My Dad's C*cky Assistant

by Lily Vixen

  Daddy’s Cocky Assistant

  Lily Vixen

  Copyright © 2018 Lily Vixen

  Digital Edition, License Notes

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  “With foxes we must play the fox.”

  Dr. Thomas Fuller

  Contents

  Want Free Books?

  I. Toner Boner

  II. Catsup & Tequila

  III. Josh’s Mermaid

  IV. Living the Dream

  Thank You

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  I

  Toner Boner

  Joshua

  I wasn’t expecting to bump into anyone else tonight. Not en route to the photocopy room. Not at half-past-eight on a Tuesday evening — late, even for me. And I definitely wasn’t expecting the pastel-haired willow-branch of a girl idly leaning against the wall outside Mr. Hill’s office.

  “Evening,” I murmur in surprise, lifting a hand to adjust spectacles I don’t wear anymore. “I… didn’t know anyone was still here.”

  The girl looks up at me, dark eyes wide, the glow of her cellphone illuminating porcelain skin and a surprising lack of makeup. Surprising, because the rest of her clothes are so colorful it almost makes her face look bland in comparison. If you don’t factor in those limpid eyes of hers.

  “Would’ve thought it weird if you did,” the girl says as she slips her phone into the pocket of the floppy, oversized cardigan dangling from her shoulders. She turns to me, cocking her head to the side as she steps closer.

  I hurriedly change direction, realize I still have photocopies to make, and almost run into her as I turn back.

  She’s right in front of me, watching me like a cocker spaniel.

  “I—do you work here?” I manage to sound indignant and a little annoyed all at once.

  “Does it look like it?” The girl cocks a thick, unruly eyebrow at me and then laughs. “Relax, guy. I ain’t here to steal the toner.”

  “Good then,” is all I can manage.

  I step into the photocopy room, the Davidson file hanging from my fingertips. I hear her follow me in and have an insane urge to head back out again, back to the safety of my office further down the hall.

  “Just… need to make some copies,” I say, hoisting the file in case she’d missed it.

  She gives a vague nod and moves up to the photocopier. Her jaw works around a piece of gum as she watches me feed my document into the feeder tray.

  “You live here or what?” she asks with a nonchalance that makes my hair want to stand on end.

  She must be all of what, nineteen? Twenty?

  “No.” I glance aside at her, frowning. “Why would you—”

  She cocks her eyebrow, sighing as she slides her hand over the photocopier’s plastic cover. Her nails are tapered, painted the same shade of pastel blue as her hair. Well, the bottom of her hair, anyway. It starts off purple, by her crown, then graduates through hues of greens and blues—

  “Like it?” The girl’s voice snaps me out of my trance. “Took, like, almost three hours. Long time to sit in a chair, three hours.”

  I let out a low laugh, and then clear my throat when she frowns at me. “Sorry, I thought you were referring to my—” I cut myself off, turning my attention back to my photocopies.

  You’d think a multi-million dollar company could afford a faster photocopier.

  “Sooo… whatcha doing?”

  I press my lips together, refusing to answer while I will the damn machine to spit out my pages so I can leave. My evening hadn’t included bumping into an intrusive stranger who would then trail me into the photocopier room like a stalker.

  “Ugh, I’m starving,” the girl says, leaning forward and resting her head on the side of the photocopier, less than an inch from where my hand is pressed. “You eat supper yet?”

  “Uh, no. Not yet.”

  “Any good places around here? I’ll eat just about anything right now if you put enough fucking catsup on it. Even spaghetti, and I fucking hate spaghetti. My mom used to make it.” Her words falter a bit as she turns her head away to look at the wall behind her. “Fucking hated it.”

  I give my lips a quick lick, glancing at the open door behind us. “Who are you?” I whisper.

  For a moment — just a moment, mind you — I think I’m hallucinating. It is late. I am godawfully tired. And she’s so vivacious, this young thing beside me. I’m not saying I’m old — although I have at least a decade on her — but she’s so colorful, so brash.

  So pretty.

  I haven’t put on the fluorescents — there’s no need, really — so she stands silhouetted against the light streaming in from the hallway. She’s dressed in some kind of boho getup: a wide, loose skirt, a bright yellow vest, and a floppy cardigan over everything.

  I can see the shape of her thighs and the curve of her ass through the thin fabric. My gaze moves up her body, where I force it away from those sumptuous curves with iron determination. So instead, my eyes move to her breasts.

  She’s not wearing a bra.

  I know this because, from the angle she’s leaning against the photocopier and due to the aforementioned ‘floppiness’ of her clothing, I can see inside her vest.

  God, I could stretch out my hand, slide them into that gaping neckline, and cup a breast in each hand. Squeeze them — just once — hard. She has tiny, perky mounds with strawberry-pink nipples dusting their tips. There’s a tattoo, some henna-like artwork running between and under her breasts.

  If she stood straight, if I slid that shirt over her head, then I could see that tattoo clearly.

  I really, really want to see that tattoo.

  The instant I realize this, my damn dick remembers it hasn’t had the feel of anything other than a silk sock in more than six months and decides to test out the restraining properties of the suit I’m wearing.

  Thank heaven for good quality briefs, is all I’m saying.

  “Seriously, dude, you can’t think of a single place?”

  I twitch at ‘dude’. I don’t think I’ve ever been called that, not even when I was of dude-ish age back in university.

  Who is this girl? I make sure to go through all the staff newsletters; I would’ve picked up if there was a new hire. Even if she was just a temp, Sally from reception would have mentioned—

  My finger brushes the side of my nose — switching to contacts after ten years of wearing glasses is quite an adjustment — as I collect my copies from the output tray without looking at her. And while I fervently try to will away what’s transformed into a rock-hard erection.

  “I suppose there’s always the Golden Goose down the road,” I say after clearing my throat. “They have—”

  “The Golden Goose?” She slaps her hands on the photocopier. The sound draws my gaze, unbidden, to her face. A wide smile parts those rosy lips. Her dark — almost black — eyes sparkle. “I love it! Let’s go there.”

  “Wait, what?” I’m in the process of heading out and turn back to her with a frown. “I’m not going—
”

  “I could eat a cow.” Another slap on the machine — serves it right, being so damn slow — and her grin deepens. “Like, the whole thing. The hooves, the tail—” she sticks her index fingers along either side of her head and wriggles them “—the fluffy fucking ears. Everything! Come on, let’s go.”

  “Look, I don’t know who you—”

  “Aw, come on! I’ll treat you.”

  I clear my throat and try again. “Look, I’m sure you’re a very nice—”

  “The Golden Goose?” a voice behind me cuts in. A hand falls on my shoulder, broad and warm. I flinch — at the touch, at the voice.

  They belong to Mr. Hill, the director of Hill Enterprises.

  “Sir, I don’t—” I begin, swinging around to my boss with a ball of dread already weighing down my stomach.

  “I think that’s a fantastic idea.” Mr. Hill — all salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes the color of steel — gives me a wide grin. “I’m sure Alexa’s starving, aren’t you, my girl?”

  Alexa — my girl? — brushes past me. I smell ginger and cinnamon in the air as she thumps Mr. Hill on the chest with a small, insignificant-looking fist.

  Mr. Hill isn’t bullish, but he has wide shoulders and a thick waist. He’s taller than me, so compared with the slip of a girl standing up against him, he looks enormous.

  “Damn straight I am,” Alexa says, a laugh in her voice. “But I guess your lackey here lives off the blood he has stored in his apartment or something — he’s not biting.”

  Mr. Hill clears his throat and glances at me with a tight mouth. “Lexi, what did I tell you about calling people that?”

  “Sorry, Daddy,” Alexa breathes, turning to face me. “Your employee’s too busy. I’ll just get take-out. Can I use your phone?”

  Daddy?

  I realize I’ve got Davidson’s files pressed to my groin in an effort to disguise my hard-on, mouth gaping, as I assimilate all the information that’s just been thrown my way.

  Oh good God — I’ve just been having dirty thoughts about my boss’s daughter.

  Alexa

  Ugh, take-out? Last fucking thing I want now. That’s all I ever eat when I’m visiting my dad.

  “Did you have plans this evening?” my dad asks the dude in the copy room.

  “Plans? Tonight?” The guy looks my way, drops his eyes, looks back at my dad. “Uh, I—”

  “You’d be doing me a solid, Joshua.” My dad turns to me and smiles apologetically. “I’d really planned to be done by now, but—” he turns back to Joshua “—you know how it goes.”

  They have a laugh, the guy looking much less stressed out now that my dad’s around. I sigh, pressing a hand to my stomach. It started grumbling half an hour ago. And gum wasn’t cutting it anymore — in fact, it was just making matters worse.

  “Daddy!” I know I sound like a child, but for fuck’s sake, my dad has the attention span of a goat sometimes.

  “Joshua?” My dad holds out his hand as if he’s offering me up for fucking marriage or something.

  Joshua notices me rolling my eyes. “Uh, I’m not sure—”

  “She won’t bite, I promise. Here, I’ll give you the company card.”

  “Oh, Mr. Hill, that’s—”

  I smile. God, this guy’s hilarious. Cute, but hilarious. He’s so awkward and weird. The look on his face when he first saw me? Priceless. Like I was a fucking alien and I’d just told him what I’d be using to probe his butt with.

  And man, does he have a tight ass. I’m so glad he left his jacket in his office, ‘cos I can see every inch of that—

  “Lexi?”

  “Huh?” Shit, had I been staring?

  I feel a blush work its way onto my cheeks. Jesus, I’m blushing? For this geek?

  “You behave yourself now, you hear? Joshua works hard for me, and I don’t want you draining him.” My dad turns to Joshua and gives him another one of those business-y smiles. “I expect you in here bright and early tomorrow morning.”

  Joshua lifts the file he’d been gripping like a shield against him. “For the Davidson meeting? I’ve been meaning to ask—”

  “Yeah, like, send him an email.” I push past my dad and grab Joshua’s wrist. “Seriously, the whole fucking cow, dude.”

  “Lexi — language!”

  “Sorry, Daddy!” I yell over my shoulder, giving Joshua a quick smile as I tug him along behind me. “You’re slowing me down, dude.”

  “Just—could you—I need my—”

  He tugs free. I spin around, about to throw a fucking tantrum when my eyes happen to drift down. Okay, they don’t happen to fucking nothing — his boner’s pretty damn obvious and my eyes are drawn there like flies to that sticky-tape crap you put up for them in summer.

  I start to smile, realize my dad can still see us, and hurriedly smooth my face.

  “Oh, your jacket, right?” I make as if I’m putting on a coat, face dead serious.

  Joshua stares at me for a second, and then utter mortification rolls over his face in a slow, delicious wave.

  God, I want to laugh so hard right now.

  “Yeah, it’s cold out there,” I manage, my voice tight with the amount of control I need to keep it in check.

  “It is.” Joshua sounds relieved and horrified at the same time. “Be right back.”

  He shuffles past my dad, nods, and then slips into an office further down the hall – all with that file pressed to his dick.

  “Promise you’ll behave, pumpkin?” My dad slips an arm around my shoulder and squeezes me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. I look past him to Joshua, catching his profile before he disappears.

  He looks like he chews nails for breakfast with that strong jaw, but that severe hairstyle and tight suit make me think of those fifties advertising guys.

  So not my style. So not anyone’s style if they were born in this century. And just how old is he? Forty? Forty-five?

  “Ain’t promising nothin’,” I mutter, unable to subdue the devilish smile tugging at my lips.

  Ooh, this is going to be fun.

  Joshua

  Jesus Christ. I am so royally screwed. For a moment — just a moment, okay? — I’m really tempted to punch myself in the nuts.

  But would it help?

  Probably not.

  Might make matters worse, in fact.

  Okay… dead puppies, dead puppies, dead puppies.

  Long, even breaths.

  Rolling forecasts, rolling forecasts, rolling forecasts.

  Well, that worked. Nothing more horrifying than financial planning.

  I slide Davidson’s file onto my desk, squaring it with the leather skiver before grabbing my briefcase. I hesitate. Should I take my briefcase? Wasn’t I coming back here? Surely it would be dinner and then back to the office, right? What else did I expect to happen, exactly?

  And why on earth was that even a question?

  Because she’d seen me, of course. Seen that I had a hard-on. And had then blatantly mocked me.

  Which meant it didn’t bother her.

  Which meant what?

  God, I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with this right now. Fine, I’ll just take my damn briefcase.

  I grab my jacket, pull my office door closed, and almost swallow my tongue when I turn around into Alexa. She has her arms behind her back, head to the side, studying me.

  How long had she been standing there like that? Had she seen me tensing my shoulders, fisting my hands, being all OCD with the stuff on my desk?

  “What’s on the menu?” Alexa asks.

  For tonight? Oh God, had I been talking aloud?

  “At the Goose?” She smiles, those lips a little too coy for my liking.

  “Oh, the restaurant. Of course. Yes.” My damn hand brushes the side of my face again — it’s like they’re still there, perched on the bridge of my nose.

  “Italian. Pasta, pizza. Do you… do you like Italian?”

  “Do they have catsup?”
r />   Catsup? “I guess—”

  “Then I’ll eat it. Seriously, I could annihilate several chickens.”

  She starts off down the hall. Her sea-green hair is drawn back in a fat, messy braid that dangles almost to her narrow waist. She glances at me over her shoulder, cocking her head toward the elevator.

  “You coming or what?”

  “Not yet,” I mutter under my breath. “But if you keep swaying like that when you walk…” I give my head a shake, force a smile onto my mouth, and follow after her.

  “…It’s going to take a lot more than rolling forecasts to keep me down.”

  Alexa

  I’m probably standing too close to him, aren’t I? It’s just to try and catch his smell, I promise. It’s got nothing to do with how nervous I’m making him. It’s hilarious though — I’ve practically crowded him into the back corner of the elevator just by moving an inch at a time.

  Trust my dad to get an office at the top floor of a fifty-story building; this elevator ride’s been going on forever.

  Doesn’t matter how close I stand though, I can’t catch a whiff of him. I toy with the laces on my vest, glancing at Joshua from the corner of my eye. He’s put on his suit jacket — the suit’s black, his shirt is black, and that tie is black.

  “You have a funeral today?”

  He frowns, looks at me, and then hurriedly faces forward again. One hand goes in his pocket, the other tightens around his black briefcase.

  Black, black, black. Ugh.

  “Why, do I look sad?”

  “You look like you just came back from one,” I say.

  He looks down at himself, frown deepening before he forces all expression from his face.