۶۟ৎ short drabble, sfw (mostly), giving eastermans old bum ass a massage because his wife left him.
You were given a narrow description the first time you were sought out to be a secretary; arrange appointments, card through files, maintain any discrepancies, of which they weren’t specific.
“Ahh, there you are.” There’s a tilt in his voice that mirrors affection as you come through his office doors. “Come here will you?” Easterman groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. His brows furrowed. Nursing a cigarette between his fingers, he beckons you closer. He grins when you do, passively running his hand down your lower back.
Reaching for your arm, he maneuvers your hands to rest on his shoulders. What he wants, you no longer need him to express.
By now, you’ve stockholmed yourself into expecting just about anything from your boss. Taking note in your head of all your roles to fill and have filled, you place glorified housewife next to maternal figure.
Easterman lets out a weary sigh, you afford him the last name only in your head, whereas he expects you to address him as Hendrick out loud. Something about the formality. He reaches up to place his fingers over yours, pressing your fingers firmer onto the sides of his neck. “Just like that.”
“These reagents - they’ve no idea the things I do for them.” He strains, the frustration in his voice palpable. “I give them love and nurturing, and what do I get in return? A flaccid effort. It’s like none of them want to try.”
You hum in response, “How ungrateful. They don’t accept your love because they think they deserve more. It's repulsive.”
“Of course.” Easterman sighs in contempt. You understand, of course you do. So agreeable. Submissive. His perfect disciple. You’re the perfect example, gleaming so bright that it hurts to stare at you; an unseen idol. He wishes to mold every reagent to your image.
You can’t help but notice, he still hasn’t let go of his cigarette.
“Would you put that out, please?”
“What, this?” he asks, waving it around between his fingers.
What else? You think to yourself, biting your lip in restraint. “Yes. Please.” You speak up after a beat, crawling your thumbs down the length of his neck and pressing down. “I’m already giving you the massage. I’m not lacking am I?”
"No. Never." The cigarette lets out a soft hiss as he puts it out.
You hum in accord, “Thank you, Hendrick.”
Easterman has begun to frequent asking for your massages. The first time was a courtesy; you found him a disfigured, drunken mess in his office. Lythe limbs twisted in a pile of his own bile. Anytime after that came from Easterman, something about your hands having a certain quality.
“Ah, perfect.” He moans, his head thrown back in delight. The view grants you a view of his forehead, you recount another inch of skin in place of where thinning, grey hair used to be.
He’s taken off his suit, giving himself more reign to feel your touch. You slide your thumbs beneath his collar, roaming over and pressing down on skin. He runs strangely cold.
“You always take such good care of me.” He shudders, limply tugging at his tie. “I ought to return the favor, one day.” He files through the possibilities in his head; wine and a proper dine, but the one that sticks out is you, sweet and placating on his lap. Indulgement, and then a stern talking to from Avellano’s in the morning.
“Hmm, I think I’d like that.” The answer that comes from your mouth, you’re not even sure of. You think you hear a whine when you pull away, moving back to work on his shoulders, your thumb rubbing slow circles; Easterman’s taken to slowly stroking your fingers where they rest.
Easterman continues to hum, his head leaning back on your stomach. He feels he’s being pulled towards your warmth. He thinks he'd like to lay in it just a bit longer.
When you finally pull away, concerned with overworking his tender muscles, he pulls your hand in to kiss the tips of your fingers. “Beautiful. Daddy’s pleased.”
On the walk back to your desk, you think about a raise.
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