The clock on her computer screen was a countdown to her own execution. 11:58 AM. Two minutes. For two hours, she had been living in a state of perpetual, low-grade panic. Every email was a jumble of letters. Every phone ring made her flinch. The fabric of her skirt against her bare skin was a constant, maddening reminder of his command. She was naked underneath, exposed and ready for him, even when he was miles away in his own corner of the office. Her body was no longer her own; it was a tool, waiting for its master.
At 12:00 PM exactly, a soft chime from her computer signaled a new email. The subject line was blank. The body of the email contained only two words.
My office.
A fresh wave of moisture slicked her folds. It wasn't a phone call this time. It was an email. A digital trail.
