Geordie Boss's Daughter
"Call centre job in Newcastle. The owner's daughter visits from uni for the summer. She's bored, privileged, and very interested in the lad who doesn't treat her like a princess."
Northgate Call Centre. Gateshead.
Shit job, but it pays the bills. Answer calls, follow the script, try not to lose your mind.
Then the boss brings in his daughter for the summer.
"Everyone, this is Chloe. She'll be learning the business."
She won't last a week.
Chloe's twenty-two.
Back from Durham Uni—studying something useless, probably. Designer clothes, immaculate nails, the kind of posh Geordie accent that happens when you grow up in Jesmond.
She's also thick—not stupid, physically thick. Curves hidden under expensive dresses, arse that her tailored trousers can't disguise.
Every lad in the office notices.
I try not to.
Week One
She's placed near my desk.
"Shadowing," her dad calls it. She watches me take calls, looking bored out of her mind.
"How do you do this every day?"
"Money."
"There must be something better."
"Not for everyone." I end a call, start another. "Some of us didn't go to Durham."
She's quiet after that.
We clash.
She's entitled, thoughtless—leaves her coffee cups everywhere, treats the job like a joke. I call her on it.
"You're not special here. Clean up after yourself."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard."
She's furious. But the next day, her cups are in the sink.
Week Two
Something shifts.
She starts asking questions—real ones. About the job, about the callers, about why people end up here.
"You're different than I thought," she admits.
"What did you think?"
"That you were a dick."
"I am a dick. Just an honest one."
She laughs. First time I've heard it.
We get coffee on breaks.
She tells me about uni—the pressure, the expectations, the feeling of being trapped in her dad's plans.
"He wants me to take over the business. I hate it here."
"Then don't."
"It's not that simple."
"It's exactly that simple. You just don't want to disappoint him."
She stares at me. "You don't sugarcoat anything, do you?"
"Never learned how."
Week Three
She starts dressing differently.
Less designer, more practical. Jeans that show off her thick thighs, tops that aren't quite office-appropriate.
"You're staring," she says.
"You want me to."
"Maybe." She smiles. "Is it working?"
It's definitely working.
Her dad leaves early one Friday.
"Team drinks," someone suggests. The office migrates to the pub.
Chloe comes. Sits next to me. Thigh pressed against mine under the table.
"You're trouble," I tell her.
"You have no idea."
Week Four
She texts me after hours.
Bored. Fancy company?
I should ignore it. She's the boss's daughter. This is career suicide.
Where are you?
My flat. Jesmond. Don't tell anyone.
Her flat is exactly what I expected.
Expensive, modern, daddy's money everywhere. She answers the door in loungewear—thick body on display.
"Wasn't sure you'd come."
"Wasn't sure I should."
"But you did." She steps back. "Come in."
We drink wine on her designer sofa.
"Everyone at work treats me like glass," she says. "Except you."
"You want me to treat you like glass?"
"No." She sets down her drink. "I want you to treat me like you treat everyone else."
"That's not entirely true."
"What do you mean?"
I kiss her.
She melts into it.
All that posh composure dissolving. She's hungry, eager, pulling at my shirt like she's been starving.
"I've wanted this for weeks," she admits.
"Since when?"
"Since you told me to clean up my own cups."
"That turned you on?"
"Someone telling me no?" She grins. "You have no idea."
Her body is incredible.
Thick everywhere, soft and firm in all the right places. She's loud, demanding, telling me exactly what she wants.
"Harder—yes—right there—"
I give her what she wants. She comes screaming.
After
We lie in her expensive sheets.
"If my dad finds out—"
"He won't."
"You'll get fired."
"Probably." I shrug. "Worth it."
She laughs, rolls on top of me.
"You really don't give a fuck, do you?"
"I give one fuck." I grab her hips. "And it's right here."
The summer continues.
At work, we're colleagues. Professional. Distant.
After hours, she's in my flat or I'm in hers. Her thick body in my bed. My name on her lips.
"Summer's ending," she says one night.
"Back to Durham?"
"Actually—" She traces circles on my chest. "—I told Dad I'm staying. Learning the business properly."
"Yeah?"
"Someone has to keep an eye on the staff." She grins. "Quality control."
Her dad's thrilled.
His daughter, taking an interest at last. He promotes her to junior management.
She hires me as her assistant.
"Conflict of interest?" I ask.
"Absolutely." She closes her office door. "Now get over here and show me what you learned on the floor."
I show her.
Repeatedly.