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You didn’t like me when I started. A month in and I’d already claimed three of your clients. Results of your disorganized work ways. You had no one to blame but yourself.

Three months in and I got that promotion. The one you’d tried so studiously to land. I suppose you should have put in more effort. You didn’t speak to me for weeks. I didn’t care.

Six months in and we were working late. Enemies united for a common goal. You popped the top off of that bottle of wine you’d been hoarding from last New Year’s. Something to ease the tension.

Nine months in and I wonder if every time you look at that desk, you imagine me splayed out on top of it. I wonder if you try to recreate how pitiful I looked bent over, my skirt hiked crudely up my thighs, wine stains on my crisp white blouse, your cock inserted in full measure.

Competitor turned collaborator. Contender turned cohort. Foe turned friend. A new alliance was formed. A legion of lovers.

Twelve months in and now you smile at me.

NSFW: yes

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