My Boss's Dirty Order

He commanded me with terrifying precision, and I found myself powerless to resist.

Then came the order that broke me—forcing me to drop my pencil, watching as my male colleague bent down to retrieve it.

I couldn't refuse. But what shattered me completely was the sight of both the boss and my colleague staring up at me from beneath the desk…

You've probably heard of Stockholm syndrome.

So had I.

Like most people, I assumed it was something that happened to others—not me.

Until I started working at this company. Until I met Mr. Lombardi.

He was in his thirties, tall but unremarkable, with a slick, greasy complexion that made my skin crawl.

During my interview, his gaze kept drifting downward, his fingers absently wiping his lips as he swallowed.

I'm no stranger to unwanted attention—I modeled in college, even graced a few magazine covers.

But the way he looked at me… like I was a piece of meat, freshly butchered, and he was deciding where to sink his teeth first.

The salary was too good to pass up. And with my online loan payments looming, I had no choice but to accept.

My first morning, the moment I stepped into the office, Mr. Lombardi pointed to the restroom and said:

"Go in there. Take off your underwear."

By then, I'd been at the company a month—long enough to know his temper.

Cross him, and he wouldn't hesitate. No matter how hard you worked, no matter how loyal you were—one wrong move, and you were gone.

His words hit me like a slap.

Underwear?

I was wearing a sheer blue blouse and a tight pencil skirt. Without anything beneath, even the dim office lighting would leave little to the imagination.

"That's right. Commando today."

His repetition sent a jolt through me.

"Mr. Lombardi—"

I choked back the protest.

The look in his eyes was absolute.

I should have resisted. But my feet carried me toward the restroom without hesitation.

And if I'm being brutally honest? There was a twisted thrill in it.

When I stripped off my lingerie and faced the mirror, my breath caught.

I'd styled my hair in soft waves for a polished, professional look. Now, those waves spilled over my shoulders, barely grazing my chest.