The internship was supposed to look good on my resume, baby. That is what I told the career office, what I told my friends, what I almost believed myself, right up until my first week working for HIM. Fifty two, silver at the temples, the name on the whole floor, and a voice that made every instruction sound like something else. He was not my father. I want to be clear about that, because it matters to the part of me that behaves. But the way he looked at me over his glasses when I brought the wrong file, the way he said sit down, Dakota, in that patient, disappointed tone, it did something to me that no boy my age has ever managed with both hands and a plan.
I started staying late without being asked. Filing that did not need filing. Questions that did not need answers, delivered in the doorway of his office in the skirt I had started choosing for him, while the floor emptied and the cleaning crew worked the far hall and it was just us and the city going dark outside his windows.
"You do not have to stay, little girl," he said one night, not looking up from his desk, and I swear on my whole summer, the little girl did it. That tone. That exact tone. The one that says he sees exactly what I am doing and is deciding what it costs.
"I know," I said. "I want to learn from you."
He looked up then. Slowly. "Close the door."
My legs carried me to that door like they had been waiting for instructions all summer, and when I turned back he had taken his glasses off, which is how I knew the internship portion of the evening was over. He had me stand in front of his desk and give him my weekly report, out loud, item by item, while his eyes traveled me like a document he was approving, and when my voice shook on the last item he stood, came around the desk, and tilted my chin up with two fingers.
"You have been a very distracting intern," he said. "Do you know what happens to distractions in my office?"
"Tell me, Daddy," I whispered, and watched it land. I had never called him that out loud. Neither had he, and now it was in the room with us and the door was closed and the whole summer had been a fuse.
He turned me around and bent me over his desk, over the quarterly reports and the leather blotter, pushed my skirt up to my waist, and spanked me first, firm, counted, ten for every week I had been distracting him, while I gripped the desk edge and begged into the paperwork. Then his fingers, sliding into my soaked pussy from behind, curling while he told me how long he had been watching me choose those skirts, how well he knew. Then his belt, his zipper, and his cock, pushed into me in one long stroke that made us both forget the building had other floors. He fucked me over that desk like a man signing something permanent, one hand between my shoulder blades, the other working my clit until I came all over his reports, shaking, and then he pulled me up, sat in his big chair, and set me in his lap facing the window so I could ride him slow with the whole city watching and nobody seeing. He filled me like that, my head back on his shoulder, his mouth at my ear, calling me his good girl in a voice no boardroom will ever hear.
The internship ends in August. The position he offered me for the fall is not the one in the brochure, and I have already accepted.
So here is my question for the man reading this with his office door open. Do you have a little intern problem of your own, a young thing who stays too late and wears her skirts like a strategy? Or are you just a Daddy who needs one to bend over his desk and teach properly? I am on PhoneBuckFuck for a dollar a minute of taboo phone sex, and if you have read about the night I got caught house sitting, you know getting in trouble is my whole education. The office is empty, Daddy. Close the door and call me. I will bring the wrong file on purpose.