pornstar martini (roman godfrey x reader)
WARNINGS: spanking, blowjob, punishments, sub/dom dynamics, kinky mails, masochism, masturbation, throwing up (very briefly cause of a hangover), Roman is a fucking ass even though he's overseas ughhh, jealousy ploys
summary: Mr. Godfrey has been away in Geneva for a few days now without as much as a peep-- getting drunk and upset about it certainly won't help, but when have you ever been of sound mind?
word count: 7,710
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a/n: I'm so fucking drunk while editing this rn, reader is drunk throughout this whole chapter, so... at LEAST I'll have a good representation of intoxication?? I've missed this story tho, thank you all for ALL THE LOVE AHHHH you give me hope, you give me life, so I give you this!<333 mwah, enjoy, you little freaks
"It's your cousin,"
Letha turned to me, slow enough for it to be a clip straight out of a comedy movie; "What?" she asked, putting down her cosmopolitan.
I groaned into my palm, swirling my half-empty pornstar martini. The loud bar around us made my head pound, each beat hammering into a new part of my brain that I didn't know could feel pain. "It was his shoe,"
"The shoe you... humped?"
"Yeah," I breathed, hiccuping as I tried to force my eyes to open wider. It was impossible to concentrate when I was this drunk. We had been out for dinner around six, then we had met some of Letha's friends at some bar around eight, then we had met mutuals from college who had led us to wherever the fuck we were right now-- we had long broken apart from that group, and we were now sitting in some tent-like structure, having our fourth cocktails for the night. "He told me to, and I did it. Your cousin is hot, are you aware of that?"
Letha blinked over and over, scrunching her nose; "Nope," she said. "He's just Roman to me. He's the same guy who ate snow with me in my backyard when we were six, and I watched him go through his emo phase when he was fifteen. Also, if I ever say yes to that, shoot me, because I'm most likely possessed."
Mr. Godfrey, eating snow? What an odd thought. What an odd thing-- for him to be human.
I scanned Letha; her cheeks always got flushed when she was drunk, and tonight, she was properly drunk. Very, very drunk, and so was I, undeniably. "I don't want to shoot you," I mumbled, bringing my pornstar martini back to my lips. "Aren't you mad, though?"
"Mad? Meh," Letha shrugged. "I'd be mad if you fucked my father, but--"
"Ew, Lee, what the fuck!--"
"But!" She held one finger up in the air, effectively shutting me up. "This is sort of a win-win situation. If you get with my cousin, like, properly, then we could technically be sisters or whatever."
I cleared my throat, trying to straighten up as I pulled the most serious face I could in this state. Letha would've probably not have been so enthusiastic about this if she were sober. "I don't think it's like that," I mumbled, staring at the cocktail I had nearly finished. If this conversation were to continue, I'd need about three more of these. Why couldn't I just shut up?
"So... what? It's a strictly hump-my-shoe sort of thing?" Letha chimed in, grinning from ear to ear as she watched my cheeks redden to the likes of hers. "You naughty girl! He's your boss, too!"
"Shut up!" I hissed, smacking my forehead twice. Why did my head hurt so bad? Maybe it was time to put down my drink. "It's the suit, and it's the green eyes. I die a little every time I look at him, and soon enough, there will be nothing left of me except my clit."
"... Ew,"
"I'm so fucking serious, Lee!"
"Oh, I'm not denying it," she said in between sips of her cosmopolitan. "Not that I want to know, but I'm drunk and not in the right mind, but do you do anything else? You hump his shoe, and he does?"
What the fuck was I supposed to say here? "Hey, okay, I did that once!--"
"Shut up!" Letha said, giggling uncontrollably. "You hump his shoe, and he does...?"
I blinked, trying to recover from her incessant teasing. I hump his shoe, and he does...? He gets me expensive gifts. He spanks me when I misbehave. He makes me cum when I'm being good, whatever that means. I'm never good, in theory. Mr. Godfrey didn't usually do anything except order me around, yet that was sort of the appeal-- the less I knew about him, what he looked like beneath that suit, who he was, the more I felt like he was a God-like entity. Hence, whenever I had his attention in any way, I felt beyond special.
That was the appeal of Mr. Godfrey; he was nothing, yet everything at the same time.
"He makes me feel," I mumbled, pressing my drink to my bottom lip as my eyes blanked. Mr. Godfrey's presence in my life felt like impact-play, but I couldn't say that out loud? "He looks at me, and I... I feel everything at the same time. I feel good, I feel like hell, and sometimes I even feel special. But honestly, sometimes it becomes so overwhelming that I wish he'd set me on fire just so that he could watch me in my very last moments and know that I have suffered for him."
Letha didn't move, didn't breathe, for long enough to make it unusual. Something told me I had told her too much, but just as I was about to clear my throat and try to explain myself, she spoke; "I could report you to HR,"
"You wouldn't do that to me, babe," I grumbled, finishing my pornstar martini shortly after. "You know I hate those people. Also, the HR lady is scary, but really darn hot. I don't want her running around Mr. Godfrey for long enough for him to notice her nice legs."
"Mr. Godfrey?" Letha repeated, choking down a giggle. "You can't even make yourself call him Roman, huh?"
Nope.
Nope, no, never.
That felt wrong, like it was something I needed permission for. I probably did, anyway.
Letha let my silence off the hook easily; "Or maybe that's the appeal? He's your boss, so you probably wear short skirts around him, and bend over his desk and purr sir in his ear or something--"
"No!" I cried, burying my face in my hands as Letha laughed. "I don't!-- Ugh." Liar, liar, pants on fire. The more I thought about the time Mr. Godfrey pressed me down into the wood of his desk, holding me steady as he inspected my underwear, made my ears burn; had I been shameless like before, I would've even crossed my legs right now and relieved the intense sensation between my legs, but no-- I had gotten a mental block about that, quite frankly.
"Just don't tell him I told you," I mumbled. "I don't think he even knows we know each other."
Letha's green eyes twinkled; "Don't worry about it,"
"But this sort of leads me to another point," In the middle of a new hiccup, I decided to just go for it. "Has your cousin called you from Geneva? He's been gone for two days, and he's, like... completely out of reach."
"Oh?"
"Yeah," I breathed, swirling my empty glass. "I caught him calling in on some meeting earlier today, so I know he's not a missing person or whatever, but he hasn't sent me anything. Hasn't talked to me. It's like he's ignoring me, or-- yeah, I have no idea."
Letha's brows drew together; not out of concern, but intrigue. "Did he tell you he'd stay in touch?"
"... No, but he said he'd be available,"
"So maybe he's waiting for you to send something, then?" Letha's green eyes seared into mine, once again reminding me that they were related-- they had the exact same fucking eyes. Maybe if Mr. Godfrey completely iced me out someday, I could get over the heartache by looking at Letha. There was my backup plan. The shittiest but wittiest one to date. "But if this is strictly a sex-thing, I wouldn't put it past Roman to be completely unattached to it."
With that, my heart sank. "What?"
Letha shot me a look-- "Come on," she huffed. "He's a Godfrey. If I'm the way I am, can you imagine him? Do you not read those gossip magazines? They psychoanalyze him better than I could ever do, especially now that I'm drunk at three in the morning."
The only magazine I had formally read about him was the Forbes magazine I still kept tucked beneath my pillow-- not the proudest moment of mine. "I know I'm not his girlfriend or whatever, but... what we have feels special, y'know? Like it warrants a snarky email asking whether I've burned the office down or something,"
Letha sighed, checking out the guy to her left as she thought about how to answer me without stomping on my feelings. However, it was three in the morning, and after enough drinks, Letha Godfrey had the filter of a neurodivergent toddler; "Of course it feels special. Doesn't mean that you are to him, though,"
"... Letha, what the hell?"
"I'm just being honest,"
Her attention had completely left me, and she was now waving at the guy with that flirty shimmer in her eyes that I knew too well. It made me turn around to look at him properly, to see who I was battling against, and I couldn't contain the annoyed groan that left me. "Sometimes, he slips up and says things that allude to him thinking about me more than he lets up," I huffed. "I think I warrant an inappropriate mail from Geneva."
Busy flirting, Letha batted her long, blonde lashes at the guy. "Aha," she mumbled, nodding, clearly occupied.
I gritted my teeth, wondering how long I could keep myself together before I had an angry, drunk meltdown. "What happened to Barty?" I whined. "Bartholomew? He-who-must-not-be-named? The guy you were dating?"
Letha shivered and turned to me with a grimace-- I knew that name would bring her back to me. "We don't talk about him. That was a slip-up in the Matrix," She put down her drink, letting out a sigh as she scanned me, disregarding the guy for now. "So, what, you're going to sulk all week because Roman's AFK?"
"AFK...?
"Away-From-Keyboard," she said, softening her gaze. "Don't let yourself fall apart because of some man. That's so lame. What happened to the girl I knew in college?"
How was I supposed to explain to Letha that it was this exact spiral that made me feel alive? That the way I burned in agony over being ignored satisfied me to some extent? It was too complicated to even begin to decode. "I don't know..." I stared down at my empty glass, realizing my head was spinning. "I think I'm too drunk to think clearly about this. Should we maybe just get a cab home?"
Letha didn't answer, and instead, reached over the table to put her hand over mine. Like this, lit up by the orange heat-lamps above us, she looked beautiful as ever with her perfect blonde hair lying perfectly over her shoulders. She was so soft like this, so feminine, so gentle-- "Just mail him, babe," she murmured. "Or, call us a cab, and then mail him. Take charge."
Taking charge was Mr. Godfrey's thing, though. That was another thing that I wouldn't explain to Letha. "It's nine in the morning over there," I tried. "And what if he doesn't reply?"
Letha shrugged-- "Then you'll know,"
I looked down at my glass again, the stem sweating against my palm; somehow, knowing sounded so much worse.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
Ten minutes later, we were in the back of a cab, the windows fogged and streaked with rain, the city blurring into watercolor neon. I curled against the cold leather seat, phone clutched in my hand like it had wronged me. My makeup was smudged, my head spun like it always did after a night out with Letha, and everything inside me buzzed with that erratic, mortifying energy that came with four drinks and too many feelings.
Letha was already asleep, head tipped back, her phone unlocked and resting dangerously close to her cleavage. I stared down her blouse for a bit too long, and with one drunk thought after the other, I ended up slowly easing her phone down her bra, containing my giggles.
So, with Letha's phone sticking proudly out from between her tits, I eventually stared down at mine in my hands. I had distracted myself for a moment, yet I couldn't distract myself forever.
Hiccuping, I opened my mail, clicking into Mr. Godfrey's account-- he had been online two hours ago. Fucker. He had probably already read yesterday's report. Probably dismissed it, too. Probably dismissed me. I was spiralling, but this spiral had edges. This spiral had teeth. This spiral was the same girl that Letha knew in college.
I opened a new mail. Then, without thinking, I started typing-- it poured out of me, fingers fumbling, typos aplenty, autocorrect working overtime like it had taken pity on me, but there was no stopping now. Fuck it.
From: You
Subject: Being Stupid
Hi.
Hi!!
I'm writing this in the back of a cab, so if you see any typos, no you don't. I might perhaps also be a bit drunk, but who cares!! Maybe you're in a conference room in Geneva rn while some old dude talks to you about trade routes and money laundering. You must do some money laundering, sir? Every rich guy does that. Probably? Right? Seems like it, these days. Capitalism!!!!!
Okay, so, I know you said you'd be available if there were any crisises crisies? crisi? but there are none except for me. Before you left, you said that I was an HR liability, and I keep thinking about that, because that's SCUHA A LIE. SUCH. I would never rat you out to the HR lady who is frankly too hot to be walking around like that, she has legs that are longer than the Chinese wall, and it's kind of disturbing. I wouldn't sir!!! I'm not like your last secretary, whether the fuck happened to her. I wouldn't sue you. I'm a good secretary.
Btw I had a pornstar martini today!!! Three, I thin. k. Four! No, three. Four? Do you drink anything other than bourbon? You need to try a pornstar martini, sir. They are really fucking nice because they're sweet and you sometimes get a pomegranate in it and it's actually kinda inconvevnient inconvenient but it's cutesy!!! Maybe you don't like cutesy tho. Bet you don't. Okay maybe you should stick ot th e bourbon.
YeahhhtThis message is embarrassing and long and I'll probably try to unsend it in the morning, but if you do read it please don't pretend like you didn't. I know how you are. Just say something. Anything!! Even if it's cruel. I might like it? I can take it. I'd rather have your cruelty than your silence. I'm a good secretary.
Happy money laundering!!!!!!!!
PSPSPS: plsssssss bring me something, I wasnt joking;(((
Click click click,
Your Secretary.
I didn't care to re-read it. It was too long, and at the moment, it felt like poetry that I shouldn't touch. This was genius, wasn't it? This would definitely make Mr. Godfrey pull himself together and send me a heartfelt message about missing me, I was sure of it.
And then, because I definitely had the traits of an emotional masochist, and because Mr. Godfrey was probably out there, doing anything but thinking of me, I hit send. This was going to fix this. This was fucking genius.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ No, retreat, retreat-- not genius.
Oh... my God.
Oh my fucking God?!
The next morning, seated behind my desk with the worst hangover known to man, I stared at the mail that I had sent last night. It was glaring back at me from my computer like a reminder that I was getting executed in a few hours.
Not genius. Not fucking genius!
I so desperately wanted to die. That execution sounded really nice right now. Why couldn't I sink through the floor and haunt the building instead? Why did I have to live through the possible consequences of this stunt? Fucking Letha.
But said consequences were painfully delayed-- my inbox was empty. This was worse than cruelty; silence. I imagined a ball of dry wheat rolling past my email like in those cowboy movies, a sinister whistle-sound coming from afar. Was Mr. Godfrey blatantly unaware of this, perhaps? Or worse, was he laughing about it? Forwarding it to legal? Telling the hot HR lady with the war-crime legs that I, in fact, was an HR liability?
I imagined Mr. Godfrey and his Forbes nose skimming the message with his unreadable, handsome face. Maybe he was sipping something expensive (and definitely made with Swiss skimmed goat-milk), scowling over my drunken meltdown. Maybe he had already shown it to some diplomat friend over lunch, and they were both laughing at it right at this very moment? "How fucking pathetic... Do you know how hard she cums when I call her a sick fuck?"
My palms were sweating, my stomach twisted with every movement of my spinning chair-- God, I had asked him to be cruel. Who the fuck does that? Who begs their boss for cruelty like it's affection? Why did I drink four pornstar martinis? Three? Four. Whatever.
I slammed my forehead against the desk once. Just once, dramatically, with a soft thud.
Racking my hungover brain, I tried to figure out if I could get away with hiding in the archive room all day, but then a low voice, smooth and familiar, cut through the fog behind my eyes;
"Rough night?"
My red eyes snapped up, staring up at Peter. His hands were in the pockets of his dark, sleek coat, his hair slightly messy in a way that looked deliberate, clearly just having gotten to the office. He was smirking like he already knew exactly how rough my evening had been, like he had seen me hunched over my fourth pornstar martini telling Letha about the spiritual experience of humping her cousin's shoe-- God, just thinking about that right now made my head pound even harder.
I cleared my throat, straightening with a slight hiss; the fluorescent lights of the office were killing me. "Remind me to never drink martinis ever again,"
"Oh, that's a shame," Peter murmured, cocking his head. "Martinis can be really damn good. Was it a sweet one?"
"Yeah, pornstar,"
"What?"
Blinking, I caught myself-- I couldn't just say that word without following it up. "Pornstar martini," I corrected, rubbing the back of my neck as I attempted a laugh. "Not saying you're a-- no, no, it's just the name of the drink, I-- ugh, you get it."
"I do," Peter hummed, containing a laugh with a bite of his lip.
"The name is foul," I mumbled. "But it's the best drink ever. I always have one of those when I go out."
"Meaning, you're not gonna have your last one any time soon," With that cool ease he always had, Peter put his briefcase on my desk, leaning over my computer-- he knew that'd have me clicking out of whatever I had been staring at previously with anxious fervour. Chuckling, he shook his head. "Seems you've really let loose with bossman away."
Yeah... if only Mr. Godfrey would come back and pull at my reins again.
"That's slander," I muttered, minimizing my inbox. "I've been nothing but responsible. I'm a really darn good secretary, believe it or not."
Peter raised both eyebrows, clearly amused by my mantra as he pointed to my scalp. "Uh-huh. That desk-shaped dent on your forehead would like a word,"
I glared at him and pressed a palm to the tender spot. "Dramatic expression of productivity," I mumbled. As much as I loved visits from Peter, I felt like too much of a mess to keep up with the banter-- my hangover was ripping me apart, limb by limb. I softened my gaze, rounding out my eyes in hopes of sympathy, so as not to sound too harsh; "Did you need anything, Peter? I'm drowning in work here, and my head is pounding, I'm-- I'm sorry."
Peter tapped his knuckle gently on the corner of my desk, then hesitated; "Actually, uh... there was something I was gonna ask you,"
"Please don't be about tech support. I'm one migraine away from throwing my monitor out the window,"
He laughed; "No, not tech support. It's, um... about the banquet."
I blinked-- huh?
"You know, the one on Sunday?" he quickly added, stuffing his hands back into his pockets like he regretted taking them out in the first place. "Mr. Godfrey's annual charity... whatever. Doubt he cares about the cause, but it's an excuse for everyone to get drunk on company money. Champagne, string quartets, awkward company small talk.... All very classy, very terrifying."
"Right," I breathed. My stomach clenched, and not from the hangover this time. Something in me moved, and it wasn't puke; I suddenly felt unimaginably warm. Was this really happening?
Peter scratched the back of his neck. "I wasn't sure if you were going, but I thought maybe, if you didn't have plans?-- or if you didn't want to go alone, or, like-- we could, I don't know, go together?" He rushed in to fill the second of silence that followed, not daring to let me hesitate; "Not, like, go go. Just-- go as, you know, not-alone people? Coworkers. Who dress up. And pretend to be functioning adults."
My lips parted as my mind buzzed; Mr. Godfrey was still in Geneva. Still silent. Still a fucking ghost. Was he even going to this banquet? He was still going to be in Geneva by Sunday, right? Yeah, he wasn't going to attend, then. What could be the harm?
Or, actually... there could be a lot of harm.
To my ass, specifically.
Just the thought of Mr. Godfrey storming back from Geneva after finding out that I had accepted the invitation from Peter, all broody and dark, jealous even, made my cheeks burn. I wondered what he'd do; he'd definitely spank me raw. Tell me how I was his submissive, his secretary, how he didn't like sharing. His big, rough hands would leave a large, pink, stinging mark, before he'd proceed to dip his fingers into me, easing them in one by one, pumping the shame of my actions deeper into me as he'd tell me how sick I was for even thinking I could get away with this.
But back in real life, I realized a bit too late that Peter might've misinterpreted my blushing, and the tongue-tied silence. I looked blissed out right now, didn't I?
He was still smiling that soft, hopeful smile that made my chest tighten with guilt; "No pressure. Just thought I'd ask. You know where to find me when you decide,"
"Okay," I breathed, swallowing hard as I continued staring at the way too hot paralegal in front of me-- were all the people in this office hot? Seemingly so. "It sounds really nice, Peter, but I don't even know if I'm free Sunday night, I might have plans with--"
"Sure, sure," Peter said, that charming smirk of his returning; something told me he was convinced he had secured me nonetheless. With that same classy, cool ease, he backed away, putting his hands in the air; "Think about it. Or don't. It might be a no-brainer when you get some water into your system."
Then, with secure steps, and that warm twinkle in his brown eyes that I secretly adored, Peter walked off down the hall with a confident stride, bag in hand.
The moment he disappeared around the corner, the warmth in my belly bloomed, giddy and low, a little pulse between my thighs I couldn't stop; I would've, had I had the permission. Fucking freak.
And for a split second, the idea of going to the banquet with Peter thrilled me.
But then, I imagined Mr. Godfrey walking into the room with that inhuman grace and sharp suit and catching me at Peter's side-- my stomach flipped.
No, it turned.
"Oh no," I muttered, gagging, hand flying to my mouth; I yanked the trash bin from under my desk and heaved into it. The sour burn of alcohol and existential shame hit my nose all at once, and I gagged again.
When I was finally sure there was nothing left in me but regret and stomach acid, I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand, panting, eyes watering. God, that was undignified. I needed to get rid of this thing, this trash bag of humiliation, before someone came sniffing around. Peter might've walked off looking suave, but if he doubled back and caught me hunched over like some hungover troll in a pencil skirt? No. No fucking way. Over my dead, spanked body.
The ladies' room was too far away. The kitchenette was too risky. I blinked through the fluorescent haze, heart pounding in my ears-- then, like a beacon from the divine, my gaze landed on his door.
Mr. Godfrey's office.
I knew a cleaning lady was coming there in about twenty minutes-- if I stuffed my little mishap in his trash, then I wouldn't be caught red-handed with it! Genius. So, clutching the top of the lined trash bag like a biohazard, I slid out of my seat, pulse hammering as I tiptoed toward the forbidden door.
Mr. Godfrey's chair sat in perfect alignment behind his desk, screen dark, blinds half-shut. The lingering scent of his expensive cologne remained in the room, and I let out a half-sigh as I closed the door behind me, engulfing myself in the sensations I had missed. Then, snapping out of it, I crossed the room fast, knelt by the trash can beside his desk, and tucked the bag of vomit inside.
Gone. Buried. Out of sight.
Yet... I wasn't.
A loud pling came from Mr. Godfrey's computer, and I let out a horrified squeak as I slammed my head into the back of the desk. "Fuck!" I hissed, hand flying to my scalp. My heart thrashed against my ribs like it wanted out, and I whipped my head over the edge, eyes wide, to face the glowing screen of Mr. Godfrey's monitor, which had lit up with a single, new email.
Sent to... himself?
I got closer, skimming the top part of the mail;
From: Roman Godfrey
Subject: Re: Being Stupid
Dear secretary,
If you are reading this, you are more predictable than I thought. Did you really think you could sneak in here without me getting an alert? Nasty little girl, snooping around where you do not belong.
Now, sit down. Legs crossed. Palms flat against the desk.
My breath caught, trembling, frozen somewhere between terror and a rush of heat that settled thick and low between my legs. I backed away slowly from the desk like it was wired to explode.
He knew.
Mr. Godfrey knew I'd come in here (probably not for the reason he'd have thought, though). He had set this up. Not only was I busted-- he had baited me. Something about that made my throat dry, yet a small smile spread across my lips. This was beyond hot. He knew me so well that he was sending scheduled mails to himself, knowing I'd read it. Holy fuck.
With burning cheeks, I sat down, crossed my legs, and placed my palms flat against the desk; there was something so deeply satisfying about being bossed around like this. God, how I had missed it.
My eyes skimmed the time it had originally been sent in my timezone; 07:32. Mr. Godfrey hadn't been ignoring me-- he had waited for me. Had he timed it with the alarm going off in his office? Whenever someone neared the desk? Risky. Hot. Pressing my thighs together, making myself comfortable (the best way I knew how), I proceeded to read the rest of the mail.
Secondly— what the fuck did I just read?
A good secretary would not drunk-email her employer from the back of a cab while slandering global finance and confessing to three (four?) pornstar martinis. A good secretary would not admit, in writing, to being a liability, nor would she make vague, possibly actionable comments about her predecessor and the HR department.
I have read your email three times. Once at the hotel bar. Once in the elevator. And once again this morning, against my better judgment, in a boardroom while a Swiss man with an unfortunate moustache explained cryptocurrency regulation. I have no idea what he said. That is on you.
You are lucky I like chaos. You are lucky that I like the look of you in your little skirts in the morning. However, next time you decide to fall apart, do it in person, so I can deal with you accordingly. Also, the drink is called a pornstar martini— it can never be "cutesy", you fucking gremlin.
Also, you are not a good secretary. I am going to keep you, though.
PS: I will bring something back. However, if you ever ask for something that way again, I will indeed be cruel, and not in the way I know you like.
PSPS: Cum before you leave.
Entertained,
Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.
And you best believe I did-- legs crossed, palms flat against the desk.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
After a really long day, I had spent some time in bed reading my beloved Forbes interview over and over, tracing the outline of Mr. Godfrey's nose and side profile before slowly nodding off. Sleep wrapped around me like a warm duvet, and I was sure I fell asleep smiling-- Mr. Godfrey hadn't fired me. Mr. Godfrey might even... like me?
But when I was abruptly awoken by the loud buzzing of my phone, I tapped around my pillow to find it, and I realized I had drooled down onto the fabric-- I blamed that on the dream I just had, where Mr. Godfrey had told me to suck his cock beneath his desk. One day. One glorious day.
I blinked at the screen when I finally found it. Unknown number, international code; +41, Switzerland.
My stomach dropped-- Geneva.
I sat up with a squeal, the room spinning for a moment as the last wisps of sleep clawed at my brain. Smacking my cheek once, twice, trying to snap out of the rush of adrenaline that shot through me, I answered the call; "Hello?"
I knew who it was. Of course this was him. Who else would dare to call me at two in the morning? Still, as every CEO probably did, he went the polite route with me. "This is Roman Godfrey speaking,"
Prick. Now that he wasn't here to see me, I allowed myself to roll my eyes, suppressing a laugh at the predictability. "I know, sir," I mumbled, embarrassingly hoarse. This was beyond exciting-- what did he want? I didn't care. He was here. I could hear his voice again. He was here.
There was a pause; the kind that crackled with suspense. Would he say something about me being a smartass? Would he command me to fling myself out of my window now? I might've even complied if he did. "You sound terrible," Mr. Godfrey eventually said. "Are you sick?"
A sick fuck, perhaps, as he had so kindly diagnosed me before, but-- "No, sir," I croaked, flinging my duvets off of me as if that would help me think straighter. My legs were tangled in it, my shirt stuck to the back of my thigh from sweat. "Just tired. You, uh... woke me up."
"Mm. It's nearly nine here,"
Of course it was. Of course he would sound wide awake, clear-headed, as if he'd just stepped out of a glacier-fed shower and into a designer suit, and of course he had no remorse for my state. "I would've taken you to be the type to be up all night," Mr. Godfrey continued. "Have I caught you fixing your sleep schedule?"
Nah, you actually just caught me in the middle of gagging on your cock. "I-- no. I was just... reading,"
"Reading?" he echoed.
"Reading, sir, I just started this one called--"
"Oh, I don't want to know," Mr. Godfrey huffed. "I just need you to send over the LVMH file. I don't have it on my hard drive here, and I'm meeting Bernard soon."
I scrambled out of bed and grabbed my laptop off the floor; I had to contain a sharp gasp when I opened it. Why the fuck had I not closed this tab before I went to sleep? It had frozen on a video I had dug into the depths of PornHub to find, in the category of men wearing suits-- I needed to get this out of my grid, stat. "The LVMH file... uh, yes, one second, sir,"
As I typed in my password with shaky fingers, the only sounds between us were the soft tapping of my keyboard and the hum of something muffled on his end. Was that... a news anchor? A coffee machine? The shuffle of hotel slippers over plush carpeting?
But then, it hit me; I adjusted my phone between my shoulder and ear. "Sorry, sir, did you-- did you mean Bernard Arnault?"
Mr. Godfrey let out a small, humourless chuckle; "I didn't realize you were such a fan,"
"I'm not a fan, I just-- I mean, I know who he is. Obviously," I pulled the file from my drive, trying not to sound as shocked as I felt. "He's like... luxury fashion royalty. And you're just-- meeting him? Casually? In a hotel?"
"Yes," Mr. Godfrey replied, the warning in it unmistakable. "And now you're delaying it."
I swallowed down my instinct to keep digging, to ask which one of his suits he'd be wearing to this meeting (so I could picture it for later, innocent purposes), and instead, I clicked send.
"Done," I mumbled.
I could still hear the faint background noise-- definitely a hotel room, definitely a coffee machine. "Good girl," Mr. Godfrey murmured.
Fuck, how I had missed him.
But despite me having fulfilled all my tasks, he... he didn't hang up, like I had expected him to. Didn't he have a meeting to get to? Instead, a click of porcelain, a rustle. "You included the updated graphs from Friday's briefing?"
I blinked. "Yes. Of course," I checked, triple-checked, just in case; "Slide twelve, sir."
Another pause. "You corrected the typo in the Q2 earnings summary?"
Oh... So he was stalling too?
"Yes," I murmured, biting down on my growing smile. Couldn't do anything about my blush, though. "Changed the wordings here and there, and the margin line graph was widened, too."
"Good," Mr. Godfrey said, but it came slower this time. "You don't usually miss things... Although it seems you've missed me, based on your little email."
Oh no.
I felt heat flood every part of me as my heart stopped; this was horrifying. "Sir, I... I sincerely apologize," I breathed, pressing my palm against my temple to soothe the pounding of my head. "I really, really-- I'm so sorry. I should go."
"Should you?" Mr. Godfrey's voice felt like a siren call-- warm, low, alluring, yet threatening. "No, I get it actually. You must've had a lot to drink to send me that email."
Why couldn't the ground swallow me whole? Judging by his tone and the sprinkles of amusement in it, I allowed myself to groan out loud, falling with my back to the bed again. "I'm so sorry, sir," I mumbled, tossing and turning. "Thank you for not... firing me."
"Now, why would I fire you?" Mr. Godfrey chimed in, probably cocking his head. "You mentioned pornstars, capitalism, and my bourbon preference in a single email. I should probably give you a raise, 'cause I haven't seen this level of compelling writing since Trump wrote me that he wanted to buy the company."
"I was joking--" My brows drew together; "Wait, what?"
"Were you?" Mr. Godfrey's voice dipped lower, ignoring that last part. "Because you also said you'd rather have my cruelty than my silence. That didn't sound like a joke."
"Sir, is the President buying the company?!"
"That's not the--"
"I will not work as his secretary, I refuse! I quit if that's how it is!"
Mr. Godfrey let out a scoff, which sounded more like a laugh; "Don't worry. I told him no," he murmured. "The company is mine, and so are you."
My breath caught, and I sat up in my bed again, wide-eyed and sprouting like a rose. So are you. So are you. So are you. My ears perked up, and my free hand grabbed the duvet like it'd save me from the way his words wrecked my brain, gigabyte by gigabyte.
Breathless, my answer fell out without a second thought; "Come back soon,"
Mr. Godfrey let the silence stretch, like he enjoyed hearing me flounder in it. I imagined him there, sleeves rolled up, shirt half-buttoned, sitting on the edge of a luxury hotel chair with that lazy, cold smirk he always wore when he knew he had the upper hand. "Contain yourself, now,"
"Don't wanna,"
"Oh, is that right?"
"Why should I contain myself?"
"Because I said so,"
"Yeah, but you're in Geneva," I whined. "What are you gonna do, huh?"
... Bad move.
Bad fucking move. Don't snark, don't snark, don't be a brat, don't talk back, don't, don't, bad fucking move, bad move.
Mr. Godfrey didn't answer at first, but then he... laughed? It wasn't a warm laugh, definitely not one that let me off the hook; it was low, breathy, and ominous, like smoke under a door, like something you don't hear until it's too late. I could practically feel it slinking through the speaker, curling around my throat like a rough, calloused hand.
And I knew, knew, I was fucked. My body had frozen, spasmed up probably-- this was that kind of stillness that only meant one thing with him; he was deciding what to do with me.
Then, just when I thought he might let it go, just when I started convincing myself I hadn't poked the bear--
"Distance won't keep you safe," he murmured. "I'll show you what I can do."
Click.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
I had asked for cruelty, and I had gotten it.
For about forty hours, Mr. Godfrey completely vanished. He was nowhere to be found at the scheduled meeting with the logistics department, I was unable to reach him when Dr. Pryce slithered up from his dungeon (or wherever he came from) to discuss something with him, and he was completely off the grid all together.
I scoured the internet for some sort of access to watch Mr. Godfrey give his speech in Geneva (was that today?), wondering whether it was some sort of Ted talk-like arrangement on YouTube, yet nothing. What I managed to find was password-encrypted, walled off from the rest of the peasants in the world-- assholes.
This was hell.
One day. One day, and fifteen hours. It was three o'clock on a Friday, now. I hadn't heard from him since Wednesday morning/night. Where was he? What was he doing?
Sulking and beyond depressed, I clicked the snake on my screen, watching it eat the red apples one after the other. Life was so boring without Mr. Godfrey; I hated how I had come to depend on him to have a good mood. If only he'd appear, spank the hell out of me for snarking, and then jerk off on me again, I'd feel fine. He could even cum in my mouth this time, I'd take it. I'd swallow. I hadn't swallowed before, though, but I could try? I bet he tasted like nothing in particular-- then again, Mr. Godfrey was an avid smoker, so wouldn't it have some traces of that? Would I get nicotine shock from his semen? Gosh, I hoped not. Still, I'd swallow. I'd do it. I'm a good secretary.
"I'm a good secretary," I echoed out loud, whispering it under my breath, wondering whether to reach out to Mr. Godfrey again. No, that'd be pathetic, right? That'd be the most disgusting, filthy, pathetic thing, and I wouldn't sink down to that level, not again. Not when he was pulling this crap on me, not in the middle of our emotional warfare. Did he get a kick out of this? Did he get a kick out of... not talking to me?
Oh no...
Did he like not talking to me?
Maybe he enjoyed this. Maybe this was the perfect opportunity to get away from his horny secretary who wanted to do nothing more than hump his shoe and get spanked in his office. Maybe he went to Geneva to get away from me? Maybe he hated me?
Groaning, I sat back in my chair, clicking out of snake, and that was when I got a new mail from someone who probably had never sent a mail before. I couldn't imagine that she even sat behind a PC to do this; she loved that darn pink phone too much.
From: Letha Godfrey
Subject: Familiar Cunts (Cunty!!)
hey girl!!
how's work? hopefully you're rlly busy so you won't see this immediately, but... I thought it'd be best if you heard this from me. or, found it out through me, ig? anyway, you seemed really down the last time I saw you because of my dickhead cousin, and I'm sorry to be proven right about this, but I think you've got to see this...
BUTTT for your information, Barty (yes we r talking again, big dick alert) has some friends I could introduce you to if you're up for a distraction!! god knows you'll need it
sending the link here, I know it's Daily Mail, I knowww it's trash, but they've got pictures and... ugh yeah, I'm sorry about this
https:///www.dailymail.co.us/celebritynews/article-69420/roman-godfrey-spotted-partying-at-supermodel-penthouse-in-Switzerland.httml
I'm really sorry:(( I have tequila at my place, come over after work<3333
smooches and hugs,
Letha
Sent From My iPhone
I clicked out of the email, my heart already dropping, heavy and stupid in my chest like it knew what was coming. The link hovered in front of me, burning through every second that I hesitated, and I--
Of course I clicked it. I'm not a fucking maniac.
The page loaded fast, too fast, and I felt it in my throat, in my hands, in the tips of my fingers; I was about to have a heart attack wasn't I?
There he was-- Roman Godfrey, half-lit by flashing cameras and city lights, standing on the balcony of a penthouse that probably cost more than my soul. Shirt half-open, hair tousled in that deliberate way that I hadn't seen before, one hand sunk lazily into the pocket of his slacks while the other held a glass of something visibly expensive.
And the girls... the fucking girls.
In the next picture beneath this one, he was joined by two of them. One was pressed to his side like she belonged there, laughing into his shoulder, and the other tucked beneath his arm, tipping her head back in a way that made it look like he was hers.
I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until it left me in a shaky rush; fuck these damn supermodels. I so sincerely hoped he hadn't done just that, but... I wasn't stupid,
My jaw locked as I scrolled down. There were more photos, many I scrolled past, many I couldn't bring myself to look at. Mr. Godfrey was smiling, actually smiling, at these models, and it wasn't that clipped, managerial half-smirk I was used to seeing from him; this was the kind of grin that was meant to charm, to put on a show.
The worst photo was probably the one where he had wrapped his arm around a tall blonde, pulling her closer to him as he whispered something into her ear, his lips visibly touching her shell-- but just as I thought it couldn't get worse, the next photo practically shot a bullet straight through my forehead.
Because in the next photo?
Mr. Godfrey was looking directly into the camera-- this was him saying gotcha.
I jolted away from the screen, clicking out of the article as I gripped my desk with all my strength; this was my punishment. This. I wasn't allowed to touch him, yet the models could. I wasn't allowed to touch him. They were. They were supermodels-- I wasn't.
I gagged. I gagged, over and over, until I was convinced I'd throw up in my bin all over again.
Roman Godfrey didn't party by accident; he knew how to get away from the paparazzi, and he also knew how to get caught. He knew I'd see this. He knew. He fucking knew.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until my sockets ached, then dragged them down my face. I sat there in the silence of my office, chest tight, stomach rolling, mascara probably halfway down my cheeks as the words rolled through my head; he wanted me to suffer.
Well. I could do that.
Or, I could do something else.
I smoothed my skirt as I got up, combed my fingers through my hair, and reapplied a touch of balm to my lips as I passed my reflection in the glass-- just enough to look sane, just enough to look like this wasn't a declaration of war.
But it was.
This was war, and Mr. Godfrey had just shot Franz Ferdinand of fucking Austria.
Rolling in my tanks, preparing the army for combat, I knocked on Peter's door four times, just as I knew a certain OCD freak would've hated it.
The door opened a few seconds later. Peter stood there, backlit by his desk lamp, button-up sleeves rolled to his elbows, and with his box of snus in one hand. Clearly, I had caught him in the middle of important business. He looked like he had been working on something complicated, probably dense, probably foreign, but his expression shifted as soon as he saw me, his eyes rounding out with curiosity; "Well, if it isn't the fugitive," he murmured, leaning against his doorframe as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Running from the guillotine again?"
"Yeah," I breathed. It was impossible not to smile; Peter was the only fucking nice person in this office, apparently. "They're trying to hang me for something completely unreasonable,"
"What did you do this time, kid? Spit it out,"
"Nothing crazy. I stole a loaf of bread,"
With that, Peter snorted; "Good one,"
"And you, mister,just gave away that you're caught up on musicals," Oh, how I hoped my humour would distract him from noticing my real mood. "Anyway, before I'm taken back to my certain death, I wanted to say yes."
Peter blinked; "Yes?"
"Yes, I want to go with you,"
"To the... banquet?"
"Yes,"
He inhaled sharply, scanning me; he didn't ask why. He didn't need to, and I adored that about him-- how he always seemed to know when to speak and when not to. Lawyer. Peter stepped back, opening the door wider; "Come in," he murmured, grinning. "We'll go over the details."
I walked past him, spine straight, every inch of me rehearsing poise, but inside, something bitter and electric surged like a storm; I was going to look beautiful. I was going to smile all night, and Mr. Godfrey was going to hear about it from every loser in this goddamn office.
He wanted to punish me?
Fucking bite me.
(a/n: omfg... is it rlly a kingkat fic without some sort of prom or banquet tho?? nope. U R NOT READY. and have I finally written Letha as a supportive sweetheart? YESSSS I HAVE BEEN WAITING!!! thank you so much for all the love, you are too kind, and I LOVE YOU, MWAH<333)
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