The Accountant

***

Monday morning came after a busy weekend: triple checking numbers of bogus tax returns, showing face at his employer's swanky club, examining his overseas accounts and fake passports. Chris was exhausted. But when the door buzzed at 8:45 a.m. with the security feed showing a teenage knockout waiting outside, he jumped to his feet and hustled to the door. After sweeping back his dark thick hair and smoothing out his tie, he opened the door . . . and promptly dropped his jaw.

Smiling sheepishly, the sexily dressed Ms. Davidson sauntered inside holding her purse. Chris closed the door, barely registering the automatic locks clacking, for his beating heart. Tammy Lyn turned and faced him with an expectant grin.

"So . . . what you think, Mr. Peters? I know you said skirts but..."

"Tammy Lyn..."

Chris was at a loss for words. The Tammy Lyn from last week was a beautiful young girl playing at being a woman. But now? She was a Fortune 500 CEO's secretary/mistress. Her plain brown hair was now up-styled in an attractive French Twist, which flaunted the beautiful features of her Rachel Bilson-like face. Her makeup was minimal like last time but more thorough, with black, fuller lashes that magnified her soft blue eyes. Her full lips were coated in a nude, wet-looking gloss.

But it was her outfit that had him properly speechless. A striped, long-sleeved, plum blouse with matching work pants.

"Fuuuck," he groaned.

The V-cut blouse clung to her flat stomach like a bandage and wrapped around her gravity-defying chest with a vacuum-like seal. But where the blouse held her perfectly, the work pants were perfection, showcasing her curvy hips and thighs and slim waist, and emphasized her hourglass figure. The pants, more like dark purple syrup than fabric, accentuating every inch of the 5'7" bombshell's shapely legs sitting above dark wine-colored peep-toe heels.

Wordlessly, Chris grasped her waist and urged her to turn around. She did—her heels turning slowly until the spikey stems showed. Tammy Lyn looked back over her shoulder, worrying her finger between her teeth. "I think my butt's too big for these pants; but Sara's mom said it's perfect for the office..." She searched his expression.

"Fuuuck," Chris groaned. He liked tits—liked legs, too—but he was an ass man through and through. He couldn't wait to see hers naked. "You look absolutely terrific, Tammy Lyn. Beautiful. The best-dressed secretary I've ever seen," he said, meaning every word.

Tammy Lyn beamed and rushed forward for a hug, slamming into him like warm dough, bringing with it an enticing, flowery perfume. Chris inhaled deeply while her surprisingly toned arms tightened around his neck. He couldn't enough of her ass, squeezing and rubbing it through the taut material. It was soft, plump, and perfectly molded. He was never one care about measurements. But he guessed hers was around 34D-24-40-ish. He was utterly and completely in love with her butt. They were squishy lumps of heaven. Thoroughly content, Chris clenched his eyes shut and sighed. She was just what he needed after a hellish weekend.

Holding her boss tight, Tammy Lyn was thrilled. Her mom and Gran nearly fainted when she told them the news. Four hundred week—maybe five later on if she did good enough. They were ecstatic. That she'd found work at all was a blessing: Tammy Lyn was sweet as sugar but, well, she didn't get much schoolin'. And times were such that nothing was said about a young girl working in the city. With three months of bills needin' paid and their one truck yawing like a worn-out mule, her Gran came right out with it: You keep that man happy, Tammy. Whatever it takes. Ain't no shame in it if he's your boss. Tammy Lyn nodded, though missing the subtext. Her mom started to speak but bit her lip.

But those looming dark clouds were pushed back over the weekend. Shopping with Sara and Sara's mom (those two were a mess!) lifted Tammy Lyn's spirits. Riding around town, looking in all the fancy shops—it was like a little vacation. And all the pretty clothes! Most were over budget but Sara's mom made a note of them, saying that when Tammy Lyn's boss saw the "utility" of having a well-dressed secretary, he'll up the amount, real quick.

Tammy Lyn rested her head on Mr. Peters' solid shoulder and sighed. He smelled nice. But another shopping spree!? She could only wish. But she didn't dare mention it like Sara's mom had suggested. Instead, she would focus on making him happy.

She was feeling guilty for wondering how much money he might give her next time, when she realized that he felt strangely stiff against her stomach. Had she hugged him for too long? He wasn't even patting her, his hand just holding her bum.

Panicking, Tammy Lyn leaned away. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Peters," she said apologetically. She had to act like a grownup and not a little girl. "I'll remember to be professional in the office."

Chris snapped himself to attention, smoothing down his tie while shaking the lust fog from his mind. "I'm glad you're taking your position seriously," he commented, watching her glow at the praise. "I can't do my job efficiently unless you do yours. Synergy—us working together." At her accepting expression, Chris continued, "In some workplaces, hugs and other forms of physical contact is encouraged to raise office moral."

He then went on to explain his hellish weekend: The tedious interviews, the late-night number crunching and file sorting (true)—all without a secretary. He had been so exhausted this morning; but amazingly, one hug from his talented secretary turned everything around. He was refreshed now, invigorated, prepared to face the day—hell, he felt like a new man and was ready to work gosh darnnit!

Tammy Lyn gazed into her boss's handsome face overwhelmed by a swirl of emotion. She could hardly believe her hug did all that. But his sexy green eyes seemed to sparkle, his face excited, like he could bush hog hay for hours. Goodness! It was the first day and she was already an . . . ass set?

Tammy Lyn let the thought slip away, and ignored, too, how fun his eyes and face was to look at—and that dark goatee! He was a nice man and nice men hated floozies. She had to keep him happy, like her Gran said . . . Besides, his ring finger had a shiny loop around it.

Chris, taking further steps to turn her into his office slut, furrowed his brow. He unclasped his suit jacket and stood assertively with his hands at his waist and announced, "We'll add hugs to your secretarial duties, Ms. Davidson." Tammy Lyn nodded empathetically, staring into his eyes, receptive to further instruction. Chris continued: "At least one per day, possibly more depending on our workload . . . Also, I'll be patting your behind from now on—whenever I deem fit. I want to remind you daily—hourly—that I'm behind you 100%. You support me, and I'll support you."

Tammy Lyn stared into her boss' warm eyes brimming with appreciation. He was like a dream come true. No one had ever made her feel so . . . good about herself. And who didn't like hugs and their bum patted? She smiled proudly and said one word. "Synergy."

Chris, taken aback somewhat, looked at her with a genuine smile that melted her core. He nodded. "Fuck yeah." Then raised his hand for a high-five. His secretary beamed with a wicked grin and slapped it full on. Their hands interlocked but neither were hasty to let go. Taking in the full measure of her cornflower-blue eyes—in certain lighting they almost looked blue ice—Chris said, "Ms. Davidson, I think I have myself the best secretary in the world." Tammy Lyn kneaded her lips before smiling warmly, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

***

Mr. Peters spent the rest of the morning familiarizing Ms. Davidson with the filing cabinets that were located inside his office. They formed a U around his desk and would offer a clear view of her curvy backside.

The two got on famously, developing a comfort level that allowed easy access into their personal spaces. Leaning over his busty secretary's shoulder at her desk, Chris was close enough to bury his face in her tits. And instead moving away, Tammy Lyn leaned closer, and either ignored his ogling or was unaware—as he was of the periodic glares given to his ring finger.

The orientation continued through the morning.

Tammy Lyn's head swelled when Chris pointed out that she had a gift for sorting files in alphabetical order. His hand hardly left her rump. This wasn't lost on Tammy Lyn, as each pat was psychological boost that raised her self-esteem. But as time went on, Tammy Lyn grew . . . suspect? Specious? No. Suspicious. What if he was patting her bum for some other reason? What if he was lying to her?

What if he was smacking her bum only to make her think she was doing a good job? You know, feeling sorry for her.

Tammy Lyn thought long and hard about that, then immediately thought it was the sweetest thing, ever. So what, if he was patting her bum more than she deserved? Good bosses stood behind their secretaries 100%!

At noon, Chris let her lunch for two hours. Having given her a key and acquainting her with the reinforced door, Chris left to deliver the monthly payoffs on behalf of his employer. While most money-launderers would see this as an unnecessary risk, the forward-thinking Chris Peters viewed meeting with politicians and members of law enforcement as savvy networking. Like elected officials, the criminal underworld had its terms and elections, too. Paradoxically, theirs were less corrupt, as smear campaigns and C-PACs held little to no sway. A smart businessman with ties to strategic officials could enjoy considerable influence, regardless of the administration—and if clever, wheel and deal and become his own C-PAC...

Chris had just a delivered a case of Château Pétrus ($4,000 a bottle) to the sheriff, when he received a call from his employer...

Chris made an abrupt U-turn and called the office—he would be returning late. Tammy Lyn answered on the first ring and in such a professional manner that he was stunned.

"It's a great day at Strategic Accounting, how may I help you? . . . Hello?"

"Ms. Davidson."

"Oh! Hello, Mr. Peters," Tammy Lyn beamed, her voice warming instantly. "A, Mr. Client, called a few minutes ago. I asked to take a message but he hung up."

"Yeah, he's a weird one. I might be late getting back. If so, you can quit at four. Just be sure to lock up, okay?"

"Quit?" Tammy Lyn asked, her voice weakening with worry. "Mr. Peters, it's only my first day. I know I can do better."

"What? Oh no, no, no, sweetie. Not 'quit.' I meant you can go home at, four, instead of, five."

"Oh . . ."

"And you're doing a wonderful job, Tammy Lyn. I'm surprised I haven't rubbed a hole in your pants yet."

". . . Do you mean that, sir? Do you really think I'm doing a good job? Really?"

"Of course, sweet—. You're doing a spectacular job, Ms. Davidson. And if you weren't, this conversation would sound a lot different. Remember, I run a tight ship."

"I know, sir, and thank you, sir. I'll be sure to lock up at four."

Chris ended call and allowed himself an inward smile. Things were going along faster than he had anticipated. Perhaps he could add blowjobs to Tammy Lyn's secretarial duties by the end of the week.

But now was the time to focus up. Chris put on his game face—hard, cold, giving away nothing. This was how one solicited a senator of the Underworld...

***

It was a little after three when Chris returned to the office. He opened the door and Tammy Lyn popped up from behind her desk like a nervous wife. Neither spoke as he crossed the well-furnished lobby to his office. Tammy Lyn picked at her fingers. She wanted to wrap her arms around his hard body and relax in his arms while he patted and squeezed her bum—as per her secretarial duty. But his cold, distant gaze froze her in place. He seemed upset about something, angry. She thought back to him telling her to quit at four. Maybe he meant what she'd thought he meant then changed his mind because he felt sorry for her. Maybe his mind was changing back. He barely even looked at her pretty outfit. Maybe he didn't like it anymore.

Chris unlocked the door to his office. The glass door was bullet proof and served as a two-way mirror allowing him to see into the lobby and also his secretary's left profile at her desk. Inside his office, he flipped open the globe in the corner which held a crystal decanter of fine scotch in its core. He plopped a spherical cube of ice in a tumbler then drowned it in amber gold.

At his desk, he reclined back in his chair and sipped fine scotch, watching his eighteen-year-old secretary flitter around her desk. The sweet girl was racking her little head for something to do. He loved the way her tits bounced in her blouse when she bent over her desk for something. She was pretty, petite, and voluptuous; but her fidgety put him edge and he turned away, taking an impressive sip from his glass. He'd rather her sit back with her legs crossed and file her nails—you know, like those busty blonde bombshells in those detective movies. He gazed up at the ceiling as the smooth burn of the liquor reached his stomach. He took another sip, trying to remember the name of that secretary from that Humphrey Bogart flick. Anything to take his mind off the shit he'd just seen.

"Fucking animals," he muttered.

He sucked the taste from his tongue, took another sip, then saw movement at the corner of his eye. Tammy Lyn was pacing around her desk, moving stuff around, picking with her nails. Yeah, she'd gotten a manicure, too. Chris had a feeling Sara's mom had aims to serve Tammy Lyn up to him on a platter—he made a mental note to compensate her. Which is a much nicer way to treat a woman than beating her senseless for a goddamned interview.

"I didn't even hire her for Christakes."

There was a knock at his door before Tammy Lyn stuck her head inside. "Mr. Peters?"

Chris raised his brow but she either didn't understand the gesture or ignored it. Not a complete stranger to the perplexities of ordinary people, he placated her. "There you are, Ms. Davidson, I was just about call you in here."

The instant smile on her face calmed him some, as did the sight of her hips and legs in motion. It was as if a someone had driven a rail-thin girl down the center of an hourglass.

Instead of taking one of the chairs in front of his desk, Tammy Lyn walked around, stopping at his right arm. She looked down at him with worried lips.

Chris sipped from his glass while patting a spot on his desk. "Have a seat."

It was Christmas of Tammy Lyn's face. She turned and backed palmed the edge of the desk then slid her bum atop it. To Chris's delight, she crossed her legs.

"I just wanted to tell you how much you impressed me today," he began. "The way you answered the phone when I called, I thought I was calling the White House." Tammy Lyn grinned and softly giggled, deafening some of the cries echoing inside his head. He sipped the last of his glass and said, "And I'm sorry for calling you 'sweetie' today. I don't promote the 'good ol' boy's club.'"

His words had the desired effect, and he watched Tammy Lyn's face glow. Having some of her confidence restored, the eager secretary now wanted the physical confirmation she'd grown accustomed too, which she presently missed. She saw his empty glass and hopped down from the desk.

"Do you want another, Mr. Peters?" she asked pointing a manicured nail at his glass. He did, and handed it over, she turned, taking her time, her bum rotating near his head like a slow roasting ham.

But to her dismay, Mr. Peters sighed and stared up at the ceiling. He looked like he was thinking of a way to fire her without hurting her feelings. Crestfallen, Tammy Lyn cupped the glass to her chest, meandering around the desk to the bar in the far-left corner. She didn't blink, afraid she would cry.

Meanwhile, Chris eyed his secretary's backside as she crossed in front of his desk. Just a perfect ass, her stylish pants displaying each flexing cheek as she walked. And she was going slow, giving him extra time to look.

That other chick had a nice big ass, too. But you'd expect that from an ex-stripper. Pretty girl, or would be again—once the bruising went down. Poor girl. She thought she could leave town then come back without going through the proper channels. A pretty little Puerto Rican. Chris shook his head. If he hadn't made that U-turn and floored it... If he had walked into that room one minute later...

"The poor girl," he whispered.

"Sir?"

Chris jerked, shaking the sordid images from his head. "Sorry, Ms. Davidson. Mind's a little out of it."

Tammy Lyn stood in front of his desk with his scotch, her big blue eyes staring as if he'd stolen her Christmas. He was about to reach across his desk for the glass when she came around, stopping right beside him as she handed him his drink. He thought she looked like she was waiting for something, for him to help her somehow... Then he took a monster sip.

"Is everything okay, Mr. Peters?" she asked, standing beside him.

He sighed, staring into the syrupy-brown liquor as he spun it around the ice. He couldn't place it. It wasn't the violence—he'd seen plenty. And it wasn't that it was a woman: they wanted equality—here you go. Then what was it?

"Hey, you can leave," he said, wanting to think. "There's not much more we can do today."

Tammy Lyn bit her thumbnail nervously, hanging out while he stared down at his glass. Standing on his right side, she eased her hip closer, slowly rocking it back and forth. When that didn't work, she grasped his shoulder and said, "Do you mean it, Mr. Peters? That I was a good secretary today?"

"Absolutely," he said absently, taking a huge gulp. He clenched his eyes, seeing a pretty, olive-tone face flinch in fear while a large hairy hand arced towards it in a blur. Then that meaty, smack, sound. Followed by a helpless, pitiful yelp. Then again...

Chris leaned his elbows on the desk, his shoulder slipping Tammy Lyn's hand. He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. "See you tomorrow, Ms. Davidson," he said gruffly, his tone harsher than he realized.

". . . Yes sir."

***

The next three days came and went and was differentiated only by their increasingly despondent moods. Chris hadn't patted her bum since Monday morning and Tammy Lyn's confidence was at an all-time low. He looked angry all the time and she was afraid to hug him. His green eyes seemed particularly perturbed, like he'd been drinking moonshine and was looking for a fight. Though, they still did funny things to her insides. But, gosh, why hadn't he smacked her bum lately? A pat, a pinch, anything! And why was he ignoring her? Was he waiting for the end of the week to let her go?

To Chris's credit, he was too preoccupied with thoughts of murdering his boss to notice his secretary's trepidations. He purposefully kept his distance and stared at her only from behind his door. He wasn't a normal person and didn't want to infect her. Afraid his poison would seep into her by osmosis. He couldn't bear tainting those soft blue eyes of hers. He even thought about letting her go with a generous severance package, then hire someone whom he could skull fuck. That would've been the selfless thing to do, but he'd always been a cold fish with only sporadic episodes of decency—which he already spent a year's worth Monday afternoon. He doubted if he would ever let his Blue Rose leave, even if she wanted.

***

It was Friday morning when their inner discontents came to a boil...

Chris pressed the intercom. "Ms. Davidson?"

". . . Yes, Mr. Peters."