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I look at it. A journal? My jaw clenches. I didn't think people her age journaled… especially on paper rather than on their phones.
A part of me warns me I shouldn't peek. But then again, this is my territory. What if she's writing down ideas to sell to competitors, and she doesn't want them on the computer because of the company's heightened cyber security system?
I can't take that risk. She’s already fucked up my calendar.
I open the journal. Her handwriting greets me, and I quickly recognize how she loops her letters and connects them with elegance, the words gliding from one line to the next in black ink. Then, I read and register them carefully.
I hate my boss.
Today, he made me turn around and buy his coffee again—because the temperature wasn't to his liking, even though I did nothing different than I do every damn day.
Every part of me prickles with awareness.
I plop down on her chair, and my hands cling to the journal like it's an extension of my limbs. I can't stop reading.
I hate my boss. He called my unexpected sick days off “unplanned vacation.” Instead of asking me how I was, he told me I had to catch up on the mountain of work from the three days I missed because of a godawful flu.
Fuck.
I keep on reading about all the atrocities she claims I've committed against her. In my defense, I asked her to buy coffee again because the temperature was a joke. And that was in her first month at the job. I had to train her for excellence. I was doing her a favor.
And the days off… how could I know she told me the truth? She gave me no warning and took off three days before Labor Day. I thought she was being a smart ass by saying she shouldn't have to work during Labor Day—I wanted to ensure she could commit to the job. These young employees are such a pain in the ass.
A sense of excitement fills me as I continue to read her entries like an addict anticipating his next fix.
Then, I see something slightly different.
I hate my boss.
I also hate how he makes me feel—like I want to shove his head between my legs so he'll stop talking. That's not right, I know. He's the devil.
But these thoughts… of him licking my pussy, then fucking me with his tongue until I undulate on his desk like a Cirque du Soleil acrobat... These images populate my mind and chase me through the worst times.
Today, he asked me to take his expensive, high-end suit to the dry cleaner. But I can't stop touching it, with his male scent lingering in the air. Then, I want to see him in it and out of it. I’ve never seen him without clothes on, obviously.
He's all beefy and hot. What if he oozes ten-inch dick energy, but deep down, he's nothing to brag about? That would make my life easier. If he were small down there.
Physically, he can't be perfect.
I can find too many flaws in his personality. Those are easy. Those keep me from throwing myself at him and acting like a foolish lunatic—and the fact that he's my boss.
Let's face it. A man like him would never devour my pussy.
Super attractive men are usually awful in bed because they never have to do any work. They probably lie there and expect the woman to do the heavy lifting. Besides… I haven't had sex in over a year, so I probably wouldn't be able to rate his performance well.
Man, this journaling thing works. I feel better already.
My heart races in my chest like I finished a triathlon. I know the exact sensation because I’ve completed four of them with excellent timing.
What did I just read?
I let the journal slip from my hands until it falls on my lap. What the fuck did I just read? If I didn't recognize Hazel’s handwriting, I'd think it was someone else's. But her stories are real if misinterpreted.
The words play in my mind again, all flashing relentlessly.
I hate my boss. He's the devil. Fucking me with his tongue.
I honestly don't know which part was worse.
