When I was finally old enough to drive and didn’t need anyone to be there legally during my parent’s absence, they finally allowed me to be alone. I can admit I missed having the nannies there to fuck with, though, leaving me all the more bored.
When Christmas rolled around, everything seemed exponentially triter. There was something about the way the season was portrayed as one of the biggest family holidays that put me in a sour mood. And I didn’t like that. I didn’t like that I was letting others dictate my mood. I decided after my first Christmas alone, I would set out to enjoy the next one.
The following year, I woke early and did my own present shopping online with the deposit my parents left in my account as a gift. After that, I took a walk in the snow, watching it tumble from the sky in peace while all the kids were inside, playing with their freshly unwrapped toys. The serene environment gave me a lot of time to think—to consider what I wanted to do with my future.
When I would finally venture back inside, I found joy on the couch, watching movies like Home Alone and eating popcorn until I fell asleep.
I don’t think the majority of adolescents would have been able to do that. They would have been too consumed with missing their parents, too distraught to control their feelings.
But not me. I had learned how to be in charge of my own happiness.
I still am. Though I can’t lie, the tranquility that came with waking up on that quiet day isn’t the same as it used to be. Perhaps because I no longer take those long, quiet walks, or maybe because the newest Christmas movies always revolve around romance. I’m not sure.
But I do know, I’m bored again.
Yet another reason why I can’t help myself around my PA. There’s so much damn life in her eyes when she's mad, and it always makes me wonder if she has that same fire when she’s in the midst of an orgasm.
Or does she crumble into herself, spent and exhausted?
Either way, I can almost bet she’s a screamer.
As if summoned by my thoughts, a huge ruckus at my door causes me to turn around. A tangle of limbs, bags, and my lunch fumbles through my office door.
I don’t make a move to get up, and instead lean back, watching as she silently curses when one of the bags gets caught on the handle. After another painful minute of her struggling, she makes it through and somehow manages to place my lunch and drink down without spilling a drop. She then dumps everything else on the floor—my dry cleaning included.
“Thanks for opening the door, sir .” She spits the last word with extra emphasis, I assume hoping I understand the double-edged meaning behind it.
I do, but what she doesn’t know is that it also shoots straight to my cock. Too many times have I imagined her saying that word while thanking me for her third orgasm.
With a coy smirk, I watch as a light shade of rose creeps across the bridge of her nose. She’s so damn responsive, it only drives my desires to toy with her even more. It’s my favorite thing.
It’s evident to everyone that I like playing with people, yet even knowing this, she still lets her body respond. I’m beginning to wonder if she does it purposefully, as if she inherently wants to please me. Even if just secretly.
It makes sense, if so. I’ve always known my little Presley Cartier would be more than I bargained for.
I can already tell she’d be responsive for me in other ways, eager for every touch. But she’d also put up a fight. She wouldn’t want to submit; she wouldn’t want to give me control over her. But I’d take it. I’d own it. And after that, there would be no going back.
Unfortunately, it’s a temptation I won’t get the pleasure to explore.
It will have to remain a desire I’ll always have burning into my thoughts.
So for now, I’ll settle with watching the pink rise on her cheeks instead of her ass. I’ll observe the fierceness behind her eyes rather than feeling her cunt clamp down on my cock. I’ll let her expend all her energy on carrying my dry cleaning, so I can fuel the fantasy of her out of breath as I drive into her again and again For now, at least.
T he demonic spawn sighs to himself before leaning forward, resting his chin on a closed fist. “I’d greatly appreciate it if I didn’t need to have my freshly washed clothes re-starched due to your negligence.”
Fucking asshole .
For the sixth time in the past hour, I consider if my miniscule savings, and the temporary pause on my shoe addiction, will be enough to get me through a job search and the two-week waiting period for a check.
Probably not.
I huff, and my wild stray hairs blow away from my face. “Well, it’d help if you got up and assisted me, Mr. Chen.”
“And why would I do that? You’re the assistant here.”
My mouth drops open at the same time forty-five insults flip through my mind. All of them involve colorful phrases about where he can stick it, and none of which include places the sun shines.
Don't get me wrong, I’m well aware that being the CEO of anything can give a person a big head. Perhaps even a little extra sprinkle of authority makes him feel more powerful. But complete lack of chivalry? Disgusting.
Instead of getting myself fired before Christmas, I snatch his clothes off the floor one by one and lay them over the arm of his en-suite couch. It’s a pretty, tan leather, complimented by the pops of green art Marge paired with it.
When I’m done, I grab the other bags and hook them across my forearm. “Well, it’s been great, but I have to go deliver this stuff to the people setting up on thirteen, and I’m sure you’re ready to eat your lunch.”
I turn to walk away, my heels burning with the anticipation of being free from his scrutinizing stare. But when he clears his throat, my eyes literally roll so far back, it physically hurts. “Did you need something else, sir ?”
“I do,” he says simply, and I fucking despise not only the way his voice reminds me of a not safe for work voice actor, but also my body’s visceral response from it. My core tightens, and a shiver reverberates down my spine. I have to force myself to keep my back to him so he can’t see what I don’t even want to feel. “Drop your things off and come back. And make it brief, Miss Cartier. I know you’re easily distracted.”
Now that’s true. My mind shifts from thought to thought in a matter of minutes, which is why I needed Charlotte's help with my blog post entries. I can never stay with one coherent idea without drifting off to something completely related, but also irrelevant.
“Yes, sir.”
I hurry from his office before he decides to make me memorize whatever he has to say now.
After grabbing the additional bags that I dropped off by his door, I pass by nosey Nancy and a row of others working diligently at their desks. When I reach Marge, she eyes me over her spectacles, her features tight as she takes in my exasperated sigh. “Are you alright?”