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The Governor's Secretary

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I preferred getting to work before everyone else on Monday morning—to have a calm start to the week and the front office to myself. The morning air was cool on my face and my daily cup of coffee was still blisteringly hot thanks to the miracle of the Contigo. The contrast was bracing and just how I enjoyed starting my week.

My riding boots had been polished over the weekend—as they were every other Sunday—and the heels crunched satisfyingly on the asphalt of the car park. The air was cool under my skirt—on the few inches of flesh my stockings didn’t cover, but I liked the sensuality of this and savoured it.

I flexed my leather gloves to enjoy their creak—also cleaned at the weekend—took a long swig of hot, hot coffee and inhaled cold, cold air as deeply as possible, luxuriating in the sensations.

A friend said it was like I was having sex with my internal organs.

I’d pointed out at least I used more than just three percent of the squidgiest flesh on my person to engage with life.

At least I knew I was alive for large portions of my day.

Walking past the few cars of the officers on overnight in the car park, something was different… What was it? There was a car in the Governor’s spot. It’d been three months since Erica Davidson had left. I slowed.

That wasn’t Mighty Mouse’s car in the Governor’s spot. She’d never have the nerve or funds to purchase something that… sexy.

Something that exuded that level of dominance.

It was nice to see the new Governor here before I was. It was nice to see we had a new Governor… I suppose.

Three months without anyone in charge and finally someone arrives without warning.

No one tells me anything.

I made my way up to the building and through security, surreptitiously looking for a sign of the new leadership.

I’d thought it’d be Mighty Mouse’s turn after Erica left. No one told us why she left—why would they. Staff aren’t important. I was only her secretary.

Sorry. Administrative assistant. I prefer ‘secretary’, though, as it has certain connotations I’m partial to. Though I wasn’t interested in Governor Davidson that way. She was far too lax, for one. Didn’t even wear the uniform.

Meg Jackson was more like it. I was genuinely upset when she died. Though fooling around in her office with Officer Jackson wasn’t exactly professional… Married or not.

But I digress.

I’ve been the Governor’s Secretary longer than Vera Bennett has been at Wentworth and I genuinely do not know why or how she’s become Deputy Governor. There are dozens of officers and this is the best they’ve got?

Following rules and waiting your turn pays off, I suppose.

Slimy Miles (I know she’s up to something, though I don’t know what) is smarter and Officer Jackson has more integrity.

I appreciate and respect hierarchy, though, and wouldn’t call her Mighty Mouse to her face, of course.

Besides, I know where all the fire exits are in case she accidentally burns down the building tripping over her imaginary boyfriend.

All the way to my desk and not a sign of the new Governor. Blast. To the staff room to rinse my mug.

Governor Davidson left—a bit too chummy with that Doyle person and the less said about her decoration of the Governor’s office, the better—and I thought, ‘Well, Gavin, break out the booster seat. Do they make booster seats for Governors’ chairs?’

At least she’d follow the rules. Rules are good.

Then that walking penis Channing began to interfere (because of course he did) and I found myself hoping she’d get it. Otherwise it’d be some man following his orders. So I’d be following Channing’s orders in effect.

I don’t do what entitled dicks want.

Suddenly I felt protective of Mighty Mouse.

And I’ve never hated the walking penis more for it.

I vowed to take that mouldable, spineless child and turn her into a paragon of leadership—if only Channing hadn’t engaged his own Puppetry of the Penis. Please, please.

Back to my desk for my Monday routine—first, make sure IT is on setting up the Governor’s logins and clearance and so on while I wait to see… Sniff. Fresh paint.

They’ve repainted the Governor’s office. The blinds are closed, but the door is open.

A quick look won’t hurt.

Holy Hell. Look at that organisation. Not a fingerprint.

I refuse to be even remotely enamoured with a man.

Business cards. Yoink!

Joan Ferguson.

Research skills activate!

Oh! Awards! She’s won awards.

And a dignified colour scheme like an actual adult. I bet she wears the uniform like a person who takes the job seriously.

Rooted to the spot by the perfection of her office—when had she put it together. She must have come in over the weekend so it would be set up for her work week.

I sighed out loud and caught myself. Peering back through her door—I still had the front office to myself.

Constance. You cannot take a photo of the Governor’s desk. Get a grip.

It is weird she’d choose yellow pencils over grey or black ones. Doesn’t match the colour scheme at all. But look how neatly they’re arranged.

And so sharp. You could put an eye out with those.

My phone rings and I jump. Then return to my desk.

‘Governor Ferguson’s office.’

‘Connie!’ The smarm oozes out of the receiver and I resist the urge to wipe my cheek.

I’ve told him I hate being called that 900 times.

Faultlessly polite, though, that’s me. ’Yes, Mr Channing?’

‘I need your help with something.’