Page 8 of Work: Strictly Professional

Hmm…

I may have spoken too hastily about the candles and the water relaxing me. I seem to be carrying some tension. Admittedly, I’m only tense in a single, isolated area, but still, seems only sensibleto work it out. I think, given the way things are, it’s best not to go too long without working the aforementioned tension out.

The last thing I need going into my altercations with the Dark Lord is my dick running the show.

No.

That mustn’t be allowed to happen.

I curl my fingers around my hard cock and call on The Faceless Man to do his worst.

I must be exhausted because he comes through glitchy. Patchy. Just snippets, little pieces of favorite fantasies I can’t quite seem to piece together. A tall man approaching. A dark suit jacket dropped carelessly to the floor. Big hands unbuckling a belt as I watch helplessly.

Big hands.

Thick fingers.

Dick fingers.

A marble counter, smooth and pristine. Clinical and clean. Tanned skin. Thick veins. The sound of a fingernail on stone.

“Feeling better?” asks Bridget.

“Much better, thanks.” I take the plate she’s holding out for me and try my best not to think about what just got me off.

I’m tired. I hardly got any sleep last night because of the late flight, and no one’s at their best when they’re running on empty. It’s fine. It’s nothing to get worked up about.

We sit on the sofa and settle in to eat our meals on our laps. There’s a home renovation show on and we flit in and out of watching it.

“Oof, that counter looks like shit,” says Bridget.

“Yeah, it’s really sucking all the light out of the room. Something white would look better. Composite stone or, or, maybe m-marble.”

“You and I would do a much better job of it, don’t you think? Why don’t people just let us make these decisions for them?”

“‘Cause people are dumb.”

“Mm.” She’s quiet for a while, lost in thought, and then she pops back. “Talking of stupid, guess who I saw today?”

“God. Stupid people, that’s such a broad category. I’m not sure I can guess if you don’t narrow it down.”

“Anton,” she says, as if stupid has a first name. Anton is our upstairs neighbor, and Bridget has been far from impressed by the constant stream of women he has trailing up and down the stairs to his apartment. “He was wearing that T-shirt again. You know, the white one that’s so tight you can see the outline of his nipples so clearly you feel like you’ve accidentally dropped into a porn clip?” I nod and make sounds to suggest disapproval. Truth be told, I don’t mind men in obscenely tight T-shirts. Never have. In fact, I’m rather a fan of it. “I could see the indent of his abs from the door, and he was over on the stairs. It’s too much. No one needs to see that when taking the trash out.”

I crunch my nose and shake my head in faux agreement.

“At this point, he may as well go ahead and havefuck boytattooed on his forehead.” It’s not the first time she’s said it, but it still gets a giggle from me. Whenever she says it, I immediately imagine Anton standing at the counter of a tattoo place, asking to havefuck boypermanently inked onto his face. I can only imagine how he’d squeal when he saw the needle. Fuck boys are notorious for being afraid of needles. Really. They are. My mom’s a nurse, and she’s confirmed it.

Okay, okay, fine. She said men, in general, are more likely to faint at the sight of needles, but you know what I mean.

“Yes, but it’d be a bit of a waste, wouldn’t it? I mean, think about it. How would anyone see the tat with his cap permanently glued to his head?”

“Good point. Might be better if he had it done on his neck… Oh, hell no! Shiny tile in the main living area? What are they thinking?” Bridget has strong opinions on all matters relating to décor, but tile—especially shiny tile—anywhere other than the bathroom is a big no for her. She prefers timber flooring and feels very strongly about it. When I don’t heartily agree, she pauses the show and looks at me. “Are you okay, Wynnie?”

I shrug and nod and shake my head at the same time. “That fucker scolded me today.”

Her eyes widen and her mouth pinches into a scowl. “He didwhat?”

“He called me into his office and made me stand beside him while he went over corrections to the minutes I did on Monday line by line. He’d covered almost every page with angry red ink, and he made me explain why I’d ‘chosen to do it wrong.’” My legs felt a little shaky just being in his office. It’s a cavernous space with dark wooden floors and a black leather Danish sofa. His desk is huge and psychopath neat. Even the art is imposing, abstract and big with a bold use of color. Reds, blacks, and browns swirl together. Anger incarnate. I stood right next to his chair. I knew that was expected of me because he wordlessly pointed a stern forefinger to the exact spot on the floor he wanted me to occupy. He pulled his chair up so close to me we were almost touching. My heart pounded the entire time, and while I wouldn’t tell Bridget this, I’m not entirely sure it was from the scolding. “He was so mean. The back of my head started to sweat, and you know that gives me big eighties hair.”

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