Assistance

The blue aura of the aquarium illuminated Annabelle's face. It highlighted her cheekbones and darkened the hollows of her face in the most alluring ways. The circles under her eyes told one story: a tale of long hours, a lack of sleep. The shadows suggested some kind of maintenance issue. That she was overworked and underappreciated in some way. The gentle upward curve to her lips told the true story: a glorious evening spent with the most perfect person I know.

Annabelle leaned back on the bench, her hands forming the base. Her shoulders tensed as she squeezed her shoulders together to support herself as she gazed up in awe at the wondrous glass panes before us. Her face relaxed, eyes wide - it was as if she was seeing an aquarium for the first time. She looked incredible. But, then again, she always looks incredible. She looked incredible even the days she hit the snooze button one too many times; on the days her outfit was more on the comfortable side of professional and not her usual doll-ish style; when she would power-walk through the door, the bottom layers of her hair still damp as her lush, thick hair held on to every ounce of moisture. I would watch her hurry to her desk, wearing evidence of her rushed shower. Or was it that she lingered?

Annabelle's black, curly hair was now tucked up into a bun. A few loose strands framed her face. This was a recent development. A result of my direction.

While observing the Giant Pacific Octopus, I discovered we were hidden around a corner. An advantageous corner. I looked to my periphery. Through some kind of divine providence, we were alone. As we watched the deep sea creature climb across the glass of his enclosure, I ran my hand up Annabelle's back to the nape of her neck. I felt her body tense. She leaned into the foreign sensation. I tangled my fingers into her hair, running my fingernails over her scalp. Her sharp inhale reverberated through her body. I tightened my grip. Her breathing grew shallow. Annabelle shivered. I leaned in, pressing our bodies together. Two separate entities transforming to fit the contours of each other. My voice escaped in a low gravel,

"Should I stop?"

Annabelle's breath hitched in her throat. She shook her head "no." Despite what I had instructed her, she shook her head. She should be using her words. She knows better now. She should know better. Was she doing this on purpose? An attempt to get a rise out of me? Or is this her way of demonstrating reluctance in submission?

I released Annabelle's hair. I moved my hand down to her shoulder. Her body did not demonstrate any signs of relief. It did not seem that she was afraid of rejecting me. In fact, she seemed disappointed. Something else was preventing her from speaking.

"What have I said about using your words?"

"I'm sorry-"

"Answer my question."

"That I need to use my words."

"That's right."

I kept my hand on her shoulder. Another couple strolled by. I made sure Annabelle and I appeared much the same as them: a couple out for a spontaneous midweek date. But below the surface, I'm trying to parse out whether or not I'm pushing her too far. I remained silent until I determined they were far enough out of earshot.

"I'm going to ask you a question and I expect a verbal response. Am I understood?"

"Yes-" she hesitated. I could feel the courage building up inside her.

"Yes, Daddy."

"Good girl. Do you want me to stop?"

"No, Daddy."

The words rolled off her tongue this time.

"Then why didn't you use your words?"

She paused. Annabelle inhaled, preparing to describe the interior of her mind.

"I'm feeling shy," she mumbled.

Her blush and smirk indicated that she was enjoying it. There was no one around - surely she could see that. Did she not trust me to not embarrass her? Why was she feeling shy? Is that something she wanted to change?

I released her shoulder. She almost sighed, but feeling shy she did not allow herself too.

"You have a scrunchie on your wrist," I stated planely.

She looked down to her right wrist and replied,

"Yes."

Good. She's learning.

"I want you to tie your hair back. Into a bun. So I cannot be tempted to grab it every time I notice we have a private moment."

Without hesitation she brought her hands up to her hair and gathered it up. The same hair that would come in damp and make me wonder what caused her delays in the shower. She obediently put her hair up into a bun. A strand of hair naturally fell out, as if it was always intended to frame her face.

"All done Daddy," she said, somewhat proudly.

I placed my arm back around her shoulder. I leaned in close to her. I pressed my face against her so she could feel my hot breath against her as I whispered,

"Good girl."

I meant it. She realized I had no intentions of doing anything that would embarrass her, let alone humiliate her. I had no intention of putting her submission on display - at least not in this way. She was open to being transformed.

A manta ray of prehistoric proportions sailed past, bringing me back to the present moment. As it cast its shadow across us, I turned to look directly at Annabelle. She was in awe. She turned to me with a smile. Her eyes were bright, blank. Not empty. Just blank. Her mind wasn't free of thought - her thoughts were free. Her gaze was calm, subdued. A look of complete trust, admiration even.

She's real. And she's here.

I wanted to reach out and touch her. Put my hand on hers. Link our fingers together. Feel her soft hair against my face. Close my eyes. Allow the smell of her honey shampoo to envelop me. Not for any display of dominance. Just pure affection. The sensation of having her relax into me. The feeling of having her safe in my arms. But I was paralyzed.

I longed to worship her. I wanted to give her everything. Anything she wanted would be hers. My desire commanded it of me; my ego demanded she earn it from me. Last night, when my wishes came true, I came to the crashing realization that my ego and lust amounted to something terrifying: genuine affection.

From the moment she entered the room, all I wanted was to claim her. My eyes locked on her. I knew I could never let her go. Even if I wanted to. It was as if my deepest desires were manifested before me. Long, curly hair. An alluring gaze. Sweet, plump lips. A button nose. A figure worthy of being immortalized in marble. My dream woman was in front of me, palpably nervous and clutching a resume. Fuck.

I wanted to know everything about her. Where does she live? Where did she grow up? What's her favorite book? Why is it her favorite? If she could have one dream come true, what would it be? I wanted to know her pain, her joy, hold her deepest, darkest secrets. I wanted to comfort her, reassure her that she has everything she needs, all within her. I just hoped that, maybe, she wanted to need me. The same way I needed to see her doe eyes peering up at me, listening to her voice tremble as she whimpered, "Yes, Daddy."

Last night, she submitted to me in word and in deed. She was the one who first cried out, "Daddy." She didn't flinch when I scrunched her panties into my face for a whiff. She unraveled at the mention of being transformed. She didn't react in abject horror to my admissions. If anything, she melted. Her body relaxed at the thought of allowing me to guide her. She gave herself to me. But the wary-eyed monster of self-doubt was creeping its way back in.

I felt disgusting. All these desires, these feelings of need, have to be predatory. There is no way I could not be a monster for feeling this way. She was intelligent, strong, and perfectly capable. There was no way she would ever need me. How could she? To try and be a part of her story, and I knew it would be a spectacular one, could only be classified as selfish.

Why would she choose to spend the best years of her life with me? Sure, I'm healthy now, or as healthy as I can be at my age, but for how long? Watching her giggle at the penguins and dance in front of the beluga brought me as much grief as it did joy. She is in her prime. I have nowhere to go but decline. How long will I be able to keep up with her?

For the first time, I prayed. I prayed to anyone, anything that would listen. I prayed to find courage. I prayed for guidance. There was so much I wanted to do - so much I wanted to give, to experience with her - and all I could do was sit and try not to gawk. The idea of going up to any given stranger and asking if they wanted a quick fuck in the broom closet was less scary than reaching out and touching her in this moment. Dominance is easy; affection is dangerous. A quick, risky fling was safer than holding her hand. Being rejected by a stranger means nothing; being rejected by her means everything.

The facts surrounding us did nothing to soothe me, either. She is 23 years my junior. She is at the dawn of her career; I am, well, not. She is a financially unstable postgraduate. It's been years since I've had to pay close attention to my bank account. Not that I ever really had to. The times that I did were out of stubborn pride rather than necessity, given my family. I am her employer - her superior. I check all the boxes of being perceived as a perverted, lecherous old man praying on his upshot assistant.

My desires made me wonder if those things were all true. All these facts did not deter me, though, from finding creative ways of testing the waters. As much as I feared being deemed a monster, a larger part hoped that is what she wanted: a beast she can tame as much as he claims her. Someone who gives her everything she could ever want or need, because she deserves it and I have the ability to.

Of course, I could not ignore my misdeeds driven by my addiction to misery. Something dark inside me wanted to push away happiness at all costs. I've done it before. Would I make the same mistake again?

I'm sure my face was stern. Stoic as I wrestled with my inner monologue. Does she notice? I'm sure she notices. She notices everything. She is like me: sharp, astute and hyperaware. I'm sure she noticed. Does she think I'm angry with her? Maybe she noticed and doesn't care. Or maybe she noticed and is thinking that it's just normal. My head was swimming with so many "maybes," I felt like I should be in the tank alongside the Manta Ray.

Over the almost 2 years we've been working together she has gone from a burnt out post-grad to a confident, assertive business woman. Not that I made anything easy for her. Frankly, I'm surprised she's still here, let alone sitting next to me. There were times I was hard on her. More than a few times I was even cruel. I recognize that. I live with that.

From the moment she walked through the door, I knew she could ruin me if she wanted. She is the type of person who has the ability to bring even the strongest men to his knees. There have been times she almost brought me to mine. I've witnessed her turn the grumpiest, most jaded in our industry into kittens eating out of the palm of her hand. I know what I can offer. More than that, I know what people can take. Would she do the same?

My colleagues had been suggesting that I hire an assistant for years. Someone to help take monotonous tasks off my plate. Someone who could help me get out of my own way. I was resistant until I hit my own burnout during COVID. I thought maybe now was as good a time as any to get some assistance. I wanted someone stupid. Someone low stakes. Someone who I could just point and say, "Do that" and it's done. No extra thought. I did not have any interest in anyone who would try to change or alter my work. The ideal candidate would have never had an original thought in their life. Their favorite pastime was talking about other people's lives, watching trash TV, and avoiding a library. Annabelle is none of those things.

When her resume entered my inbox, the loudest part of my brain screamed at me for even calling her in for an interview.

"What are you a moron? She is overqualified. Look at her degrees. Look at that resume. Are you looking to get fucked?"

My mind screamed. It yelled. It threw things and had an explosion of nuclear proportions, but still, something in me whispered,

"Do it."

I listened to the faint voice coming from a place unfamiliar to me.

I tried to dissuade her during the interview. I was pleasant in my approach - I'm not a total monster. I said that the job I am hiring for is below her degrees. That she'd be incredibly bored. She was having none of it.

"Respectfully, I have spent the past several years obtaining those degrees. All while working. A somewhat menial job is what I need."

I'll never forget what she said because the words were my own. She used my own words to prove her point. A dangerous trait. One I recognized in myself. It ended up being one of the several instances where she wasn't a good listener. But good God was she the best girl I could ever ask her. There's no way I could ever deserve that. She deserves so much more than me.

I tried to push her away. I was harsh, difficult, and demanding. I nitpicked her for the littlest things. The way she answered the phone. The way she organized her desk. Where she placed the coffee cup. Before she could even try to justify herself, I was off with a huff, a growl and a,

"Forget it."

I know there were times I made her cry. I would watch the tears well up in her eyes. It angered and aroused me. All I wanted was to watch the release and call her into my arms. Make it up to her by turning those tears into ecstasy. I hated myself for it. I don't know why she stayed. I wouldn't have stayed.

But the times I praised her, I watched the instant relief wash across her face. Her whole body loosened. I could sense her resisting the urge to crumble to my feet. God, how I wanted her there. I fooled myself into thinking that all the moments I was cruel made the times I was kind more valid, valuable. If I gave her the praise she wanted too frequently, it would lose its meaning. It's potency would diminish as she remembers how incredible she is and doesn't need any assurances from me. I was more afraid that, if I praised her too much, she would take what she could and leave me. She would wake up and realize she is somehow settling. She would realize how incredible she is and how I don't deserve her. She would realize she was wasting her time and potential on me. At least if I was cruel, she would leave and I could be the villain I've always imagined myself to be. Then she could go off and unlock her potential. She didn't need me.

In truth, I was depriving myself. If I were to praise her as much as she deserves, a part of my depravity would be unlocked. I had no way of controlling the flood that would escape from me. The constant need to hear her laugh, to make her smile - to ensure she is perpetually pleased. Because that's what I want her to do for me, too. But that is a fool's errand. There was no way she would be interested, or tolerate, the intricacies of my kinks.

I was brought out of the depths of my thought by the warmth of her hand on mine. As if she knew what I needed but was terrified to ask for. She smiled at me. I almost came undone. How can one person have so much power over me?

"It's ok," she comforted, "I'm here."

Annabelle leaned on my shoulder. She settled in with me. Her face felt soft and warm. She has more courage than me. I released a sigh that felt like it was my first exhale in my life. She giggled,

"You know, that's the same exhale you make whenever you see me dressed for an event."

I froze. I felt like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. She nuzzled me with her face.

"What do you mean?" I asked in a voice deeper than my usual. It was a subliminal attempt to regain the control I felt I had lost.

"Whenever I'd get dressed up for an event, when you would see me for the first time, you would do this thing. You would sigh, close your eyes tight, and press your hand to your forehead. The sigh you just made? It's the same sigh."

For the first time since my youth, I felt trapped. She had me pinned. I was at her whims. She could do whatever she wanted to me. She should destroy me, if she wanted.

"You did it every time. I always wondered, well, I guess hoped, that you were trying to imprint the memory into your mind."

"I was. I want to remember every detail about you."

She looked up at me. Doe-eyed. Fuck. Those eyes. God, I wanted to kiss her. Deep down, I knew she wanted me to kiss her too. But that's not what either of us needed. Not at that moment, at least. I wrapped my arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

"Are you enjoying this?" I asked, earnest in my curiosity.

She nodded and nuzzled closer. I wasn't going to let her off that easily.

"What have we talked about using your words?"

"Yes, Daddy."

My fears were soothed for the present. I felt her work her way up to my ear. She paused. I felt her head pivot. I could feel her lips pressing against me as she whispered into my ear,

"Daddy, may I worship you?"

Christ. She is going to ruin me. Asking permission like I'm a deity whose favor she's imploring. I looked down at her. Her green eyes round as saucers, like a kitten pleading for a toy.

"Why?" I asked her.

I could not give into my primal thoughts. Not without vetting her intentions first. The darkness would not allow it. She cooed sweetly,

"I want to make you feel good. The way you made me feel good last night."

Her desire was sincere. I could feel it. I knew that, once we were alone, she would tear herself apart if it meant pleasing me. Sincerity is one thing. Safety, both emotional and physical, are another.

She pulled my arm closer, tighter into her body. I could feel her breasts against me. She rubbed against me. I wondered about how hard her nipples were fighting to be contained within the fabric of her bra. I fought every urge to claim her under the pale blue light of the aquarium.

Some sort of switch in her brain triggered her submissive mode. Maybe it was the sternness of my face. Maybe she did, in fact, fear that I was angry at her and this was her way of getting ahead of the outburst. I haven't been easy and I would be remiss by not admitting I was haunted by my past actions. I had to make sure her sincerity was coming from a place of security.

"Is that what you want?" I asked her.

"Yes Daddy," she whispered lightly. Her words fluttered into my ear and down my spine.

Sincerity and security, I repeated to myself.

"I...I want that, too," I admitted.

I hated the vulnerability. It felt like a loss of control. I know it wasn't. I felt the heat of fear as I said those words, but I knew I had to meet her halfway.

"But, remember what I said?"

She nodded.

"Use your words," I pulled her away so I could look at her.

It felt like I was seeing her face for the first time. Every time I look at her, it feels striking like the first time I saw her. She sat up a bit and mumbled,

"That you're not going to spoil me and you're only going to give me what I need."

"That's right," I smiled at her. Maybe she had kicked that stubbornness - at least had for the moment.

"And what you need-"

I paused. I had a choice to make. How honest can I be? What should I mask cowardice as dominance?

"And what I need, too, is to discuss some things first so there are no misunderstandings."

I saw a flash of rejection across her face. I felt my heart crumble like a tin can.

"Would you like to go someplace more private to discuss?"

She bravened up her face and responded with a resolute,

"Yes."

We rose from the bench and made our way to the exit. I heard the clicking of her untied shoelace against the tile. I looked down and saw her laces flopping on the floor.

"Stop," I commanded. She listened.