Hell Is In The Heart

Chapter 2 - Carrying The Abyss

by alectashadow

Tags: #cw:noncon #dom:female #dom:male #f/f #f/m #pov:bottom #sub:female #boss #clothing #cw:misogyny #D/s #demotion_fetish #emotional_manipulation #emotional_sadism #gaslighting #humiliation #inappropriate_workplace_relations #lesbian_to_straight #misogyny #office #psychological #sadomasochism #social_demotion #sub:feminism #trauma #workplace

Kink guilt.

It’s a funny concept, but everyone who has a deep, self-destructive desire of this kind knows what I’m talking about. I feel dirty, impure, perhaps even vaguely nauseous with myself, and small wonder.

I’ve masturbated. Thinking about a man.

A subordinate at work, nonetheless. I did it while thinking about my ex, messing me up my mind. I did it while thinking about my entire career being destroyed by my fantasies, the workplace corrupted into a sick, sexual fantasy.

I wake up to the chime of my alarm, and reach over to silence it, my fingers fumbling in the dim morning light. Another day. I tell myself that I’m going to put boundaries in place, this time. Work is work. Kink is kink. If I need an outlet, I’ll find it online, not at work. This dangerous, inappropriate behaviour stops, now.

Another day, another attempt at being normal.

I shuffle into the bathroom, the cool tiles underfoot making me shiver. I throw the reflection in the mirror a questioning look. Who are you, and why are you lying to me?

I’m Claire, the accomplished businesswoman.

I’m Claire, maladaptive lesbian that’s never gotten over a bad break up.

I’m claire – uncapitalised – and I exist to be used and abused. Remy taught me that. Remy taught me well.

No. Remy taught me to internalise and fetishise my own abuse. I can only imagine how pathetic I’d look to her, if she could see me now. Hey Remy, I’m so not over you that I could suck my own assistant’s cock in your honour.

That should shock me out of complacency. Instead, it makes me bite my lower lip.

I make my way to the kitchen. Expensive, immaculate, impersonal, and barely used. I feel like there’s some metaphor in there, but I’m not sure what it is.

God. I’ve been alone too long. This is an empty home, empty in a way that no amount of tidiness can dispel. I’m almost eager to get out of here, and not because I like the work I do. It’s because at work, I have my own, twisted, personal playground.

But I shouldn’t do it. I need boundaries, I shouldn’t do it.

But then what else do I have left?

… I can’t believe I really just thought that. Is that all there is to my life? Am I nothing more than a collection of my own traumas, carefully nursed and refashioned into fantasies? Is the rest of my life just boring and miserable, or is this lust a black hole, devouring everything else around it?

With a resigned sigh, I place the empty mug in the sink and make my way to the closet. The power suit awaits, a uniform of authority and control. I slip into it, like putting on a costume, complete with mask. I’m pretending to be an adult, someone with their act together.

A dashing, independent woman fit for the modern times.


I collect my briefcase and head towards the door, telling myself, over and over, that today is going to be different. That I’m going to start over.

Another day… another lie.


My workplace is a gleaming tower of glass and steel. It looms ahead, like some kind of obelisk, a monument to corporate pride and futility. It’s a factory of bullshit jobs. I suppose it’s quite fitting that the building would look like this: soulless and impersonal, impractically tall because it needs to make a statement, but also cold and indifferent.

In my mind, I refer to it as the Mountain. It seems oddly appropriate, in a way I can’t quite explain.

When I was a kid, I used to read stories where mountains represented hardships. Heroes would travel there, in search of wisdom, isolation, or perhaps some old messianic figure to ask a boon of. That’s not really apt for this metaphor, though. If there is wisdom to be found in the office, I haven’t seen it.

Mountains are were dragons make their lairs, too, guarding over piles of gold and treasure. The part about dragons rings truer, alright. Greed is the lubricant of this great machinery, and as for me, it is the place where I built my career, rising ever higher. Higher up the Mountain, I suppose.

And yet, that’s not what I’m here for. Unlike the heroes, I’m not looking for wisdom, and I have all the material wealth I could care to acquire. It’s not enough. Now, I visit the Mountain, not in search of enlightenment or glittering gold, but in search of that thrill that feels better than normal sex ever could.

The one you experience when impropriety and suggestion takes over. When you feel the tantalising danger of being found out, of the mask falling, of safety flying out the window. When insubordination, or workplace hierarchy, are warped and twisted away from their original social context, and repurposed into weapons of destructive, addictive arousal.

For example, when you offer your male administrative assistant to make him coffee…

I blush. I shouldn’t do that. I need boundaries. I can’t believe I did that.

It was hot, though, wasn’t it?

The lobby is a flurry of activity as I arrive. Pointless activity, really, like hamsters on wheels. My colleagues are already engrossed in their tasks, the low hum of conversation filling the air. I exchange pleasantries and engage in the usual small talk, all while maintaining the air of confidence and authority that hides how broken I am inside.

But as the morning progresses, my attention starts to drift. Our lawyers want my follow-up on that potential IP infringement they were telling me about, and I really couldn’t care less. They should settle it with a sex wrestling match, I want to tell them. Let them send the hottest girl they have. It’d be far more interesting than this… revolting mundanity.

I find myself stealing glances at the clock, counting down the minutes until I allow myself the next opportunity to play out inconspicuous submission with someone. Anyone, really. Someone dropping a folder, or needing a door opened, or standing in queue behind me at the cafeteria, or…

But I shouldn’t. I need boundaries. I can already feel the rationalisations racing through my brain, though. Maybe I can have my cake and eat it. Maybe I don’t really need to change my habits, just tone them down a little? Be more subtle?

God, I’m so fucked up. I need therapy.

The problem isn’t what I need, though. It’s what I want.

I want to be lied to, humiliated, and gaslit. I want to unwisely let someone into my head – they can do lots of damage in there. I want someone to play my emotions like they’re a fiddle, because I’m so simple and lesser as a person that the confines of my intellect are a child’s toy for them.

I want it to hurt. I want it to consume me. I want to be fucked into complete submission. Even to myself, I’m describing it like it’s hell…

But it’s what my heart wants.


It's a transformation so gradual, so discreet, that if I weren't attuned to the nuances of my colleagues’ behaviour, I might have missed it entirely. But I'm not blind to it. I can't afford to be.

Like all kinksters hiding in public, perverting ostensibly non-sexual interactions around them, I live in fear of being caught. And in hope of being caught. I am uniquely attuned to the way people react to my gestures of impropriety.

Eric’s been reacting a whole lot, recently.

Since that day in the hallways, really, when he so eagerly and closely studied me. That day when I went home, and rubbed myself – a gold star lesbian! – to the thought of his eyes, witnessing the debasement and sexual conquest that Remy always said she would eventually inflict on me.

His eyes, pale and unsettling, now linger on me far longer than mere professionalism demands. Whether I’m just doing my job, or performing a covert act of servility towards a colleague, I can feel him looking.

Sometimes, I look back.

There is something oddly electrifying, about these fleeting moments when our gazes intersect. They make me feel seen, in a way that I haven’t in a long time. Three years, probably.

The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, as our eyes meet. His gaze holds a certain analytical weight, an intensity that leaves me feeling exposed, vulnerable. Like he sees through the corporate façade, and knows that I’m an impostor. That I don’t belong at this desk.

Remy would say that I belong under it. Soiling my lesbian lips with cum and cock…

Each time, I blush, and look away first, unable to hold the gaze of my own assistant. And each time, it feels like a profoundly gendered defeat.

Sometimes, at home, or during the more work-focused moments of my days, I tell myself that I'm imagining things. Remy’s handiwork on my dissected submissive mind, the weight of emotional trauma, the way I eroticise it on a daily basis… these things warp your perception. You start seeing sex everywhere, especially where vanilla sex is completely absent.

You start seeing sex in power.

So, maybe, this is it. I do have an untethered imagination. Maybe I’m just seeing patterns that I want to see, or Eric does think there’s something odd about me, and he just can’t place it at all. Maybe.

But deep down, I know better.

He all but confirms it, one day, in what looks like a mirror image of that first, fateful interaction. Seeing me outside the board room, in the hallway, diligently taking care of my male colleagues’ needs, he dissects me with his gaze.

It feels so dangerous, and so alluring, to run such a risk, to see my subordinate act like an office gopher. I feel like he’s judging me, and I can't deny the rush of excitement that courses through me in response to that idea, even as I chastise myself for indulging in such thoughts.

"Ma'am,” he says at last, “you seem… unusually eager to fetch coffee today."

His tone deceptively casual, but his eyes don’t leave mine for one second. He’s looking for my reaction, and in truth he doesn’t need to look very closely, because I’m blushing like crazy. A cold shiver travels down the full length of my spine.

A comment so seemingly innocuous, yet it sends a shiver down my spine. My heart quickens, and something stirs within me, and I wish I was at home, with my vibrator, because Christ…

I offer a polite smile, feigning nonchalance, but inside, I'm a wreck of anxiety and self-deprecating arousal.

"It's all part of the job," I manage to reply, and cringe internally at what I’ve just said. Stupid, stupid Claire, that big mouth of mine is going to get me in huge trouble sometimes, possibly now.

It’s all part of the job? Seriously? It’s part of the job of the only female board member to fetch coffee for her male “peers”? Have I really just said that out loud?

Apparently, I have, because even Eric’s impassible face can’t resist the smallest of smirks at that. I push past him, trying to ignore the hammering of my heart, or the hunger stirring inside me.

It’ll go away, I tell myself. It’ll go away, like things always do. You make a joke here and a joke there, like when someone asks you to do something, and you jokingly respond yes, master! Or whatever. You fear getting caught, and you long for it, but it never happens, because that’s not how the real world works.

And yet, Eric’s comments keep dropping every time he sees me engage in an act of surreptitious service. He's probing, pushing, testing my boundaries, measuring how far I'll go.

"You have a talent for this, ma'am," he observes once, as I restock the printer rooms with reams of paper during my lunch break, like a secretary would. "Looking after the whole office, I mean. It's impressive how you anticipate everyone's needs."

The double entendre isn't lost on me. His words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implications, and I can feel my body responding to them. My heart races, and a warm flush creeps up my neck. The arousal is undeniable, no matter how indignant a part of me gets at the idea that a fucking man is making me wet.

But that’s what Remy would want. The epytome of humiliation.

I know this can't continue indefinitely. The tension between us, the magnetic pull of desire, it's building towards something. But what?

God, this thrill. It’s dangerous, but nothing in our everyday lives can compare with the intoxicating rush that courses through my veins, as I think about how wrong this is. He’s my subordinate at work, he’s a man, I’m a lesbian, Remy dumped me three years ago, and she did lasting damage to me as a person, and wow I’m panting like a fucking bitch in heat right now.

Because of the thrill. I find myself teetering on the edge of a precipice, unsure of whether I’ll eventually take the plunge, or step back from the abyss.

But here’s the thing about the abyss.

You can rationalise it any way you want, but when you carry your own personal hell, etched deep into your heart…

There is just nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide.


"Hey, listen, could you get me some coffee?"

And there it is.

The moment when my heart stops, when fear and adrenaline, hope and arousal, outrage and sheer panic flood my system all at once. Where I see Remy’s face swimming before me, laughing at the pathetic excuse for a human being I am, even though the words were spoken by a masculine voice.

By my assistant’s voice.

It’s the moment when the game stops being a game, or at least, when you’re no longer the only person to know about your game. Just like that. The question drops like a thunderbolt, shocking me out of my reverie, my complacency.

I’m sitting at my desk, in my office, with my nametag on the door. Eric’s gotten up from his own chair in the waiting area just outside, to come here – without knocking – and speak those words. The words.

Context is everything. I’ve offered to get him coffee once, in the past, and immediately regretted it – as much as I loved it. That was stupid, already, but this… he’s barging in to ask me to do, what, secretary work?

It takes a moment for the words to register, and when they do, I falter and I break eye contact without meaning to. I cross my legs tight under the desk, trying to suppress my body’s reaction. No, no no no. Its taken years of cultivating a strong personality to get to the point where I can just snap my fingers and know my orders will be followed.

The thought of all that effort, going down in flames because I’m horny and sad, is… is…

"I'm busy", I say, clearing my throat halfway through to try and get rid of the slight tremor in my voice. Nervous, why am I so nervous? I can’t sound this feeble. I need to put some actual spine into this.

“I think you’ll find you can fetch your own coffee,” I manage to tack on at the end, after an entirely too long pause. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore the slick heat building up between my legs, because there are parts of my mind that are imagining this confrontation spiralling in quite different directions…

But I can’t just give in as much as I want to.

Can I?

Delivering coffee to my fellow board members is one thing, but to an assistant? It's just completely out of the question, it would raise too many eyebrows. It would reveal…

Eric merely smiles. "When you're out there, getting coffee for someone, is the only time you look like you actually enjoy being here... Claire.”

Not ma’am. Claire. I should correct him. I should be shouting. I should not be hyperventilating.

“I'm just giving you an outlet for that,” he continues. “Making... use of your talents."

The utter audacity of his words shocks me at first, before the shock makes way to fury. I’ve worked my ass of to get where I am, and having an intern disrespect me is completely unacceptable. I almost open my mouth to give Eric the lecture of a lifetime, but the words die in my throat.

I can’t believe it. What if I say yes, what if I… comply? Will he ask again? And what will I say then? The thought of diligently fetching coffee for my own secretary - for a MAN - is infuriating, sexist, dangerous… and exactly what Remy would want for me.

What she’d say I deserve.

I suddenly find it hard to sit still in my chair, thighs squirming and pressing together. I really should nip this in the bud, stop this now. But I really can’t help myself. “Er, fine, I suppose I can do it this once,” I manage. Even to my own ears it sounds hollow.

Eric nods, his pale eyes scrutinising me. "I knew you'd see reason. Besides..."

I squirm again, unable to help myself. Its like all my secret, shameful fantasies come to life whether I like it or not, and the space between my thighs has become embarrassingly slick. I’m just glad the amount of layers I have on means its unlikely to show on my skirt when I get up.

“And besides what?” I challenge, though my voice lacks its usual bite. I find myself watching his eyes, half of me begging for him to back down and let things go back to normal. The other half… begging to be ordered to go make a bloody coffee.

"Besides," he continues, "there's something alluring about a woman who knows how to serve..."

His words cut me, but they also strike something deep inside, causing my cheeks to flush in embarrassment and arousal. I’ve never been spoken to like this before, not without immediately responding with a scathing remark to put the other person in their place.

Remy being the obvious expection…

I stand abruptly, my hands clenched into tight fists. For a moment I entertain the idea of firing him on the spot and having him escorted from the building. Instead, I lower my eyes without meaning to, and hurry out of my office, down to the break room to grab a cup of coffee.

I don’t know how he likes his coffee, but I suppose that isn’t the point. I just throw together a cup as best I can, trying to keep my hands from trembling. It’s difficult to act normal when my mind is screaming at me to stop this, but by this point the abyss inside me is sucking me into its gravity well. The beast is stirring, and it hungers.

When I return to my office, carrying the coffee that symbolises my submission to his audacious request, I find Eric lounging in my chair. My very comfy, very expensive chair that I worked hard to earn. My cheeks flush again with both anger and arousal, but I say nothing as I settle the coffee cup on my desk in front of him.

He acknowledges the offering with a nod, and his demeanor remains calm, almost nonchalant. "So," he says, amicably, "I think we should talk."

I gulp audibly, the sound echoing in the room like a confession. There's an undeniable glimmer in his eyes, a predatory gleam that tells me he's not done. That he's just getting started.

His words hang in the air like a charged promise, and my world narrows down to that moment, that sentence. I'm perched on the precipice, unsure of whether to resist or to surrender to the unknown.

“T-talk about… what?” I stammer. My heart races, and it feels like the world is upside down, like there’s no cardinal points anymore, nothing makes sense. It feels like I’m falling, faster and faster. Being tugged by the powerful pull of something new and forbidden, something that might unravel everything I've built.

That might unravel and destroy me completely.

"Well, Claire, for starters” he says, steepling his fingers, leaning forward, and for a second, his expressionless face morphs in what looks like a devilish grin to me… so like Remy’s. “I can't help but wonder what other talents you might have...”

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