Milo, the office intern, was doomed the day Mrs. Callahan—his boss’s wife—walked into the copy room. She was all red lipstick and tailored dresses, her perfume a punch to Milo’s gut. “Need help with that toner, kid?” she purred, leaning over the copier, her cleavage a national security threat. Milo’s tie felt like a noose. “N-no, ma’am,” he squeaked, jamming the machine in panic.
She visited weekly, ostensibly to “check on things,” but her eyes lingered on Milo like he was dessert. He’d fantasize about her on his lunch break, imagining stolen kisses behind the water cooler, her nails raking his back. But Mr. Callahan, a bulldog in a suit, would fire him into next week. Or worse.
One Friday, she cornered him in the supply closet. “Milo, you’re adorable when you blush,” she said, twirling a pen like a weapon. He dropped a box of staples, scattering them like his dignity. “Mrs. C, I’m just… stapling!” he yelped, his voice hitting puberty again. She laughed, husky and cruel, and brushed lint off his shoulder, her touch electric.
He was toast. Her husband was in the next room, barking into a phone, and here was Milo, hard as a boardroom table. “Relax, I don’t bite,” she whispered, then added, “Unless you ask.” Milo wheezed, knocking over a shelf of Post-its. The crash brought Callahan storming in. “What’s this mess?” he growled.
“Clumsy intern,” Mrs. Callahan said smoothly, winking at Milo. He fled, staples crunching underfoot, and spent the weekend replaying her voice. Monday, he’d quit—or beg for more closet time. Either way, he was screwed, and not in the fun way.