You know i gotta say it
You know those black pencil skirts that are basically synonymous with secretaries? Yeah, that. König would lose his freaking mind and I'm evil cackling about it
Ooop you’ve done it now - may I present socially dysfunctional Colonel König x his little secretary:
You’re doing it to screw with him, he’s absolutely sure of it. Krueger or Horangi must have put you up to it during your giggled coffee breaks with them in the mess hall.
Fucking Krueger. He’s the ultimate villain and that makes him a good asset unfortunately.
Torn between furious arousal, making his heart pound in his throat and the internalised fear of being the butt of yet another of their pranks, König studiously refuses to look at you. Baby blue orbs usually crinkled happily at the edges when you bring him a biscuit, firmly fixed on the laptop screen in front of him.
It looks comically small in his big paws, elbows tucked close to his sides to try and minimise the effort of typing on the narrow keypad.
Assuming he’s lost in thought, you quietly place one of your stash of sweet treats on the corner of his desk.
“They’re raisin, sorry they didn’t have anything else in supplies. I’ll order us some good ones with the next delivery.”
There’s the barest flutter of his lashes, glancing at the cookie sat lonely on it’s little plate and a grunt of acknowledgment.
Usually you sit together for five minutes and chat, it’s the highlight of your day as pathetic as that may be, König’s wolfish smile fixed on you, the odd little jokes and stories he saves up to tell you each morning.
Yesterdays conversation involved you trying to explain the concept of enjoying love island to him, while he rapturously listened, losing half of his shortbread in the cup of coffee it was held over, soaked crumbs he sipped without notice.
Sensing the dramatic difference in his temperament today however, you decide you make yourself scarce, even though that has you feeling entirely miserable.
König allows himself a glance at your rounded, retreating shoulders, inwardly cursing. You look like every red blooded males fantasy, tight little skirt showing every curve, squeezing the fat of your hips deliciously until your walk becomes a wiggle. Low, pointed heels snap against the weathered linoleum floor in a staccato rhythm that matches his rapid pulse.
Ears burning, König focuses on the blurred words flickering across the tiny screen, cock twitching excitedly against the inseam of his boxers. The absolute last thing he fucking needs, an unprompted erection to try and explain to you. To temper the flare of insatiable desire, he imagines you handing in your resignation. He’d probably get on his knees and beg you stay. Utterly embarrassing, a man like him cringing on the ground for you like a dog. Hardly normal behaviour, but then, he’s not normal by anyone’s standards.
He’s sure grown men shouldn’t have unfathomable crushes on their employees, that’s the stuff of teenage fantasy, not dreamt up for battle weary and hardened war criminals. So he internalises it, squashes every inappropriate thought he has about you down, until it’s compact enough not to spring out during the day.
He would love to tell you how much he adores you, lay his strange and twisted heart at your feet and pray you don’t destroy it. But he’s sure you don’t see him in the same way he views you, no rapture mirrored back to him in your gaze.
Imagining you leaving because he’s fucked it all up does the trick, soon he’s blue balled but thankfully soft again.
He’s going to get a headache today, can feel it brewing at the base of his skull.
Back at your desk you sigh, kicking off the nice heels you bought and wondering whether you’re making it all too obvious. Deliberately, you’ve tried to dress smarter, make yourself feel prettier for him. Though for all the interest he shows, you might as well wear a dirty KorTac regulation tracksuit.
Glumly you flick your pot of pens. Your thumping, heartsick crush grows heavier to carry by the day.
Maybe he isn’t a skirt guy?
