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"Emily."
Emily scrambled on her aching feet and clattered to Miranda's door, as quickly as she could.
It was after midnight, and Emily was still in the middle of updating tomorrow's schedule. Miranda was seated behind her desk, sipping her seventh cup of coffee and flipping through a rival's catalogue. The two of them and the security guard were the only three people left in the building, and the security guard knew better than come near this floor when Miranda Priestley was in.
Miranda was still dressed in the amazing black and red outfit she'd worn for dinner with Paul from Bonfire Magazines and a couple of investors. Emily was left with an impression that they had been Bonfire's investors... before the dinner, if not after.
"Yes, Miranda?" Emily hoped she had succeeded in keeping the tremble out of her voice.
The thing was, almost first thing in the morning that day, Paul from Bonfire Magazines had made Emily a job offer of senior administrator on Selections California, right in front of the Runway building while she was hurrying in with Miranda's morning coffee. She'd practically screamed her refusal, but people simply did not try to steal things from Miranda without there being fallout that everybody got caught in. Emily had spent the day in a state of nervous expectation, and had had to use all her resources to focus enough to not make a mess of her job.
Miranda did not look up. "You've been here for twelve hours, haven't you?"
Emily felt a touch of pride, even a reckless hope of a kind word. "Yes, Miranda."
Now Miranda did look up, her merciless eyes as inscrutable as ever. "Did we have a crisis I didn't hear about or did you just dally about all day? You won't get overtime for being a slacker."
Emily's delight died in her throat, and she swallowed. "No, of course not, Miranda."
Miranda leaned forward and crossed her arms on the table. She gazed at Emily with a detached kind of interest, cool eyes flickering across Emily's face, her Oscar de la Renta top, and down to her shoes. "Shall I be honest?" she said. "Half the time I don't know why I keep you around. You're not terribly smart. You're only passably good-looking, and I have fired girls who were twice as quick on their feet."
"I will try to do better, Miranda, I promise," Emily simpered, and instantly felt ashamed for it. Her job depended on not annoying Miranda.
"You know why I think it is?" Miranda interrupted, as if Emily had never spoken. "The kindness of my heart. I truly believe that. It's not even that I allow you to draw a pay check for a job any girl would kill to do for free. It's that I can see how much you love to be shown exactly how worthless you are. You get off on holding a job you're unqualified for, don't you?"
Miranda rose from behind her desk like a sea goddess from the waves, her gown falling about her in folds. She took Emily's breath away. She was a goddess - cruel, vindictive, intelligent, and irresistible.
And she was perfectly right.
Oh, Emily knew she was damn good at what she did. She just loved being told otherwise. Specifically, by someone gorgeous and cold and unattainable, who was flawless in every single way and dressed in ways that go beyond perfection into the sublime - and who knew exactly what she was doing to Emily.
By Miranda.
Emily swallowed, keeping hopeful eyes on her boss – her mistress.
"On your knees," Miranda commanded.
Emily dropped down, scraping the toes of her $700 shoes on the gleaming floor and banging her knees on its hard surface.
Miranda rounded the desk, coming to tower above Emily. "Are you wet yet, slut?" she enquired conversationally.
At the words, Emily's pussy tightened in a quick spasm. "No, Miranda," she managed.
Miranda leaned over and whispered into Emily's ear, "Liar."
She straightened and paced slowly around Emily. "Look at you. On your knees like a slave in some filthy sex dungeon somewhere. You really have no pride." She stopped and tilted her head. "Your hair needed freshening up hours ago, did you know that? Either you use too much gel and don't own a goddamn hand mirror, or you've just let the night guard cum all over it. Is that it? Did you suck some guy off in my office, you whore?"
"No, Miranda!" Emily protested. "I would never... I wouldn't!"
Miranda leaned her hips on her desk and looked Emily over. "Or are you carpet-muncher, Emily? Is that pussy juice you have smeared all over you?"
"It's gel," Emily croaked from between dry lips. "I'm sorry I haven't looked after it properly, Miranda, I--"
"You bet it is," Miranda hissed, grabbing a handful of Emily's hair in a sudden movement, yanking her head back. "You don't fuck on my time, not unless I say so, do you get that?"
"Yes, oh yes, Miranda," Emily cried, her eyes watering at the pain in her scalp. It was perfect.
"You are nothing but a worthless little lesbian, a speck, entirely insignificant. Oh I know you're gagging for it now, aren't you? You're just dying to taste my cunt. You want to dig your nose in there and smother on me. You really think you deserve that?"
Emily was shivering with delicious shame. "No, Miranda," she moaned, and oh, how she loved to say her name. Miranda. Miranda. Mistress.
"You disgust me." Miranda's red lips parted, the upper one curling up just a tiny fraction. "You're a spineless, dirty little slut."
"Yes, Miranda," Emily moaned. "It's true. I am."
"And you're my dirty little slut," said Miranda, and pulled Emily's face into her crotch.
The silk of Miranda's dress was so fine that Emily's nose dug into the cleft of her pussy through it, the heat of her body emanating through the fine, dry cloth. There was a slight smell of roses and woman. Emily's heart was racing, and her pussy was clenching and unclenching rapidly.
Sweet Jesus. Miranda.
"Don't forget it," Miranda commanded, and let her go.