Good Pet

What the fuck? “Boss”? Did she really just call me “boss”?

My eyes are fixated on her the entire way from our booth to a table she chooses not more than a few feet away. I’m watching her shapely ass and then legs the whole time. Even when Ms. Vanacore sits down next to me and says something, I don’t hear it clearly.

My eyes are still eating the sight of Melissa’s candy ass, and my mind is still lit up with her calling me “boss.” Though I didn’t see myself as one of those types — one of those men like the rest of the alpha males around here who gets a kick out of being called “boss” by their subordinates — I have to admit that it sends a thrill through me. It’s a shot of electricity, that goes straight to my crotch, straight to my dick.

I guess she did. I guess I am. I am! After getting the job today, I… Technically became her boss. Sure, I’m not an official executive, but I’m not in the legal aids’ pool anymore. I have an actual position with the head of legal, and that makes me Melissa’s boss.

Just as the fiery ice of this realization strengthens, it fills my cock with more energy to the point where it is no longer sleeping under the table.

Ms. Vanacore whacks my leg with the body of her cane. The movement is swift and harsh. Much like a dungeon Master might do if I were playing her sub. “Tommy,” she snaps.

Shocked, I immediately sit at attention. I turn my eyes to Ms. Vanacore and away from Melissa’s table, though Melissa hasn’t stopped looking at me. She’s crossed her legs and settled in quite nicely to her perch. Where she can watch and study me to her heart’s content. At least, until the waiter comes by and begins to talk with her.

“Ma’am?” It takes a Herculean effort to keep my attention on my boss, not on the fact that I’ve become Melissa’s.

Ms. Vanacore smiles, but it’s a little lonely and frayed like she’s caught me cheating on her, but she’s choosing to ignore it. “Melissa? Kane’s secretary? What could she possibly have to talk with you about? I doubt she came here to nag you about phone calls. Or that she even knew where to come to nag you about them.” Immediately I feel Vanacore’s dislike. I see it in the next second, as her eyes find Melissa’s table, and look at her like she’s a bug or an irritant.

“It was a pure coincidence,” I said, trying to pull those ugly eyes away from Melissa.

Melissa doesn’t seem disturbed in the least. She turns away from Vanacore with a flourish, during a gesture that is like “talk to the hand” and “fuck off, bitch, you aren’t my boss here or anywhere,” at the same time. She locks eyes with me. Points me out to the waitress, who follows her finger to me. As this happens, I see her writing something down sloppily on an order form. I smile, knowing she is taking me up on my order for her to get lunch on me.

“Coincidence,” says Ms. Vanacore, wiping the smile off my face, and forcing my eyes back to her. “The two of you seem pretty chummy, pretty friendly with each other for this to be a coincidence.” The emphasis she puts on “friendly” is as deadly as a nine-millimeter bullet, but I don’t show it.

“Just a coincidence, ma’am, I assure you,” I say. I’m not really sure what her deal is with this. Why she is making such a big fuss out of it. Why she seems to be so noisy, and then it hits me. Oh, no. Oh God! Does she think I’m dating her? Is she trying to see if I am?

I study Ms. Vanacore and her stern expression. The way she moves her hair behind her shoulders and ties it back with a small leather band. She rests her cane in the booth on the seat next to her. As she does, her old-fashioned, motherly aura slams into me. Is she against that kind of culture? Is she afraid I’m not serious enough for her? Is she afraid I’m messing around with people from the office?

“I was just telling her that lunch was on me.” I pause, seeing something else I don’t like in Ms. Vanacore’s eyes: disappointment and disgust. “She did a favor for me, and, well, it was the best I can think of to do.” Oh, my God! I need to shut up! Shut up! “Favor”? Are you kidding me! That sounds worse than anything else you just said! No way in hell that doesn’t suggest something unsavory!

My worst fears are confirmed in the next minute, when, after placing the order with the waitress ( Vanacore orders for me and her, some kind of family platter deal with all their top favorites), she clears her throat. She narrows her eyes and says very sternly to me, “I’ll have no assistant or associate of mine talking unnecessarily with the receptionists. Male or female. It’s unsavory, Tommy.”