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The robe slides down your shoulder again.
It’s silk, soft and barely clinging, and you don’t fix it. You’re sitting at her vanity—the French one with the curved gold legs and three-paneled mirror—and the light’s coming in through the windows just enough to catch the glitter in the powder she dusted over your chest last night.
It smells like her in here. That thick, grown-up perfume she always wears, the kind that gets into your scalp and doesn’t let go. Something spicy and sweet and old, but not in a bad way—like the inside of an antique jewelry case, or the press of lipstick-stained envelopes. There’s jasmine in it, and something heavier. Something like amber. Something like her.
She’s behind you. You don’t have to look to know. You can feel her. The weight of her eyes. The way she holds her breath before she speaks, like she’s deciding if it’s worth correcting you.
“You’re not wearing the lipstick I left out.”
You smile, but you don’t meet her gaze in the mirror. Not yet. You just lean forward, tilt your face a little, examine the pink you chose. It’s sweet. Too soft for her. You know that.
“I liked this one better.”
The silence stretches.
When you finally glance up, she’s already walking forward—slow, deliberate steps, heels clicking against the parquet. Her blouse is navy. Velvet. Cinched tight around her waist. Her hair’s set. Her earrings are in. She’s dressed like she’s going to war, not down the hall to pour herself a second cup of coffee.
She reaches the vanity and rests her hands on the back of your chair. “You liked it still,” she repeats, voice low. “Even though I gave you something better.”
There’s no bite to it. Just that slow European cadence she never loses, even when she’s tired. You close your eyes. Let her voice sink into you. “I wasn’t thinking.” She hums once. Not quite a laugh. More like recognition. “No. You weren’t.”
You expect her to move on—to sigh and disappear into her office, or fuss over the flowers in the parlor like she does when she’s pretending not to be annoyed. But instead, she stays. Her hands slide down, fingers grazing your shoulders, slow and unhurried. She lifts the lipstick tube from where she left it earlier, uncaps it with one soft click.
Helena Rubinstein Fire Garnet, her personal favorite. The color she wore the night you met. The color that smeared across your collarbone hours later when she fucked you in the back of a stranger’s Packard coupe and told you you’d never have to beg again.
Her knuckles are cool when they tip your chin up. “I wore this color the night we met,” she murmurs. You blink. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything.”
She leans in—not to kiss you, but to paint your mouth, the way she did that first week you stayed with her. Her wrist steady, her thumb pressed beneath your lip, her breath close enough to feel.
She never lets you do this part. Each stroke is deliberate. Careful. She does it like it matters. Like you’re hers and you need to look the part. You stay perfectly still. Not because she asked you to, but because you want to.
When she finishes, she pulls back, just enough to look. You watch her in the mirror, the way her eyes linger on your mouth. The slight twitch of her fingers before she lets go.
“There,” she says. “Now you look like someone who belongs in my bed.” Your stomach flips. You reach for her hand. Lace your fingers through hers, soft and warm and familiar.
“Don’t go into the office today,” you whisper. She sighs. You expect the answer before she says it. “Elizabeth is meeting with Saks at eleven.” You squeeze her hand. “I don’t care about Elizabeth Arden.”
That gets a reaction. A flicker in her gaze. A shift in the air. You lean back in the chair, tug her hand closer, press her knuckles to your cheek. “I just want you.” Her voice is quieter when she answers this time. “You always want.” You smile. Let her see it. Let her feel it. “Only when it’s you.” You murmur. “Then let me come.”
She exhales again, but this time it’s less like a sigh and more like surrender. “You’ll distract me.” You tilt your head, still holding her hand. “I won’t.”
“You always do.” There’s no venom in it. Just fact. Just the weariness of a woman who’s already resigned herself to the truth. You shift a little in the chair, let the robe slip down further—just enough to bare the slope of your shoulder, just enough to tempt. Her eyes flick down. Her hand stays in yours.
“I’ll be quiet,” you promise, though you both know it’s not true. “I’ll sit on the couch, read something. I won’t even talk.”
“You never stop talking.” You smile again, slow and sweet. “You like when I talk.” She shakes her head, but her mouth is soft now. Her hand lifts—brushes your jaw, then tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. It’s careful. Precise. The way she handles everything. “You’ll end up in my lap within the hour.” You nod, pleased. “Probably.”
You’re in the car twenty minutes later, curled up in the back seat with your knees tucked beneath you, robe exchanged for a cream-colored dress she chose herself. The office is downtown. One of her buildings. You’ve only been a few times, but everyone knows you.
They say “Madame Rubinstein” when they greet her, but they glance at you, too. Not rudely. Just curious. Like they’re still trying to figure out how you ended up here. With her.
You follow her up to the suite with your hand looped through the crook of her elbow. She says nothing, but her thumb brushes your wrist once, slow and grounding.
Her office is immaculate. White walls, navy carpet, brass fixtures. Everything in its place. Her desk is enormous—all glass and chrome, with a single white orchid in a vase she keeps just slightly off-center.
She gestures toward the couch when she shrugs off her coat. “You’ll sit there.” You do. For a while. You last maybe twenty minutes.
First you try reading the magazine she brought you—something glossy and expensive with your favorite actresses on the cover—but the words blur together. She looks too good from where you are. The way she sits, the set of her jaw, the line of her stockinged legs beneath the desk. She’s working. Or trying to. Her glasses are on. The little gold ones she only wears when she’s serious.
You cross your legs. Uncross them. Shift. She doesn’t look up, but she knows. “I told you you’d distract me.” You rise slowly. Walk over. Let your fingers trail along the edge of her desk as you round it. “I’m just cold,” you say, soft and innocent.
She doesn’t answer. But she leans back in her chair, just slightly. Enough to let you slide between her body and the desk. Enough to let you climb onto her lap.
You settle against her with practiced ease. Your arms loop around her neck. Her hand steadies your waist, fingers spreading wide against your spine. She’s warm. Firm. Smells like face cream and leather and her.
You nuzzle her shoulder, cheek pressing against the buttons of her blouse. “I’ll be quiet,” you whisper again. Her breath is warm against your ear. “No, you won’t.” You hum, content.
She doesn’t move to push you off. Doesn’t make you go back to the couch. One hand stays on your waist. The other reaches for a pen. She’s still trying to work—or pretending to. But she kisses your temple once before she does. And her lips linger.
She’s trying to work. You can feel the tension in her frame—stiff shoulders, jaw locked, one hand still holding the pen like it might keep her anchored. The other’s on your hip. Has been for twenty minutes. Fingers spread, steady. But not moving.
Not yet.
You lean your head against her shoulder again. Tilt your face so your mouth brushes the collar of her blouse. “You smell good,” you murmur. She exhales through her nose. Doesn’t answer.
You shift again—slowly this time. Hips rolling just enough to press your cunt right against the meat of her thigh. Nothing underneath but lace.
Her hand tightens at your waist. She still doesn’t move it. You slide your lips against her neck, barely touching. “I just want to be close.”
“That’s not all you want.” Her voice is low. Rough around the edges now. You smile into her skin. “I’m being good.”
“No,” she mutters. “You’re not.”
You don’t say anything at that. You just shift in her lap again, soft and subtle, like you’re trying to get comfortable—but you’re not. You’re doing it to feel the way her thighs press beneath yours. The shape of her hips under that expensive skirt. You want her to feel how warm you are. How close. How soft.
And you know she does.
Her hand’s still resting at your waist. Barely moving. But her thumb presses just a little harder now, slow and rhythmic against the silk of your dress. Not up yet. Not in. Just there. Holding you like you might float off if she lets go.
She’s so quiet. You can hear the second hand of the clock ticking on the wall, the hum of the building below, the faint shuffle of someone outside the office door—but Helena says nothing.
Her mouth is tight. Her jaw flexes once. She’s trying to keep her eyes on the paperwork you’ve been blocking for the past half hour, but you’re close enough to see them flick—down to your thighs, your bare knees, the little sliver of lace she caught a glimpse of when you shifted.
She swallows. You press your cheek to her temple, voice soft. Sweet. Dangerous. “I’m not wearing any stockings.” She doesn’t answer. You let your fingers toy with her collar. Just barely. Just enough to remind her how close your hands are to unbuttoning something.
“I thought you’d like that.”
Her grip tightens. Not rough. But firm. Her other hand—the one that was holding the pen—lifts slowly, hovers near your leg. She doesn’t touch. Just hovers. Like if she lets it fall even an inch, it’ll be over.
She exhales through her nose. Carefully. Like it hurts. “You’re going to be the reason I ruin my career,” she mutters. You smile. Let your lips graze the edge of her cheek. Your thighs press together in her lap.
“I’d let you ruin it,” you whisper. “If it meant you’d finally fuck me on this desk.” That almost does it. Her fingers twitch again. Slide just a little further down your waist. To your hip now. Then to the top of your thigh. You’re still facing her, knees bent, legs draped across hers, and she’s not pretending anymore.
Her hand finally slips under the hem of your skirt. Just barely. Just enough for the tips of her fingers to find skin. She freezes. “Helena,” you breathe, soft and pleading. “Please.”
You shift again. Roll your hips. Press your clit harder against her thigh. She groans. Quiet. Barely audible. But there. “You want me to touch you?” she says, voice sharp. You nod, but it’s not enough. “Say it.”
“I want you to touch my pussy,” you whisper. Her eyes snap to yours. Something dark passes through them. Something hot. Her hand slides up your thigh. Slowly.
Her mouth is next to your ear now. Her voice is low. Rough. “Open your legs.” You do. She doesn’t move at first. Just rests her hand there, cupping your thigh, fingers close enough to feel the heat of you, the dampness already blooming through the lace.
“You’ve been grinding on me like a little whore since we walked in here.” You nod again. Still breathless. Still pretending to be innocent, but you’re soaked now. She can feel it through the fabric.
“You like making it hard for me to work?”
“I like your lap.”
“You like my thigh against your cunt.”
You moan—soft, desperate. You can’t help it. Her fingers are brushing the damp spot now. “And I let you,” she murmurs. “I let you sit here. In my lap. In my office. Soaking through your panties like a filthy little thing.”
Her voice is pure poison now. Sweet and wicked. You roll your hips again—helpless, aching—and her fingers finally push the lace aside. You gasp.
“You don’t even want me to take you home,” she says, stroking slow, just barely parting your folds. “You want me to finger you right here. With the door unlocked.” She laughs, low in her throat. No kindness in it. “God, you’re such a filthy little thing.”
Her fingers slide lower. Right through the slick mess between your legs. She doesn’t even try to hide it—the way she spreads your folds, slow and deliberate, the way she presses her middle finger just barely inside and drags it back out again, soaking wet.
“You’ve been humping my thigh like a desperate bitch in heat since you climbed into my lap.” You whimper. She curls her other hand into your hair. Not gentle.
“And for what?” she murmurs. “Hm? For this? A few fingers? You’re this messy just from sitting in my lap.”
Her voice drops to a growl. “Fucking pathetic.” Your hips twitch. You try to bite down a sound, but it still slips out—broken, high, needy. “Oh, you like that,” she hisses. “Of course you do. You like when I talk to you like this. Like a little whore who doesn’t know how to behave.”
She presses her fingers inside. Two at once. Deep. You gasp—loud and breathless—and she clamps a hand over your mouth before the next one can come out. “Shhh,” she croons, tightening her grip on your face. “Don’t you dare get us caught.”
She starts fucking you with her fingers—slow at first, then faster, rougher. Her palm slaps wetly against your pussy with each thrust. You’re soaked, dripping all over her lap, all over her thigh, your skirt bunched up, your panties shoved to one side, your mouth gagged by her hand.
“Fucking look at you,” she growls in your ear. “Grinding on my fingers like some stupid little thing who doesn’t know where she is.” You choke on another sound—half sob, half moan.
“You want to get caught, don’t you?” she whispers. “You want my secretary to walk in and see you getting fingered like a dumb, cockdrunk baby in my chair.”
You nod. You can’t help it. Her hand tightens in your hair. Her fingers fuck up into you harder, faster, sloppier. “You’re going to cum all over me,” she mutters. “You’re going to fucking drench my hand like the needy little mess you are.”
You’re close. Too close. She feels it—the way you start to tremble, the way your pussy clenches around her fingers. “Don’t you dare cum yet,” she says.
You whine. Shake your head. But your hips are already jerking, thighs shaking, breath catching in your throat. “I said don’t—”
You do.
It hits you hard—one sharp cry muffled into her palm, cunt pulsing around her fingers, slick soaking her wrist and your panties and her lap. You’re shaking, whimpering, mouth open against her hand, tears stinging your eyes.
She doesn’t stop. Not at first. She fucks you through it—dragging it out until you’re clenching hard enough it hurts, until your thighs are twitching and your whole body’s slack and boneless in her lap.
Then she finally pulls her fingers out. Wipes them on your inner thigh. Slow and mean. “You made a fucking mess,” she says. “Again.” You just nod. Still breathless. Still shaking. Still pressed into her chest. She shifts under you. Adjusts her skirt. Doesn’t even look at the papers on her desk. “I can’t take you anywhere.”
She doesn’t say anything for a while. She’s just sitting there, holding you, her chest rising and falling against your back, your thighs still splayed over hers, your panties ruined and stuck to your skin.
And she’s soaked.
You can feel it. Right under you. The heat of it. The way she shifts in the chair like she’s uncomfortable. Like her thighs are sticking together. Like she’s throbbing and she doesn’t want to admit it.
You turn your head, press a kiss just under her ear. “You’re wet.” She doesn’t answer. You kiss her jaw next. Lower. Then again. “I can feel it,” you whisper.
That gets her.
Her hand fists in your hair again, yanks your head back just enough to meet your eyes. “You want to eat my cunt, is that it?” she hisses. “That why you’ve been acting like such a fucking tease all morning?”
You nod. Breathless. “I want it now.”
“You don’t get to want anything.” Her thighs squeeze under yours. You grind against her again—just once—slow and teasing. “You’re wet, Helena.”
“I know I’m wet,” she snaps. “I’ve been wet since you sat your filthy little ass in my lap.” She pushes you off her, sudden and rough. Stands. Adjusts her skirt. Her blouse. Her lipstick’s still perfect but her chest is rising too fast and her thighs are shaking and she’s trying to hide it.
You drop to your knees without asking. Her hand shoots out. Grabs your chin. “No.” You blink up at her. She looks down at you like she wants to slap you and ride your face at the same time.
“You think I don’t want it?” she mutters, more to herself than to you. “You think I don’t want to sit back in that chair, throw my legs over the arms, and fuck your pretty mouth until I can’t walk straight?”
You whimper. “Please.”
“I’ve got a meeting.” Her voice breaks on it. Just a little.
“Cancel it.”
“I can’t.”
Her thighs press together again. You can see how damp the inside of her thighs are. You know she’s throbbing. You can feel the heat of it from here.
“I’ll be quick,” you whisper, mouth hovering just above her thigh. She shakes her head. “If I let you start, I won’t stop.” Her fingers tremble at her buttons. Her whole body’s on edge. She’s flushed, ruined, fighting it like hell.
She reaches for the phone on the desk. Lifts it, holds it there for a second. Then slams it back down. “No,” she mutters. “No, I can’t—fuck.”
You rise slowly. Step toward her. “You’ll be late,” you whisper, kissing the corner of her mouth. “I’ll be soaked through,” she growls. “That’s what I’ll be.” You glance down. “You already are.”
She grabs your face with both hands. Kisses you hard. No restraint. No lipstick left after. Her hips grind against yours once, sharp, punishing.
Then she pulls away. Wipes her mouth. Tries to compose herself. “You’re not getting away with this,” she murmurs. “I’ll deal with you after.”
Your breath hitches. “Promise?” She grabs your chin again. Smirks. “You’re going to lick my cunt until I’m sobbing.” And then she’s gone.
Just like that. Door slammed. Heels echoing. The smell of pussy still thick in the room. You sink into her chair. Slide your fingers under your panties. Wait.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧
She doesn’t try to be quiet when she comes back. She slams the door open. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at you.
Her heels click sharp across the floor as she storms to the desk, tossing her folder down hard enough the papers scatter. Her lipstick’s gone. Her blouse is open halfway down her chest. She’s flushed all over—neck, cheeks, chest, even the backs of her hands.
You don’t speak. You just sit up straighter in her chair. She turns toward you like she can feel you watching. Her eyes are dark. Her jaw’s tight. Her hands are shaking as she grips the edge of the desk.
“I couldn’t focus,” she growls. You stay quiet. “I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t fucking breathe.” She’s panting now. One hand disappears beneath her skirt—just for a second. Just enough to press between her thighs. She groans, low and broken, when she feels how soaked she still is.
“You did this to me,” she snaps, eyes locking onto yours. You nod. “I was dripping in that goddamn meeting,” she hisses. “Had to cross my legs the whole time just to stop myself from cumming on the fucking chair.”
You blink, lips parted.
She yanks her skirt up. Right there. No finesse, no ceremony. Just pulls it up around her waist and kicks her heels off hard, panting, flushed, eyes wild. “On your knees.”
You drop instantly. Crawl to her. She steps forward, one foot hooked around the back of your neck, pulling you in rough and fast until your face is pressed right against the heat of her.
She’s not wearing panties. She moans—loud, unrestrained—the moment your breath hits her cunt. “Open your fucking mouth.” You do.
She doesn’t ease into it. Doesn’t start soft. Her hand fists in your hair and her hips grind forward and suddenly you’re buried in it—your mouth slick with her, your tongue lapping through soaked folds while she rides your face like she’s already been holding back for hours.
Because she has.
She’s wet like she’s been edging herself all day. Slick dripping down your chin, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around nothing. She’s muttering to herself now—angry, desperate. “Stupid girl… made me wait… all fucking day—”
You suck her clit and she gasps, slaps her hand against the desk beside her just to stay upright. “God—yes, right there—fuck—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”
You don’t.
Your tongue flicks, presses, circles, sucks, your hands gripping her thighs to hold her steady as she rocks against your mouth like she needs it more than air. Her body’s shaking now. One leg hooked over your shoulder, her heel digging into your back, her hand dragging your face tighter against her cunt until your nose is buried and all you can do is moan into her.
“Sloppy little mouth,” she hisses. “So fucking good—so greedy—God, I should keep you under my desk—make you do this every day—”
Her hips jerk. Her breath catches. Then she breaks. She cums with a growl, deep and guttural, her thighs clamping around your head, her cunt pulsing against your tongue. She grinds through it. Rides your mouth with frantic, desperate thrusts, her whole body trembling, your name tangled up in every filthy moan.
You keep licking. Even when she tries to pull back. She gasps, tries to shove your face away. You suck her clit harder.
“FUCK—”
She cums again.
This time it’s wetter. Sloppier. Her pussy gushes all over your face and her knees give out and she collapses back into the chair behind her, legs spread, chest heaving, cunt glistening and twitching and swollen.
You stay on your knees. Covered in her. Waiting for her to breathe. When she finally lifts her head, her eyes are glassy. Her lips parted. Her thighs still twitching. “You’re not getting up,” she pants. “I’m not finished.” Her hand grips your hair again. Pulls you back in.
Her thighs are still shaking. She’s sprawled in the chair now, skirt hitched up to her waist, blouse hanging open, legs spread wide like she owns the room. Like she owns you.
And she does.
She lights a cigarette with one hand, the other resting in your hair, fingers tangled at the nape of your neck. She takes a long, slow drag. Exhales toward the ceiling. Then looks down at you.
“Mouth,” she says, tapping ash into the tray beside her. “Now.” You press a kiss to her knee. Soft. Careful. “Higher.” You kiss the inside of her thigh. Then again. Her skin’s still warm. Sticky. You can taste her on every inch of it.
“Slower.”
You drag your mouth upward. Up the curve of her thigh, toward her hip. Her cunt’s still twitching — flushed and swollen and slick. You kiss around it. Just the edge of her, the crease of her thigh, the top of her mound.
She lets out a slow breath. Not a moan. Something lower. Deeper. Like satisfaction. “I should keep you on your knees forever,” she mutters, tapping ash off the end of the cigarette. “Little mouth, ruined face. All mine.”
You kiss the swell of her stomach. The soft skin beneath her blouse. She parts it for you, pulls the fabric aside so you can keep going — mouthing gently over the slope of her belly, the underside of her breast, up toward the lace of her bra.
“Everywhere,” she says. “I want you kissing everywhere.”
You nod. Press your mouth to the edge of her bra, then higher, the curve of her ribcage, the top of her sternum. Your lips are slow now. Reverent. Each one softer than the last.
Her hand slides under your chin. Tilts your face up. “Look at me.” You do. She exhales smoke through her nose. Stares down at you like you’re nothing and everything all at once.
“You taste like my cunt,” she says. You nod again. Lips parted. She brings the cigarette to your lips. Holds it there. “Open.” You do. She taps the filter gently to your tongue. Doesn’t let you inhale. Just lets you taste the smoke. Then pulls it away again.
“Good girl.”
You breathe out. Eyes heavy. Face wet. You go back to kissing— her ribs, her side, the inside of her arm. She hums when you kiss the delicate skin of her wrist. The same hand that wrecked you. You press your lips to each knuckle, slow and soft, and her whole body twitches again.
When you reach her mouth, she takes one last drag of the cigarette and stubs it out. Then she kisses you. Messy. Deep. Possessive. She tastes herself on you and moans into your mouth.
When she finally pulls away, she strokes your cheek once. Her thumb brushes the edge of your lips. “You’re not going back on the couch.” You blink, still breathless.
“I want you in my lap. Still wet. Still open. Letting me keep you warm while I finish what you interrupted.” You climb back into her lap without a word. And she doesn’t light another cigarette. She just holds you there.
You’re nuzzled into her lap. Warm. Wet. Settled sideways now, legs draped over the arm of the chair, head resting against her shoulder. Her skirt’s still rucked up. Your panties are still shoved aside. Her hand is resting on your bare thigh, not moving. Yet.
She’s trying to focus.
The desk is a mess of papers. She’s got her glasses on now, low on her nose, jaw tight as she flips through the portfolio like it’s not shaking slightly in her hands. You can feel how tense she is beneath you. Her thigh’s bouncing. Her breath keeps catching.
She’s still wrecked. You are, too. But not enough to behave. You reach for the slim gold case in her breast pocket—the one she always taps twice before she lights up. She doesn't look up, but her brow twitches. “Don’t.”
You pull one cigarette out anyway. Hold it delicately between two fingers. “Put it back.” You don’t. You lean in instead, slow and sweet, press your lips to the corner of her jaw, then whisper it—that one Polish phrase she taught you, the only one you ever remember. Soft, close, filthy with intent.
Kocham cię.
(I love you)
Her whole body stiffens. You say it again. Slower this time. Into her ear. Your lips brush the shell, the soft spot beneath.
Kocham cię.
Her hand tightens on your thigh. Fingers digging in. You press the unlit cigarette to your mouth and smile against the filter. You know exactly what you’re doing.
“That’s not how you say it,” she mutters, voice tight. “Your accent is awful.” You say it again. Worse this time. Drawn out, syrupy, like it’s a moan.
Kooocham chyehhh.
She groans. One soft, guttural sound from the back of her throat. Then she snatches the cigarette from your hand and snaps it in half. You blink. “That was from Paris.”
“I’ll buy more,” she snaps.
You pout. “You said they were thirty dollars a box.”
“I said I’d buy more.” Her pen is shaking. She tries to refocus. Tries to write something. You lean in again.
Kocham cię, you whisper.
She slams the pen down. “Enough.” You press your cheek to hers. Bat your lashes. “I missed you,” you murmur. “You were gone so long.”
“Twenty-seven minutes.” You hum. Let your hand slide down between your bodies, fingers resting just above her belt. “I got lonely.”
“You’re going to get bruised.” Your breath hitches. You drag your fingertips along the inside of her waistband. Nothing else. Just a whisper of pressure. “Then bruise me.” She turns her head. Her eyes meet yours. They’re wild again. Her voice drops to a snarl. “You want me to throw you on this desk?” You nod. “Yes.”
“You want my whole staff to hear you scream?”
“Yes.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
You say it again, sweet as ever.
Kocham cię.
She grabs your throat. Not hard. Just enough. You grin. And she finally snaps. She doesn’t say anything. Not in English, anyway.
Her hand slips from your throat to your waist, then down, gripping hard as she stands, yanks you up with her—fast and rough and not at all careful. You gasp, stumble in your heels, but she’s already pushing you toward the desk, lips parted, eyes wild, muttering sharp things under her breath you don’t understand.
“Zawsze to robisz,” she snarls. “Zawsze, kurwa, musisz mnie doprowadzać do szału.”
(You always do this. You always, fucking always, have to drive me crazy.)
You barely catch your balance before she bends you over the desk—hard. Your hips hit the edge. Papers scatter. Something clatters to the floor.
You don’t care. You’re panting already. Soaked. Thrilled. Helena pushes your thighs apart with her knee and hisses something else behind you—low, fast, furious.
“Popatrz na siebie. Rozłożona jak dziwka.”
(Look at yourself. Spread out like a whore.)
You moan before she even touches you. Her fingers yank your panties down. They stick. You’re that wet. She curses again, something sharp and guttural, and then her hand’s on you—spreading you open, stroking through the slick, finding your clit like it owes her something.
You arch. Whimper. Grind back.
“Cicho,” she spits. “Zamknij się.”
(Quiet. Shut up.)
You bite your lip. Moan again. You don’t know what she’s saying, but fuck, it’s hot. She pushes two fingers in without warning. You cry out—loud, shameless. She claps a hand over your mouth from behind, pressing your face into the wood.
“Zamknij się,” she hisses again, right at your ear. “Nie chcę, żeby ktoś słyszał, jak jęczysz jak suka.”
(Shut up. I don’t want anyone to hear you whimpering like a bitch.)
Her fingers are relentless now—hard, fast, deep. Curling just right. The heel of her hand grinding against your clit. You’re dripping down her wrist, thighs shaking, already close.
She’s talking nonstop. Cursing, muttering, moaning things you can’t translate but can feel in your spine.
“Słodka cipka,” she growls. “Tak ciasna, tak kurewsko mokra—moja, rozumiesz? Moja suka.”
(Sweet pussy. So tight, so fucking wet—mine, understand? My bitch.)
Your whole body jerks. You’re going to come already—it’s too much, too fast, her voice, her fingers, the language pouring out of her like it’s burning her alive.
“Please—” you gasp, sobbing. “Helena—please—” She grabs a fistful of your hair. Yanks your head back.
“Nie mów. Nie mów nic. Tylko czuj.”
(Don’t speak. Don’t say anything. Just feel.)
You don’t know what she’s saying but you nod anyway, whimpering, mouth open, drooling onto her desk. She fucks you harder.
You cum with her name on your lips and her language in your ears, cunt clenching tight around her fingers, whole body spasming, screaming into your arm as she keeps going, doesn’t let up, chases every last drop out of you until you collapse flat against the desk, twitching and wet and ruined.
She pulls out slow. Your pussy flutters around nothing, still leaking. Helena exhales. Loud. Like she’s just won something.
You hear her mutter one last thing—“taka grzeczna dziewczynka”—and you think maybe that one’s soft.
(Such a well behaved girl.)
You don’t ask what it means. You just press your cheek to the desk, smile like a girl who got exactly what she wanted. And hope she says it again.
You're still bent over the desk, face resting against your forearm now, breathing uneven. Your panties are halfway down your thighs, your cunt still dripping onto the floor, your lip bitten red and your legs trembling with every aftershock.
Helena’s already back in her chair. She’s sitting there watching you, calm again, quiet, all the rage gone soft. She’s taken her time lighting another cigarette. Her heels are crossed at the ankle. Her skirt’s still rucked up, but she doesn’t bother adjusting it. She looks like a painting. Or a crime scene. Or both.
She takes a drag. Slow. Then exhales. And smiles. “Patrz, jaka jesteś piękna,” she murmurs under her breath. Then, in English—lazy and thick with affection: “My beautiful little American girl.”
(Look how beautiful you are.)
You lift your head, just barely. She nods, leans forward in her chair, resting her elbow on the arm, cigarette hanging from her fingers. “You think I could find a cunt like yours in Europe?” she asks, quiet and cruel. “In Paris? Warsaw?”
You blink, dazed.
“I’ve had duchesses. Cabaret girls. Russian ballerinas. French actresses with champagne between their legs.” She takes another drag. Smirks. “None of them made a mess like you.”
You shift, thighs twitching, cunt clenching at nothing. She sees it. Of course she sees it. “You’re soft in all the right places. Warm and greedy. Always wet. Always open for me.” You moan, just a little. Your fingers curl against the desk.
Helena smiles. It’s dangerous now. “You don’t know a word I say and still you beg for it.” She stands, cigarette in one hand, the other coming down to stroke your bare hip. Gentle now. Reverent. She smooths her fingers over the curve of your ass, down to your dripping pussy, not to finger, not to fuck—just to feel. To remind you she can.
“I could’ve had any woman in the world,” she murmurs. “But I found you.” Her lips press to your lower back. Then again. A trail of kisses, lazy and wet, up your spine. “And now you’re mine.”
You shiver. Nod. “Yours.”
“My spoiled American girl,” she breathes. “With that messy little pussy and no manners.” You gasp as she spreads you again, just with two fingers—slow, admiring. “You’ll never leave me, will you?”
You shake your head. “Never.”
“Good.” Her voice drops. “Because I’d ruin you for anyone else.” She kisses your ass. Bites gently. Then steps back. Sits again. Crosses her legs. “Fix your face, baby,” she says, stubbing the cigarette out. “We’ve got dinner at seven.”
You’re still flushed when you manage to get up.
Your lipstick’s gone. Your mascara’s smudged halfway down your cheeks. There’s a bite mark on your neck you can’t see yet and a slick shine between your thighs that’s going to soak straight through the back of your dress if you’re not careful.
You’re standing in front of the mirror in her office, blinking at your own reflection. Trying to fix your mouth with trembling hands and a tissue that’s already torn.
Behind you, Helena sighs. Not annoyed. Just knowing. “You’re useless with a powder puff,” she says. You glance back, lower lip caught between your teeth. “I just wanted to look nice for dinner.” Helena lets out a sigh, more like a breath. “And now you look like someone ruined you over a desk.” You don’t answer.
Her heels tap across the floor. She stops behind you, close enough to feel the heat off her body. Her perfume’s different now—layered with sex, with sweat, with the faint smoke of her last cigarette. She smells like home and sin and something richer than either.
She leans in. Fingers under your chin. “You’ll let me do it, yes?” You nod. Of course you do. She turns you gently by the waist, walks you back to her chair. Then sits, legs crossed, blouse still undone at the throat. She pats her lap. You don’t hesitate.
You climb into it, fold your knees beside her hips, one arm loose around her shoulders. Your body’s still sore. Still aching. She adjusts you until you’re sitting just how she likes—spine straight, face tilted up, pretty and waiting.
She sits back calm and deliberate, and opens the drawer of her desk. Pulls out a lacquered box lined in velvet, all black enamel and little brass clasps. Inside: nothing but the best. Coty powder, French rouge in a porcelain pot, her favorite lipstick in the gold tube with her initials on the cap.
You hate doing your own face. You’d rather let her hold you still, paint you pretty like she always does. “Look at the state of you,” she murmurs, dabbing a linen cloth to your temple. “You’re lucky I keep things on hand. God knows you never do.”
You smile. She ignores it. The puff comes next—light and dry, powdering your cheeks, your chin, the bridge of your nose. “You’ve no sense of proportion,” she says, working slow. “Too heavy with the rouge, too light with the powder. Always something.”
You hum, content to be scolded. Her voice is steady. Her hands are warm. She knows every angle of your face better than you do.
“You looked like a picture when we left the house,” she mutters. “And now you look like someone’s been tugging on your hair all afternoon.”
You shift, press your mouth to the edge of her collar. “Someone has.” Her hand stops mid-sweep. You feel her smirk before you see it. Then she picks up the rouge. Dabs it on with two fingers—one cheek, then the other, blending it in with slow, practiced circles. Her touch is gentle. Her mouth is quiet.
She always does your lips last. The lipstick twists up with a soft little click. Deep red, the same one from this morning.
“Open,” she murmurs, thumb under your chin. You part your lips. She paints with care. One corner, then the other. Top, then bottom. Her pinkie steadies against your cheek. When she finishes, she sits back just slightly. Looks you over like a collector might admire her favorite piece. “There,” she says. “Now you look like someone who belongs beside me.”
You blink up at her. Your pulse flickers. She leans in. Presses one kiss to the very edge of your freshly painted mouth. Doesn’t smudge it. “Good girl,” she whispers.
You melt a little more in her lap. She tucks the lipstick back into its case, smooths her hand down the back of your thigh. “Now be still,” she says. “We’ve got supper at seven. And if you mess yourself up again before we arrive, I will drag you to the powder room by your ear.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
She’s trying to read now.
There’s a folder open across her desk—correspondence from Europe, reports on shipments held up in customs, a typed letter from the London distributor about the new packaging for the winter cream line. She’s got her glasses on, slightly smudged now, and she’s holding her pen like she means to write something.
But her hand hasn’t moved in minutes.
Because you’re still sitting on the edge of the desk, ankles crossed, wearing that little wool dress she likes and nothing underneath. Your hands are folded neatly in your lap. Your lipstick is perfect. Your hair is still tousled from where she gripped it earlier and you haven’t fixed it because you like the way her hands leave a mark.
You’re not doing anything wrong. Not really. You’re just there—swaying your foot, letting your hem slide a little higher every time you shift. Playing with a loose thread at your neckline. Humming a song under your breath that you don’t even know the words to.
“Must you do that?” she asks, not looking up. You blink. “Do what?”
“That.” You glance down at your foot. “I’m just sitting.”
“No,” she mutters, flipping the page. “You’re performing.”
You lean back a little, palms against the desk, stretching just enough to make the fabric of your dress pull across your chest. “I’m bored.”
“Read something.”
“I’ve read all the magazines in here twice.”
“Then read them a third time.”
You swing your legs down, uncross them slowly. “Why don’t you just let me sit in your lap again?”
“Because I need to get this done.”
You hum. Slide off the desk. Walk behind her chair—slow steps, heels soft against the floor. You rest your chin on her shoulder. Let your hands drape down, fingers curling just above her collarbone. “I’ll be quiet.”
She tenses. “You said that last time,” she says, voice dry.
“I meant it then, too.”
She sets the pen down. Takes off her glasses. Then turns her head and looks at you—really looks. Her mouth is soft now. Her eyes aren’t angry. Just exhausted. “You don’t mean to be difficult,” she says. You smile. “No.”
“But you are.” You nuzzle her temple. Press a kiss there. “You like it.”
“No,” she murmurs. “I love it.” Then she sighs. Rubs her temples once, then reaches for the telegram that just arrived. “Five minutes,” she says. “Sit on the settee. Don’t move. Don’t hum. Don’t swing your legs.”
You walk over, fold yourself neatly onto the velvet couch like a little debutante, hands in your lap, ankles tucked beneath your skirt. She glances at you once before looking back down. You’re not doing anything wrong. And still—she’s not reading a word.
You last maybe ten minutes on the settee. You fold your hands like she told you to. Cross your ankles. Press your knees together like a good girl in Sunday school. But the silence itches.
And Helena’s reading now—really reading. Her head bent over the page, brow furrowed, mouth tight. Her pen moves with sharp little flicks. She doesn’t glance up once.
You shift. Wait. Tap your finger against your skirt hem. Still nothing. You rise slowly. Quietly. She doesn’t stop you. Maybe she doesn’t notice. Maybe she’s pretending not to. The door clicks shut behind you.
The outer office is bright, lacquered in afternoon light. Cigarette smoke and carbon paper, clacking typewriter keys, the hush of stockings moving behind polished desks. A dozen women look up the moment you step out—secretaries, assistants, reception girls. All dressed just so. Not a hair out of place.
You smile. Wide. Harmless. No one speaks. You drift past the first desk. Lift one of the memos without asking. It’s typed in French. You frown and hand it back.
“She gets these all day?” you ask, leaning your elbow on the edge of the desk. The secretary nods. Eyes wide. “Oui, mademoiselle.” You giggle. “I don’t speak a word.”
You keep walking. Let your hand drag across the corner of a Rolodex, the edge of a switchboard, the cool glass of a water pitcher. You trail one finger along a stack of sealed envelopes until one tilts out of line.
No one stops you.
One of the younger girl, no older than twenty—glances nervously toward Helena’s office door. Then back at you. “Do you need anything?” she asks. Too fast. Too eager. You tilt your head. “No,” you say. “Just stretching my legs.”
You hover at her desk for a moment longer. Pick up the ashtray, examine it. Set it back down with a clink. She swallows. Looks down at her typewriter. Starts typing again, too loud, too fast.
The other women keep glancing over. None of them say a word. Because no one ever says a word. Not when it comes to you. They don’t know what to call it—what to call you—not in any way that would be proper. You’re not her secretary. You’re not her daughter. You’re not her friend.
But you wear lipstick she reapplies for you herself. You wear dresses no one’s ever seen in stores. Earrings you didn’t buy. You take her private elevator and drink from her teacup and once, weeks ago, you walked into the building with her coat wrapped around your shoulders and her lipstick on your throat.
No one says a word. Because they all know who you belong to. And more than that—they’re afraid.
No one dares correct you when you leave a fingerprint on the polished glass. No one flinches when you pick up the phone and hang it up again, just to hear the click. No one breathes when you lean over the receptionist’s desk and ask what her name is.
You don’t mean to go far. You just get restless. The elevator button lights up soft under your fingertip. No one stops you when the doors open. You step inside barefoot—shoes dangling from your hand—and press the button for the twenty second floor. You don’t even know what’s up there.
The ride is smooth. Slow. You hum to yourself, off-key, swaying slightly as the floor numbers tick upward.
When the doors open, you step into a room that smells like ink and glue and fresh poster stock. There’s music playing faintly from a radio in the corner—something bright and brassy. A man in a sweater is leaning over a drafting table with a cigarette in his mouth and doesn’t even look up until your shadow falls across his sketchpad.
You peer down at it. Bright lipstick tubes drawn in red pencil, the name HELENA RUBINSTEIN inked across the top.
“Is this for spring?” you ask. He blinks at you. Stares. “Uh—yes, miss.” You nod. Walk farther into the room. Someone else glances up—a woman in a tartan skirt, a pencil tucked behind her ear. Her eyes flick to your bare feet. Then back to your face.
No one says anything.
You trail your fingers along the edge of the printing press. Peer into the office beside the hallway. Pick up a fan of paint swatches and squint at the words—Dusty Rose, Milk Glass, French Skin.
You laugh a little. “French skin? That’s not a color.” Someone lets out a nervous cough. “She’s beautiful,” you murmur, nodding toward the model in the sketch.
The woman at the desk smiles nervously. “It’s a mock-up, miss. We’re still—” You wave her off. Keep moving. The elevator dings behind you.
You don’t look up at first. But the room stills. Then—“There you are.” Her voice isn’t sharp. It’s not cold. It’s full—thick with breath and something like relief. You turn.
She’s standing in the elevator, glove in hand, eyes locked on yours like she’s afraid if she blinks, you’ll disappear again. Helena steps out slowly. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at anyone else. Just walks across the room like the floor only exists where her heels touch it.
When she reaches you, she stops. Takes your face in her hands. One thumb strokes your cheek. You lean into it before you even think to. “I’ve been looking for you,” she says, quieter now. “Every floor.” You blink. “I’m alright.”
“I didn’t know that.” Her gloves are tucked in one hand. Her other stays on your cheek. You feel the heat of her palm through your skin. “I started at ten,” she murmurs. “Went all the way to twenty-eight.”
“I didn’t mean to worry you—”
“No,” she says, gentle now. “But you did.” You glance around the room. The entire department has gone silent. A dozen people pretend not to stare.
No one breathes. She notices. Of course she does. Helena steps closer. Brushes a curl back from your forehead. Her touch is slow. Intentional. Designed to be seen.
“You shouldn’t be wandering alone,” she says, softly enough that only you hear it. “Not in this building. Not when I can’t find you.” You nod. “I didn’t realize how far I’d gone.”
“You never do.” She smiles, just barely. Then offers her arm like a gentleman in a black-and-white film. “Come back down with me.” You slip your hand into the crook of her elbow.
And she leads you out. She doesn’t look back. But everyone in the department watches the way you lean into her side. The way her hand curls protectively over yours. The way you don’t speak, because you don’t have to. And none of them say a word. Because now they know.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
You’re buttoned up again now. Barely. Your dress is smoothed, heels back on. Lipstick reapplied—Helena pressed it on with her thumb and said Don’t smear it this time—but there’s still a crease at your waist from where you sat on the edge of her desk too long, and her scent’s still all over your hair.
She lets you wear her coat. Not the heavy one for winter, but the in-between one, black wool with velvet cuffs, the one she doesn’t lend to anyone. It hangs off your shoulders like it belongs there. It doesn’t match your shoes. You don’t care.
She walks with you through the lobby like nothing’s out of the ordinary. Arm in arm. Steady. Composed. You don’t speak. Neither does she. You’re both too tired, too tightly wound. Her hand is curled over yours where it rests in the crook of her elbow, thumb brushing your knuckles every few steps.
The building is emptying out in quiet waves—girls in matching coats, men in fedoras, the distant hiss of elevators lowering back to the ground floor. No one meets her eyes. You reach the doors.
Outside, the sky’s gone lavender, slick with the last edge of sun. The car is waiting at the curb. The driver hops out the moment he sees her and opens the rear door with both hands, like he’s afraid to get it wrong.
Helena nods once in acknowledgment. She doesn't say thank you. She turns to you instead. “Sit close,” she murmurs. “It’s chilly.” You slide in. The seats are still warm from the engine running. The air smells like her perfume and cigarette smoke and the faintest trace of leather polish.
She gets in after you, smooth as always, and settles beside you like a queen. One hand on your thigh. Possessive, idle. Her gloves are tucked into her purse now. Her rings catch the light.
The car pulls away from the curb. “Did you enjoy your little expedition?” she asks, voice low. You glance at her. Smile. “I got lost.” She hums. “Mm. Everyone gets lost in buildings I built myself. Imagine that.”
You nudge your knee against hers. She lifts your hand to her mouth. Kisses your knuckles. Doesn’t let go. “You’ll sit close to me at supper,” she says. “Smile when I tell you to. Keep your hands where they belong.” You grin. “Yes, Madame Rubinstein.” She laughs once, soft and real. And squeezes your thigh.
Dinner passed in a hush of low lights and linen napkins, silver cutlery polished to a mirror shine. You don’t remember what you ordered. Something French, probably. Something rich and too soft in the middle.
Helena sat beside you instead of across from you. She didn’t speak much.
Just rested her hand on your knee beneath the tablecloth, her thumb brushing slow circles along your skin. She ordered your drink without asking. Fed you the last bite of her dessert with her fingers, not her fork. Smiled only once—when the waiter brought the check and addressed you as miss and her as Madame.
In the car afterward, you curled into her side and watched the buildings roll past in the windows. Her hand never left your leg. She didn’t light a cigarette until you were already halfway home.
Now you’re in her sitting room. It’s quiet here. Lamps low. One slipper kicked off. Her heels abandoned by the door. You’re still wearing her coat, even though it’s too warm inside. She hasn’t asked for it back.
She’s on the chaise—legs stretched out, blouse unbuttoned just enough to show the edge of lace beneath. Her hair’s fallen slightly. You like it better that way.
You lie with your head against her stomach, curled sideways, one arm draped across her waist. Her hand is in your hair. Her other holds the cigarette. “You disappeared for nearly two hours,” she says, not scolding. Just remembering. You nuzzle her side. “I wasn’t far.”
“No,” she murmurs, thumb stroking slow through your curls. “But I missed you like you were.” She exhales toward the ceiling. Silence stretches between you. Comfortable. Familiar.
The radio hums faintly from the corner. Ella Fitzgerald, maybe. Or Peggy Lee. Something warm and scratchy and slow. “You make me ridiculous,” she says. You tilt your head. “Why?”
“I should’ve let you wander. Should’ve let someone else find you.” A pause. “But I couldn’t.” You press a kiss to her stomach, through the silk of her blouse. “You love me,” you say, like it’s obvious.
She taps ash into the tray. Looks down at you, eyes soft behind the smoke. “Yes,” she says. Quiet. Steady. “I do.” You smile. Tuck your face against her hip. And let her keep stroking your hair.