I lay here, in my drawer-- sorry, not MY drawer, HER drawer-- waking up to the sound of her alarm clock outside my dresser prison. A stray ankle sock keeps my naked body warm. I've been good lately, so I get to sleep with her clean clothes. It's a privilege under her rule-- not a right. My rights were signed away years ago, by nobody's fault but my own.

She's coming. I hear her footsteps; I feel her footsteps subtly vibrate the floor beneath me, and increase in their vibratory power as she approaches. The harsh light of a new day blinds me for a moment. I rub my eyes, crawling from my sock-bed to look up at her, the weight of my small body resting on my calves as my calloused knees dig into the dresser wood. Strands of her strawberry blonde hair dangled into my-- sorry HER-- drawer.

"Morning, Caleb," my goddess says.

"Good morning, goddess Natalie."


The circumstances that brought me here are, as stated before, nobody's fault but my own. It's hard to say where it all started. I can go as far back as our wedding engagement, my infidelity, my gamlbing problem that brought me crawling to her for a job in her lawfirm. I was desperate at the time, drowning in debt after I used a casino to numb the emotional pain I suffered with after our break up. When the loan sharks got involved, I ran into some trouble. I knew Natalie came from money, climbing her way up the legal ladder and taking over her father's lawfirm after his passing. I didn't know who else to turn to other than the woman I shared my life with for years. Sure, we were broken up, and I'm sure she didn't want to talk to me after I cheated on her, but I was desperate. For legal advice. For debt relief. For safety.

So Natalie agreed to cover all my debt, and gave me a job in her firm to work it off. With the stroke of a pen and my name on a dotted line, I was debt free and employed. It was that easy. The relief I felt overpowered the dread of working with my ex-fiancé.

I regret it to this day.

I started in the mailroom, sorting and delvering to my various superiors around the office. It didn't take long for Natalie to ask me to get her a coffee-- then another after I made the first wrong. Picking up her drycleaning had me questioning what my acrual role was here in the office-- my title, if you will. At the time, I felt it wasn't my place to gripe over the tasks she gave me, so I kept it to myself.

It wasn't until she pushed the limit on my humiliation that I decided to speak up, "You want me to what?" I asked after scanning, copying, and delivering documents for her two paralegals sitting in front of her desk for a meeting.

"Get under the desk," Natalie pointed, with her long, sharp, red fingernail flaunting its emphasis, "and rub my feet, Caleb."

The two paralegals snickered like they just heard some juicy gossip.

"I... I don't feel comfortable doing that," I said, obviously blushing.

"Okay," was all Natalie said. Her finger remained, her chair kept the doorway to beneath her desk open. Not as if she didn't hear me, but as if she didn't care.

I was confused, and felt a lump pack its way in my throat. "So..." I played off her blunt response, "is there anything else you need?"

The three girls laughed. Natalie calmed the two paralegals when she answered, "I already told you, Caleb. Get under my desk and rub my feet."

Here's where the truth was revealed, and my life changed in an exponential spiral pattern. "I'm sorry," I started, "but I've been meaning to ask you; what's my actual role around here? Am I like your assistant?"

A devious curl spread across her smiling face. Natalie rolled her chair to her filing cabinet where she dug up the fat stack of terms and conditions I signed up for. She put on her glasses and flicked through the contract, directing me to some arbitrary point on a page I wouldn't have even read, let alone skimmed.

JOB TITLE: Natalie's

That was all it read. No lines to indicate a blank space that might be filled to make me Natalie's assistant, or Natalie's clerk, or Natalie's... slave. None of that. I was just Natalie's. I was Natalie's. As much as this firm is hers... so am I.

"Now," she started, closing the document, "you can keep this copy-- we have plenty more--" her eyes motioned to her paralegals, "and I'd advise you to read it over at some point, and see why you are currently, contractually obligated to get under my desk and rub my feet."

I stood there silent, eyes and mouth wide with confusion and fear. Natalie's paralegals were visibly holding back laughter.

Natalie rolled her chair out from her desk, just a bit. "Now, we have work to attend to. So please, if you will."

I looked at Natalie. I looked at the girls, still snickering. I looked at the contract. I looked back at Natalie who grew visibly impatient.

There was no anger in her tone, she spoke so matter of fact; "Now, Caleb."

I awkwardly got on all fours, shaking as I did and with each crawling step I took. The space betwern her legs and the desk was just enough to barely let me through, and no more. The light of her office dimmed away from me as I adjusted my way under her desk, where she rolled in and placed her high heeled feet on my lap. I expected her to kick her shoes off, but the face she made, and hand gesture to get a move on was signal for me to take off her heel and get to work.

So I took hold of the sole and pointed heel of her shoe, and pulled it off. Immediatley, I felt the heat eminate from the shoe. A musky heat that put the cramped underside of Natalie's desk into perspective, as-- come the removal of the second heel-- my dark workspace pocketed the sweaty odor around me.

A roar of laughter from the girls startled me to work, causing my hands to jump and take hold of Natalie's nylon encased foot. A flood of 'what-if?'s kept a stream of dread flowing through me as I wondered... what else did I sign up for?