant. And what I've accounted for, every single night this month, is how *quiet* you'd go if I slid a silk scarf over your eyes. I'm touching myself now — through the stockings, because I kept the uniform on for you. Black blazer. Pencil skirt. The glasses I only wear when I'm about to find a mistake. My fingers are moving slow, deliberate, the way I audit a column I *want* to be wrong. And I'm thinking about putting you in that leather desk chair, blindfolded with your own tie, while I walk you through every single one of your deductions with my mouth against your ear. The spreadsheet balances, by the way. I balanced it with one hand. Now I want to audit something far more interesting than your expense reports. I want your hands tied behind that conference chair and a cashmere scarf knotted at the back of your skull — so all you have is the sound of my heels and the weight of my attention. I saved my closing for last. I always do. Come ruin this outfit. I'll wear the blindfold after — you can have four minutes of total control before I take it back. That's the trade. That's my offer.