Domina

The upper floors of the Vishkar administrative spire were always quieter than the rest of the building.

Not empty — never empty — but subdued. Every footstep softened by immaculate flooring, every voice lowered by instinct rather than instruction. Power lived here, and power did not need to shout.

The assistant terminal at your desk chimed once.

Not the general network tone. Not scheduling. Not security.

Direct executive line.

The subtle gold band along the edge of the screen illuminated — a signal reserved for one person.

Vice President Vaira Singhania — Domina

A moment later, her voice followed through the office speakers, smooth and warm in a way that never quite hid the authority beneath it.

“Come to my office, darling.”

No urgency. No explanation.

Just certainty that you would.

The doors to the executive chamber parted silently as you approached, revealing the vast interior office — less a workplace and more a curated environment. Clean architectural lines, floating light-construct panels, and the wide glass wall overlooking the city. Hard-light structures hovered like sculptures around the room, decorative yet unmistakably functional.

And at the center of it all — her.

Domina stood with her back to the view, reviewing a projection suspended in the air. The shifting gold-violet light refracted across the polished floor and traced along the contours of her silhouette. She did not turn immediately when you entered.

She already knew you had.

“You’re punctual,” she said calmly. “One of your better qualities.”

The projection dissolved with a gesture, vanishing into particles of light. Only then did she look at you.

Her gaze lingered — not evaluating, not dismissive. Something slower. Considered.

You found yourself tilting your head slightly just to keep eye contact.

A faint smile touched her lips.

“Yes,” she murmured. “You’ve been… exceptionally reliable lately.”

She began to walk toward you — not hurried, not casual. Measured steps, heels quiet against the floor despite the open space. By the time she stopped, the distance between you felt deliberately chosen rather than natural.

Her hand rose, as if to adjust the collar of your uniform — though it had never been out of place.

Her fingers brushed the fabric once.

Then again.

Then lingered.

“You’ve made several negotiations far smoother than anticipated,” she continued softly. “The board is pleased. Investors reassured. My schedule… considerably less tedious.”

Her fingertips traced along the line of your shoulder, not enough to be mistaken for correction, too deliberate to be accidental.

“And that,” she added, voice lowering just slightly, “earns reward.” But she didn’t step back.

Instead she circled slowly, the movement forcing you to turn just to keep her in view. The faint scent of expensive perfume followed her — something warm and controlled, like everything else about her.

When she stopped again, it was closer than before.

Her hand lifted once more, resting lightly near your sleeve. The contact remained for a moment too long for professional etiquette.

“You work very hard for me,” she said, almost conversationally. “I wonder sometimes if you realize how rare loyalty is at this altitude.”

Her thumb brushed faintly across the fabric — a small motion, deliberate.

“And I take care of what belongs to me.” She tilted her head, studying your expression as though analyzing market data.

A soft exhale escaped her — amused.

“Relax,” she murmured. “If I intended to intimidate you, darling, you would already know.”

Her fingers slid away — only to return moments later, trailing lightly along your forearm as she passed toward her desk. The touch was fleeting, but not absent-minded.

She seated herself at the edge of the desk instead of behind it — removing the barrier entirely.

“You’ve earned something,” she said, crossing one leg over the other, gaze still fixed on you. “But where would the pleasure be in giving it immediately?”

A faint, knowing smile. She beckoned you closer with a small motion of her hand. “Come here.”

The low murmur of corporate voices pulls you slowly back to awareness.

At first it’s only sound — filtered, distant — the cadence of negotiation, measured and polite. Then sensation follows: cool flooring beneath you, the faint scent of polished metal and perfume lingering in the air, warmth still clinging where it shouldn’t quite remain.

You’re not in your chair. You’re beneath the desk.

Above you, Domina’s voice carries with flawless composure, as though nothing unusual exists in the world at all.

“Vishkar appreciates long-term cooperation,” she says smoothly. “Short-term gain rarely produces stability.”

Papers slide softly across the desk surface overhead. A chair shifts. The meeting continues as if perfectly ordinary.

Meanwhile the underside of her desk is decidedly not.

Your hair is a mess, collar open, buttons undone — clear evidence of why the workday had… paused. Faint marks along your skin still warm against the air, and the faint impression of her presence lingers far stronger than the room’s climate control.

She doesn’t acknowledge you.

Not once.

Not when her heel shifts closer beside you.

Not when she crosses her legs — slow enough to notice.

Not even when her foot lightly brushes yours as if by accident. Her tone never changes.

“Of course,” she continues to the client, calm and authoritative, “Vishkar rewards those who perform well.”

A beat.

“And loyalty deserves… personal recognition.” If the words are meant for the meeting, they land a little too precisely. The conversation concludes shortly after. Chairs slide back. Footsteps retreat. The office doors seal shut with a soft hush.

Silence settles.

For several seconds she says nothing.

Then the chair above you shifts slightly — not away, but closer to the desk. A soft exhale.

“Well,” Domina murmurs at last, voice no longer projected across a room but meant only for the space around her, “awake now?”

Her heel gently taps the floor near you once — a subtle summons rather than a command.

“You were asleep longer than expected, darling.”

She leans forward; you hear the faint creak of the chair and feel the subtle change in proximity even before she lowers her voice further.

“I conducted an entire negotiation while you slept at my feet,” she says with quiet amusement. “That requires a certain level of trust… or distraction.”

A pause.

“You look disheveled.” Not criticism. Observation.

Her hand appears at the edge of the desk, fingers resting against the underside — close enough that she knows you’ll notice before she withdraws them again.

“I suppose I’m responsible for that.”

She stands, footsteps circling the desk slowly instead of stepping away from it. When she stops, she’s waiting — not impatient, not hurried. “Come out,” she says softly.

And when you do, she studies you for a long moment, gaze traveling without embarrassment or apology.

Her fingers reach up, adjusting your collar — though she doesn’t immediately fasten it. “You’re supposed to be my assistant,” she murmurs, smoothing the fabric down. “Yet you appear far less professional than I do.”

Her thumb brushes lightly along your jaw where a kiss mark lingers. A faint smile. “I wonder whose fault that is.” She leaves the collar open. “For now,” she adds quietly, “the office is empty.” Her eyes meet yours again.

“So you may stop pretending composure.”