The Intern

Hi Readers! This is my entry into the Literotica 2021 On The Job Writers' Challenge. Please let me know what you think (because that helps me get better as a writer, especially when you're specific about what worked and didn't work) and make sure to vote! Thanks!

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Look, I will readily admit that I have made some questionable life choices in my brief time on Earth, and that I struggle with a serious lack of impulse control, but other than that, how could I have known that I was grabbing the ass of the company's Chief Financial Officer in that elevator... and as for the rest of it, who would even believe me?

I'm Gillian. Like the actress Gillian Anderson. My parents loved this show called The X-Files and Gillian Anderson was the redhead leading lady that was accomplished, disciplined, and rational in the face of all things... even love and aliens. I'm not like that. I mean, I'm rational to a fault, but not accomplished or disciplined. I finished high school, kind of... I attended 6 high schools, in the course of living with 2 different relatives and in 4 foster homes. After six high schools, I just ghosted and got my GED at age 16. High school just wasn't right for me.

It's good to know when something just isn't right for you. It makes it a lot easier to part ways. High school and I parted ways. We had "irreconcilable differences" as they say, but that's not to say that there wasn't love there, once upon a time. High schools loved taking credit for my test scores. They loved it so much, they tested me again and again, applying for more money for their "gifted" programs each time. Not that I ever got the chance to go to any of those gifted programs, mind you. The judicial system and other correctional services had programs they thought I should attend instead. Community service was a better teacher for me than high school. It taught me that I needed to stay out of trouble or I would be seriously bored. That's some solid life advice, right there.

My parents taught me the other bit of advice that stuck with me, and that is: Life is too fucking short. They didn't get much of a chance to teach me more than that, so I've tried to do what I could with it. It became the introduction to all the other things I learned the hard way in life. Life is short: don't spend it bored. Life is short: don't choose your battles, because the ones you don't fight will choose you over and over again. Life is short: don't let anyone take care of you. I think about that last one a lot.

So, what do you do with a GED and a less-than-charming personality? For me, that's what Gladys decides. Gladys Fernbridge is the executor of the trust that was set up to take care of me. Unless I want to live out of my car, I need my trust fund money. My lack of a college degree, my low tolerance for boredom, and my inability to re-phrase the word "bullshit" before it comes out of my mouth, has made it nearly impossible for any employer to give me money in return for giving them part of my short life. Frankly, I don't blame them. Their lives are short, too.

Gladys' life hasn't been short, though. Despite aging to the point of looking like one of those gnarly trees that cling to life on the side of a windy cliff out of sheer stubbornness, Gladys still totters around her file-stacked office, her flinty eyes looking through them for lost souls to save. It was my blessing and curse that Gladys thought my file had a soul crying out to be saved instead of a quick and easy auto-pay, direct deposit setup. For the record, I still maintain that it's also her fault that I grabbed the Chief Financial Officer's ass.

It was on one of my weekly trips to her office that Gladys set me on my course toward ass-grabbing destruction. As I pushed the door to her office partially open, tipping over a pile of files, I heard Gladys chewing out someone at the local probate office. She waved me in and pointed to the one spot on her desk that was not covered with files or pictures of her soul-saving victims and their families -- the Señor Frog's coaster on her desk where I was to put her cup of chamomile tea, my customary bribe to put her in the mood to give me more control over my life.

As Gladys informed the probate office person on the phone exactly what type of bullshit their explanation for the delay of her client's funds was, she nudged her crystal candy dish toward me. I looked into it without hope. Good-n-Plenty. The entire dish was filled with those disgusting pink or white capsule-looking candy-coated black licorice bits. I looked up at her without amusement and she laughed, covering the mic on her phone with her hand. Apparently, the probate official didn't deserve to hear her sounding anything other than utterly terrifying. How many times had I told her where the mute button was? Too many to count.

She finished her call by telling the probate officer something rude about his mother and suggested that he not make her come down there in person because her bunions were acting up and then he'd have to see her in a bad mood. She ended the call, took a few candies and began chewing them while looking me over.

I put one foot up on my ratty chair and hugged my knee. "You know that 90% of the world's licorice is used in the production of cigarettes? Something they put into them to make the smoke sweeter. Those Good-n-Plenty things you offer people are agents of evil," I said, seeing her shrewd grey eyes take in my weight, my complexion, my clothes, my split ends, my lack of manicure, and my micro-expressions.

"That's one way of looking at it. On the other hand, maybe these were the good ones... the 10% of the licorice souls worth saving from their evil fate," she replied without moving her eyes from me.

"Maybe you didn't save them at all. Maybe they're still evil. I mean, if they weren't evil, they wouldn't need the lie of a candy coating... of course without the candy coating, they'd look like rat turds. You got something against direct deposit?" I asked, beginning our usual bout.

"Yes. You need social interaction, Gil," she said, mispronouncing my name because she knew it drove me nuts. "When I give you a paper check, you put on clothes and makeup, you try to do your hair, you come to see me, you talk to the people at the coffee shop, and you go to the bank and flirt with someone with a job for once," she said, handing me a check. "It's good for you."

"I don't go to the bank... nobody goes to the bank anymore. The only people going to the bank nowadays are robbing it... and frankly most bank robbers do that online now, too. And checks? They just make it easier for the robbers, giving away your name, address and bank account number for free... better to use a credit card and pay it off every month. At least then you get a good credit rating. Checks don't do squat for your credit rating. To think you're responsible for my money," I growled, taking a picture of the check and depositing it into my account with my phone and showing her the completed deposit on the screen.

"You dating anyone, yet?" she asked.

"Yeah, an intimate massager... purple one. Multiple settings. Gets the job done."

"I thought as much. Tell you what, I'll set you up for direct deposit. You can come in once a month. I'll even put some of those Dove chocolates with the inspirational sayings inside the wrapper in the candy dish... but you gotta do something for me." She held out a post-it note stuck to the end of her finger with a name and address written on it. "Internship. Unpaid. For direct deposit, I want you to keep the job for a month. Just so you know you can keep a job that long. You keep it for six months, I won't ask for your receipts anymore. You keep it for a year... I'll give you control over the trust."

"Control, like... like it's mine?" I breathed.

"Yeah, like it's yours. Your parents gave me the power to transfer the trust to you when I determine that you're responsible enough to handle it. You're 23 and you've had some rough times, kid, but you got through them. You're smarter than most of the people I've ever met, and other than having bicycle breaks for that Ferrari engine in your head, there's nothing wrong with you. You just need to see it for yourself. So whadda ya say?" she said, poking through the candy dish and fishing out several of the white ones... as if they somehow tasted better than the other candy-coated rat droppings.

"A year?" I repeated.

"A year," she answered.

I thought about it. I really didn't have anything to lose, other than a year of life. If I did it, I'd gain a lot more control over my life, more privacy. I could get away from people. I didn't mind reporting to Gladys, but who knows who would take over the executor job after she decided to hang up her Good-n-Plenty bowl and go enjoy her retirement drinking something harder than chamomile tea at Señor Frog's. I might never get this chance again.

I took the slip off the tip of her finger and nervously patted my fingertips along the sticky part. A year. How hard could it be?

Six weeks later, I still had a job when I entered the elevator at the company whose name I just couldn't seem to get right unless I was looking straight at it. Something dignified and credible involving water and rocks in some form. The company didn't have anything to do with water or rocks, of course. I honestly didn't know what they did, other than have me order food and set it up in conference rooms. The HR lady told me what they did when I started, but I honestly didn't give a damn. I just needed to get through the year.

So, there I was at the back of the elevator, stretching my shoulders and getting the blood back into my fingers after putting down the overstuffed bags of food that I'd ordered for an executive conference room, when a tall group of successful hairstyles and expensive suits got on. I knew I would be delivering the food to the C-suite that day, so I had dressed up as nicely as my budget allowed: black pumps, a snug black pencil skirt and a fluffy, white, scoop-neck angora sweater. I loved that sweater. As a rule, I didn't buy white things because I spill stuff, like, all the time. I only meant to pet the fuzzy, thick, yet light sweater once at the store, but that was all it took to make it jump into a bag and follow me home.

At the next floor, the size of the group waiting to get in caused everyone to back up to make room. That was when the tall too-much-product hairstyle guy stepped back onto my toe. I squeaked, disguised a work-inappropriate word through my clenched jaw and doubled over in pain. The hair product guy jumped in surprise that someone was behind him and turned, painfully elbowing me in the boob and spilling his coffee on my fuzzy white sweater. This was probably when I was closest to losing my job and my chance at financial freedom by castrating the hair product guy with a plastic knife and a bagel, but then I felt a hand on my other arm, steadying me.

"Are you all right?" the hand owner above me asked, calming me almost against my will. I mumbled something that wouldn't get me fired, grabbed a handful of napkins from the bag, and began wiping the coffee off myself. When I stood back up, the calming guy released my arm and scanned my face. Then his eyes floated downward, but weirdly, not to my boobs. He looked at my ID badge -- a picture of me looking pissed that I had to wear a tag with my name and a number on it like I was a tranquilized bear. Then the calming guy nodded once at me and turned back to the doors. The hair product guy was still looking down at me, though... actually he was looking at the bit of my bra that was showing where the neckline had been pulled aside with my wiping his coffee off my sweater. I raised an eyebrow at him and he mouthed the word "sorry" before turning back to the doors.

To be honest, I wasn't that mad at hair product guy. Boobs and boob accessories are like magnets to guys like him. I was actually mad at the guy who calmed me down. Here, I had a perfectly good excuse to blow off some six-week-old steam, and Calming Guy just ruined it. My favorite sweater! I'd been so careful with it! Not that any of these guys knew what it was to need to be careful with clothes... they went through Italian suits like they were nothing. By the impeccable cut, I guessed that Calming Guy was wearing an Ermenegildo Zegna. I reached out and took the end of his jacket, rubbing the buttery wool between my fingers... yup, definitely Zegna.

For some reason, I didn't let go of the jacket, but instead let the backs of my fingers brush against the back of Calming Guy's pants. How many guys today had petted the arm my sweater and then "accidentally" brushed the side of my breast, enjoying the feel of my firm, yet soft, flesh against their fingers. At some point, I was no longer brushing against the wool pants, but unthinkingly caressing and squeezing the relaxed muscle of Calming Guy's toned butt, when he slowly turned around to look at me with an absolutely flabbergasted look on his face. Fuuuuuck... why do I have to touch everything before thinking? Covering for my blatant fondling, I promptly brushed off his pants, nodded at him once, picked up the bags of bagels, and excused myself from the elevator on the next floor.

Racing up five floors in pumps with two bags of bagels and a coffee tap isn't a picnic, let me tell you. The food had come later than expected, and the meeting had just begun when I darted quietly into the conference room and put out the spread. I was at the door and just about to escape when, "Thank you, Gillian. Would you wait in my office, please? It's right next door," a vaguely familiar voice called above the murmur of the rest of the room. Fuuuuuuuuuck.

Swallowing, I turned and nodded deferentially to Calming Guy who was standing at the end of the table near the flat screen showing a power point slide. As the door to the conference room closed, I considered just making a break for it, but I could see that Calming Guy was watching me through the glass walls of the room. I stood there a while, considering various ways to end my life, when my eyes drifted back up to where Calming Guy was still watching me. With raised eyebrows, he nudged his head in the direction of his office and continued with his presentation. For reasons not entirely clear to me, I turned and went in the direction he indicated.

A sign outside the door of the office next to the conference room read: Gregory Forrester, Chief Financial Officer. Fuuuuuuuck. I was holding the handle of the door, but second thoughts had me ready to turn around and give up on the whole thing, when I heard a woman's voice behind me. "That's Mr. Forrester's office, Miss. Can I help you find something?" A keen-eyed woman in her 50's stood a little too close for comfort behind me.

"H-he asked me to wait in his office," I said, yanking my hand back from the door like a criminal.

"Mr. Forrester? That doesn't sound like him," she said frowning, suspiciously looking down at my ID badge, then landing her disapproving glare on my sweater's coffee stains. "What did he want?"

Her tone was oh-so-helpful in connecting me with my inner bitch, so I replied in turn, "Ma'am, I'm just an intern. I don't get to ask that. He just told me to wait in his office, not argue with you," I growled.

"Don't touch anything," she said, with a skewering look of warning. She used her badge to unlock the door to the office and allowed me to enter, leaving the door open so she could watch me from her cubicle nearby. Once inside, I realized that I'd just argued my way into an office that I didn't want to enter in the first place. What was wrong with me?

The room was warm and sunny, with an entire wall of windows facing out onto the forest preserve area that abutted the building. I liked walking the trails through the woods during my lunches, and the view this guy had of it was spectacular. Despite the view, it was the walls of the office that demanded my attention. They looked like an art gallery, hung with prints of painting after painting. I was a little surprised that a CFO type of guy would decorate his office with prints of artwork rather than originals, but on closer inspection, I saw that beneath the glass of the frame, each print was actually a puzzle.

At the realization, I backed away from the walls to the center of the room where I could see them all. Covering the walls were hundreds of hours of time and detailed focus that he had displayed everywhere, carefully framed. I couldn't have been more intimidated if he'd had the usual ego wall of awards and diplomas from the Ivy league education that I was sure he also had. He had meticulously gone through hundreds of thousands of broken and nearly unidentifiable pieces of something beautiful and found where each one had its perfect fit. The man was utterly relentless... and he was proud of it. I'd just grabbed the ass of the anti-me.

I was just turning to bolt out of the madman's office when he came strolling in, closing the door behind him. "So..." he said, walking in long strides across the office to his desk. Turning, he looked at me with a calculating smile lurking in his puzzler's eyes, taking in every dip and curve of my shape. Seeming to come to a conclusion, he nodded and turned his back to me, opening a cabinet filled with neatly stacked dress shirts. He took the bottom one, checked the label, and closed the cabinet again.

Handing the shirt to me, he pointed to a door behind his desk. "You can change in there. Leave your sweater. Trudy will have it cleaned. Come back for it before you go today. You'll find mine big, but I think you'll enjoy it all the same... the shirt, that is," he said, already leaving the office in ground eating strides.

I opened my mouth, chewed on the wordless air for a moment, then closed it again. I had nothing. I also needed to masturbate. There's definitely something wrong with me.

I went through the door he indicated to find a simple, but elegant, executive bathroom. I had to pull out several square feet of cardboard and 5 million pins from the brand-new shirt before I was left with something wearable. I was almost late to bring more food to another conference room, so I whipped it on and left my sweater folded on the bathroom counter. He was right, his shirt was way too big for me, so I left it unbuttoned, rolled up the sleeves, then twisted and tucked the rest of it until it looked a little like a wrap v-neck blouse. I tried not to think of how the luxurious fabric felt as it brushed against my bare skin with every breath. I had no time to give myself three orgasms and begin to think like a normal person again. I had bagels to deliver.

I left the office, nodded to Trudy who glared at me with disapproval. "That's a Kamakura and you'll owe him $115.00 if you mess it up."

"He can garnish my pay," I mumbled as I ran to the elevators. I'd like to see Forrester get $115.00 worth of the "invaluable networking connections" and "irreplaceable first-hand business experience" that was supposed to compensate me instead of money, according to the HR lady. As I stood waiting for one of the doors to open, my eyes drifted to the glass wall of the conference room where I saw Forrester was now leaning back in a chair at the table, watching me with a slight smile.

Late that afternoon, I broke the land speed record bringing a bunch of roses back to the building so that the head of Marketing could stay married after working late on his kid's middle school conference day. Not that he was working. Unless you call rubbing your cock between your protegee's breasts in the supply room "working." Maybe you would call that "working." I don't know what you do for a living. Life is short: try not to assume things.