One foolish mistake has cost her dearly—it will take a brave decision to put her back in pole position.
For the avoidance of doubt, please be informed that you are a pair of arrogant, self-serving sh*ts. Further, you are bigoted, self-righteous phonies.
Not exactly the best way to address the directors of the law firm if I want to hang on to my job, but I’ve had it up to here with James and Daniel Morgan. If they object so strongly to what I do in my spare time they shouldn’t snoop into my Facebook account. Not that any of this self-righteous indignation is going to help me. I’ve been fired.
So what are they thinking now? First James and Daniel have me dismissed, then they turn up as though nothing is wrong while I’m clearing out my desk and invite me out to lunch? What are they up to? And why am I even going with them?
They may be handsome as sin, the pair of them, and now that they know I’m a pole dancer in my spare time they seem to think I’ll sleep with them to keep my job.
Not that the idea doesn’t have its appeal, but they’re wrong. I have my standards too…and not the double standards these two seem to live by.
If I decide to give James and Daniel Morgan a very private performance it will be on my terms, not theirs.
Reader Advisory: This book contains scenes of double penetration.
Publisher's Note: This book has previously been released as part of the Three's A Charm anthology with Totally Bound Publishing.
General Release Date: 8th August 2017
Hypocrites! Bloody two-faced smug bastards. Fuck!
I slam the door as I flounce from Miss Pritchard’s office. She’s no better than they are—pretentious, superior, always looking down on me, always finding fault. Still, I need this job—correction, needed—so I should have been more careful.
Fuck! Fuck, fuck!
It’s been exactly twenty-eight minutes since I was summoned to present myself before the head of Corporate Services. I knew the moment I read Miss Pritchard’s email that this did not bode well.
An issue has arisen which I need to discuss with you. My office, 12.15.
Miss Pritchard is a woman of few words and rarely does she waste many of them on me. I reread the terse message, then checked the time at the foot of my screen. It was already four minutes past twelve and I had to get right the way up to the seventh floor. I sighed and shut down my computer. No point in making matters worse by being late.
She didn’t even invite me to sit when I presented myself in front of her desk.
“It has come to our attention that you have some…” she paused, her pinched features creased in concentration as she sought the right words to express her disdain, “less than salubrious personal habits. We are given to understand that you frequent places of inappropriate entertainment and what is more, you have actually been known to perform in such establishments.”
She wrinkled her narrow nose as she spat out the final words, as though a particularly disagreeable smell had wafted beneath her fastidious nostrils. Then she settled back in her oversized office chair waiting for me to comment.
I didn’t give her the satisfaction. I had a pretty good idea what she was referring to but I was determined to wait her out. What I do in my spare time is no one’s business but mine.
“Well, what do you have to say, Miss Santori?” She peered at me over her rimless spectacles. “Explain yourself.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Miss Pritchard. Could you say a little more about what exactly seems to be amiss?”
“This,” she hissed. “This is what is amiss. Do you deny that this is you?”
She spun the monitor of her desktop computer around to afford me a view of the screen. And there I was in all my glory, six feet up a shining steel pole performing a rather splendid Duchess pose. As we watched I transitioned into a Dove, followed by an inverted Archer. Nice work, even if I do say so myself.
And bloody difficult. Years of practice, pain and sheer hard work were displayed on the screen but all this narrow-minded shrew could see was a half-naked woman dangling from a pole.
“My Facebook account,” I murmured, silently cursing my carelessness. “That’s private.”
“No, it isn’t. This, this filth is out there, on the Internet. Anyone could see it, and if they do and they realize your connection to this firm… Well, the partners take a dim view, Miss Santori. A very dim view indeed.”
“My account is private,” I tried to insist, though I already knew that line of defense wouldn’t help me at all. “I have no idea how you managed to access these images, but I can assure you—”
“It has to stop. Now. I shall need your written undertaking that you will cease all such unsavory activity forthwith. There must be no repetition. None. Do you understand me?”
I shook my head, starting to bristle. I have never taken well to being ordered about and, Head of Corporate Services or not, Miss Pritchard was without doubt overstepping her authority. I may be a humble admin assistant, but I have rights.
“I don’t think so. This has nothing to do with Morgans or with the partners. What I do in my own time is—”
“As long as you work for this firm, there will be no such thing as your own time. You represent this firm at all times, and Morgans has certain standards. High standards, Miss Santori. Standards which do not include this sort of thing.” She paused to clear the screen, as though unable to bear the sight of my apparent debauchery for another moment. “If you wish to continue working here I shall have your signature on this amendment to your contract. And do not think for one moment we will hesitate to take action should you breach the terms of your employment again.”
“Terms of my employment? What are you talking about? My dancing is a hobby, a way of keeping fit. It has no bearing on my job.”
“Have you not been listening to me? If you wish to continue working at Morgans you will give up this lewd behavior immediately. Do I make myself clear?”
Lewd behavior? What century is she in? I leaned forward and planted my clenched fists on her desk, determined to make some sort of stand. “But—”
“I see. Very well, I shall instruct payroll to forward your final month’s salary to you. You have one hour to clear your desk.”
“What?”
“One hour. That will be all, Miss Santori.”
“But you can’t. You can’t just sack me?”
“I can and I just have.” She picked up the handset of the phone on her desk and pressed two keys. “Payroll? Yes, I need you to terminate an employee. Miss Santori. Emily. Admin and filing clerk, Corporate Services, level three. I’ll email her National Insurance number across within the hour. Yes, that’s right. Immediate effect. Thank you.”
She replaced the handset and fixed me with a level stare. “Are you still here?”
* * * *
Back at my narrow desk on the second floor, tucked away between the photocopier and the water cooler, I put my head in my hands. How could I have been so stupid? Whatever possessed me to put those images on my timeline? And why hadn’t I just apologized and promised to delete them? I could have signed Miss Pritchard’s bloody paper and kept my job. Even if I continued to practice pole fitness—and I would—there’s no guarantee Morgans would ever find out and if they did I’d be no worse off than I am now. I had been intending to hand in my notice in a few months in any case. All I’d had to do was keep my head down…
Fucking Morgans! This might be the most prestigious legal firm in this city, but the partners don’t walk on water. Who are James and Daniel Morgan to dictate what I can and can’t do in my spare time? They don’t pay me nearly enough to give them that right. And how come it’s okay for them to chill out with their cronies at Hard Limits, but I get fired for performing there just once?
To make matters even more ridiculous, the video Miss Pritchard has taken such exception to wasn’t even filmed at the club. My supervisor only made the link because I mentioned it in the post.
How would this go down at Hard Limits next week? I’m booked to stand in for Lindsey. Not doing it topless though, they don’t pay well enough for that.
A stupid remark, not least as the most the club would expect would be a few spins and maybe an Inverted Crucifix, definitely nothing on the extreme scale in my video. Topless would be preferred, but not essential. The offending video was actually recorded in the studio where I practice and is my prepared routine for a competition I’m hoping to do well in next month.
Hard Limits is not the den of sleaze and iniquity Miss Pritchard seems to imagine—quite the reverse in fact. It’s an upmarket members club which does, from time to time, offer pole dancing performances as part of the entertainment. The delights also include burlesque, various forms of erotic dancing and some big-name bands on occasion. It’s not a sex club and although there is some nudity on stage it could hardly be described as a strip joint. It would cost most of my weekly salary just to get in there on a Saturday night.
Not that such considerations would be an issue for the Morgan brothers. They’re regulars at Hard Limits, though they probably have no idea I’ve seen them there, or that I recognized them. Invisible, unnoticed behind the bar, I serve them drinks because that’s my usual job at the nightclub. I need the extra money, admin clerks don’t earn much and I have plans. As it is I expect I’ll end up mixing Jäegerbombs every night and I still won’t make enough to fund myself through a law degree. I’d been hoping to stay on at Morgans part-time to help pay my way through university, and with the shifts at Hard Limits and occasional performances when one of the usual dancers didn’t turn up I would have been okay.
Now, I’m screwed. It’s not just the money. I need a reference from Morgans to get me through the door of any other law firm and I can whistle for that now.
Shit!
I fire up my computer and open my email program. If those smug, overprivileged bastards think I’m taking this lying down, they’re wrong. They might be handsome as sin, both of them, but that doesn’t make them God. They need telling.
I start to type.
From: Emily Santori, CS Admin.
To: James Morgan, Partner
Daniel Morgan, Partner
Date: 31 July 2016
Subject: Hard Limits
Dear Hypocrites,
For the avoidance of doubt, please be informed that you are a pair of arrogant, self-serving shits. Further, you are bigoted, self-righteous phonies.
I am reliably informed that your precious firm has standards. What it has, Sirs, is double standards. It’s quite all right, apparently, for you to attend Hard Limits most weekends, but I have to lose my job just because I do so and you happen to disapprove of what I post on my private Facebook page. If you don’t like it, then don’t look.
Except you do like it, don’t you? As I say—hypocrites.
Please feel free to keep my final paycheck. I want nothing from you.
Yours sincerely,
Emily Santori, (ex) Admin Assistant, Corporate Services
I hit send and reach for the cardboard box under my desk. Bridges burned, it’s time to pack.
Until 2010, Ashe was a director of a regeneration company before deciding there had to be more to life and leaving to pursue a lifetime goal of self-employment.
Ashe has been an avid reader of women's fiction for many years—erotic, historical, contemporary, fantasy, romance—you name it, as long as it's written by women, for women. Now, at last in control of her own time and working from her home in rural West Yorkshire, she has been able to realise her dream of writing erotic romance herself.
She draws on settings and anecdotes from her previous and current experience to lend colour, detail and realism to her plots and characters, but her stories of love, challenge, resilience and compassion are the conjurings of her own imagination. She loves to craft strong, enigmatic men and bright, sassy women to give them a hard time—in every sense of the word.
When she's not writing, Ashe's time is divided between her role as resident taxi driver for her teenage daughter, and caring for a menagerie of dogs, cats, rabbits, tortoises and a hamster.
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