Chapter Text
“Nia! Where the hell have you been, Loca?” Kat pulls me into a side-hug as if we’re old classmates.
”Work. Home. Same two places I always am.”
Deja vu.
“Well, I’m glad you could make the show. It means a lot to me that you showed up to support Crash.” She says. “Like my costume?” She flexes an arm, biceps firming up under the neon orange and purple lights Sam had Layla hang up everywhere. “I’m Jacob Black. From Twilight.”
As in, she’s herself. In a flannel with the sleeves ripped off. The exact amount of effort I’ve come to expect from her.
I nod, “That you are.”
She nods too, “Yeah…” She rubs the back of her neck, never one to be comfortable with silence. “So! Where’s your costume? Isn’t this, like, your birthday or something?” She eyes my outfit— typical cold weather work uniform of a black button down, tucked into black trousers and drowning in a giant black cardigan— like I showed up to church in my underwear.
“No. My birthday’s in February. I’m an Aquarius-Pisces cusp.”
I know what she meant. But everyone’s been making the same joke all day and it’s gotten old.
“No, I just meant— ya know, ‘cause you’re like…” She trails off, then suddenly squares her shoulders. “If you wanted to stay that night, you should’ve. You could’ve. You kept making it about grapes and now you’re being weird and pulling away again as if I was the one who left you.”
I scoff, “I can’t leave something that never belonged to me in the first place. Even when you’re here, you’re not here.”
Kat’s eyes widen, then narrow, “What the hell, Nia? Why’re you being like this, huh? I mean, you knew what this was, you know I don’t— Jesus, if I was gonna pick just one person it probably would be you. I’ve opened up to you about shit, Nia. My parents and stuff. My dreams.”
“Yeah, and where does being your favorite get me? You were making out with someone else before I got to the party you invited me to.” I turn away from her, back to the paper slicer, focusing on cutting name tags at the perfect angle. Enjoying the rush of yanking the handle over and over in a perfect rhythm.
“Because I didn’t think you’d come! You’d been flaking on me for months and now you won’t even look at me! If you wanna break up with me, Nia, break up with me— but the least you could do is say it to my face. You owe me that.” Kat steps around to my side, trying to force me to confront letting go of something I don’t even remember holding in the first place.
The desperation in her voice makes me feel bad for a second. Like I've unknowingly stumbled onto some landmine of trauma, and now chunks of her are flying everywhere and I have no idea how to put them back together.
And no energy to try.
“We ain’t together, remember?” It’s quiet. Colder than I intended, but undeniably final. “You shouldn’t be back here. And we definitely shouldn’t be having this conversation here, this is my job. You need to respect that.”
The thing I really wanted to say remains unspoken: “You need to respect me.”
Kat recoils like I pushed her, and I guess I did in a way. I think she might say something else, her breathing gets heavier and she opens her mouth— but she just shakes her head and exits the copy room.
I breathe for the first time since she hugged me.
“Nia.”
Great. One problem leaves and the other takes its place.
Jennifer Check crosses her arms, leaning against the doorway, “Trouble in paradise?”
The only thing I can think to say is ‘fuck you,’ so I don’t say anything at all.
I’ve endured enough lectures about job security from Margot to last a lifetime.
Jennifer huffs when I don’t reply, “Where are those copies I asked for?”
I don’t look up, slicing an uneven edge from one of the nametag sheets, “On your desk.”
“Why didn't you hand them to me?”
She asks it as if I’d been insubordinate somehow.
I guess when you’re a snotty, skinny, pretty white girl everything that goes even a little bit wrong feels like insubordination.
I shrug, “I’ve been busy helping Sam with this party stuff—“
Her heels click as she advances, hovering over me in my peripheral in those ridiculous red bottoms, “Well, that’s Layla’s job. Layla is Sam’s assistant. You’re my—“
I finally look up at her just as I yank the lever on the paper cutter a little too hard, “If you have a problem with Sam askin’ me to do things— then you need to take it up with him in one y’all’s many one-to-ones. Talkin’ to him about changin’ my role because it inconveniences you ain’t my job, it’s yours. My job is to do what he asks me to do when he asks me to do it. The copies.”
Slice.
“Are on.”
Slice.
“Your desk.”
Slice. Slice. Slice.
I’m really not in the mood tonight and Jennifer seems to sense that. “…’Kay.”
Except it’s not her usual “‘kay,’ not the one she says in that light-yet-knowing tone that reeks of mischief and velvet. No, this sounded like she took a bite of the word and spat it at me.
I go back to slicing, “‘Kay.”
Heels click out of the copy room and down the hall.
Halloween actually is my favorite holiday, despite what my excessively critical peers and colleagues seem to think. No, I don’t dress up. I’ve never felt the need to. I enjoy wearing my own clothes, I don’t have to perform the traditional rules of Halloween to have fun.
I used to love spending it with my grandmama. She’d have harvested the rosemary and sage from her garden by then, and I’d watch her refill my gris gris. By high school, I’d taken over the ritual for her because of the arthritis in her hands. We haven’t spent it together since I went to college. But tonight, I find myself reaching down to play with the missing chain where my protective bundle once rested.
Maybe it would protect me from my shitty ex-situationship and shitty boss— I mean there’s definitely something demonic about the way they both play in my face 25-8.
In college, Margot and Layla taught me the wonders of art school Halloween ragers, but I don’t do parties on Halloween anymore.
Haven’t since that last one junior year.
These days, I like to relax. Take Halloween off and spend it alone in the apartment watching movies on my laptop. Usually smoke a little, eat a fuck ton of candy, use my vibrator, and fall asleep by midnight.
But tonight, Sam has demanded that all staff spend at least three hours at the post-work mandatory Halloween party.
I, and everyone else informed him that a ‘mandatory party’ is an oxymoron. But he obviously disagrees.
And thus— my bad mood. Because I wanted to relax, this is my yearly relax day— but noooo, I’m stuck with my coworkers watching my ex play a tribute show for a missing pervert.
To top it all off, Jennifer’s been even more of a bitch than usual all day. The weeks between now and my vow to stop talking about her have been tense, to say the least.
She still sends me to the copier for random nonsensical bullshit, but I’ve been finding ways to get it to her without having to hand it to her directly— asserting my refusal to spend however long she decides it’s hip to slum it at a Ghosttown greeting card company being her punching bag. I’ll have Layla drop it by sometimes. But my favorite new thing is pretending to be Sam’s wingman, and sending him to her office with the print so he has an excuse to chat her up— and suck up even more of her time.
Because I’m a goddamn genius.
Jennifer’s been super mature about my blatant avoidance. And by that I mean she’s been as passive aggressive as a midwestern housewife.
Guess she really is from Minnesota.
Having my ‘support’ in his quest to woo Jennifer has really given Sam a confidence boost for some reason. He said (and I quote) “Jennifer must really be my soulmate if even Nia believes in us— I didn’t think true love was Nia’s thing.” I didn’t ask what that meant, because I didn’t care.
Still don’t.
But that also means that I’ve shot myself in the foot, because Sam’s only throwing this party to impress Jennifer and he’s made it everyone’s problem. He wants to show her his Ghosttown (ya know, like how Sarah Palin did for Alaska in 2010), give her an idea of what her life could look like here if she ‘ever decided to plant roots.’
I don’t get why we all had to be here— it’s a fucking Halloween party, not a proposal— but Sam insisted we all had to look like we were having fun and that working here and living here is fun.
I think he’s secretly scared Jennifer’s gonna find a better job in a better place and dip on us before he can get her pregnant and force her to marry him by forever connecting them through the obligation of raising a human being. Or whatever it is straight people do when they like someone, I wouldn’t know shit about that for real.
I emerge from the copier room with the nametags to find that Dean’s band, Girlboy, apparently posted about this show on their Instagram— because every five seconds the elevator dings and groups of crusty losers exit onto our floor. They’re immediately greeted by Sam, who enthusiastically takes their names and gives them a nametag and a solo cup for apple cider. He’s over the damn moon, the bigger the party the cooler it looks to Jennifer.
—in his mind, that is.
I then head to my designated station at the snacks table, where every few minutes I’m ladling a serving of apple cider into some rando’s solo cup, like an almond mom micromanaging the Coke at a Chuck-E-Cheese birthday party.
And it’s super fun and not embarrassing at all. I don’t feel headass even a little bit.
Margot’s holed up in her office processing a payroll and Layla is bouncing around between jumping at every last minute idea that pops into Sam’s head and sneaking Margot extra snacks.
The loudest and worst mic feedback I’ve ever heard in my entire life signals that the show’s about to start, and so does Dean (dressed as a zombie janitor) shooting the light closest to him with a BB gun.
“JEEZUM CROW, DEAN!” Sam actually ducks for cover, the cape of his vampire costume flapping in the displaced air his body left behind.
A real man. A provider, a protector. The kind of man women like Jennifer Check just go ga ga for. Then again— she did fuck Crash.
“Cram it, old man!” Dean commands from the ’stage’ (the biggest meeting room we have, with both doors held open by two outdoor trash cans on either side).
“I’m in my thirties—“ Sam’s protest is interrupted by Girlboy’s frontwoman, Moira Ouellet, snatching the mic from Dean for their signature intro: “We’re Girlboy and if you don’t like our tits— THEN YOU CAN SUCK OUR DICK, UNH!”
“Layla and Kat are totally having sex.”
We’re an hour into the party, Girlboy has just gone on their intermission while Kat sweatily reminds everyone about the donation for Crash’s PI, and this is the first non-passive aggressive thing Jennifer Check has decided to say to me after weeks of weirdness between us.
“Okay?” I’m not going to interrupt them or anything if that’s what she’s getting at.
I walked in on them one time in college, and it genuinely made me contemplate spraying my eyeballs with Fabuloso.
I’d been hovering near the snack table this entire time, my cider shift ended the second the music started and it got dark and loud enough for Sam to stop being able to spot me in the crowd. Now, I’m just standing here to be close enough to the door to slip out before the post-show lull.
And to hog the platter of sliced candied apples Pattie brought.
Jennifer reaches over my shoulder to take an apple slice— the exact one I’d been about to grab — taking a slow bite and getting a bit of caramel on her lipstick, “Have you ever done something like that?”
I snort, “Fuck no.”
It comes out before I can think not to, before I remember that I hate her and don’t want to make her laugh.
Too late.
She hasn’t moved, and her chuckles make her breaths tickle the side of my cheek. I don’t look at her. Won’t.
Can’t.
“Yeah, I can tell.”
I frown slightly, “Excuse me?”
Not super into how that kinda felt like shade.
“Ms. Check!”
Saved by the Sam yet again.
He stands on the other side of the table, surveying the fruit and cupcakes like a king touring his territory, “I couldn’t help but notice that you aren’t in costume.”
Jennifer’s in one of her various overdone office fits: silky blood red blouse, perfectly tailored pants, and vintage suspenders.
You don’t have to dress up on Halloween when you’re already Satan, Sammothy.
He grins the kind of pure smile that makes his eyes crinkle, and for a second I envy him. His ability to feel that deeply, to throw a whole party for someone, to pursue things and people like it doesn’t cost him anything.
There’s a pureness in people like him and Layla that I think I just wasn't born with.
“I saw these and immediately thought of you.” Sam holds up a plastic packet of a pair of corny-ass headbands— one with a fluffy white halo attached and the other with red devil horns.
Jennifer finishes her apple slice, “Wow. Isn’t that so thoughtful, Nia?”
Holy shit, it’s working. He’s winning her over.
She accepts the headbands and tears into the packaging, while Sam watches her with the reverence of an ancient Mesopotamian spotting a burning bush. But, instead of taking one and handing one back to him— she slides the angel headband over my head, tucking the edges behind my ears and making sure the feathered halo doesn’t get caught in my pineapple.
Sam blinks, “Oh! You wanted to… ahem! T-that’s great, lovely!”
Jennifer’s lips melt into that little smile she has when she knows exactly what she’s doing as she slides the devil horned headband into her own hair, “Yeah, it’s so nice of you to think of our team.”
And there’s not a single thing Sam can say, because the dumbass somehow forgot the fact that he’s already in costume.
The dejected slump in his shoulders sends a tiny pang through my chest. “Of course. Enjoy the party, Jennifer.”
Suddenly he’s not just Dean’s quirky uncle, he’s the guy who gave us all jobs fresh out of college when no one else would, who let me Margot and Layla stay in his basement before we found an apartment— even though it caused tension with his then wife, who never deducts our pay despite our constant slacking off, who just wanted to impress a girl he likes with a cool party.
Sam nods at me as he steps away, “Nia, can you slice up a few more nametags? The party’s hoppin’ and Dean said another group of folks are heading over from the Wicked Woodchuck.”
People actually hangout there?!
I nod, “Sure, Sam.”
No eye roll, no sigh, just sitting my platter down as I prepare to head straight to the copier room to print more templates.
Because if there’s one night in a year where I don’t totally dog him, I’ll let it be tonight.
“The paper slicer’s in my office, Nia. I needed to adjust a few card mockups before my one-to-one with Sam on Monday.” Jennifer informs me before I turn to leave, stepping closer to adjust my headband, “It’s a little crooked— there. Perfect.”
I don’t even remember what I was about to say, because out of the corner of my eye, I see Kat slipping into the bathroom with Moira and some girl I don’t know. Exchanging kisses between the two of them as the door to the gender neutral single stall closes.
After all that about opening up and crying and pissing and throwing up over me not texting back, she’s really gonna have a fucking threesome at my place of work?!
Jennifer had followed my line of sight the second she’d noticed I wasn’t paying her any attention, watching the women with me, “Damn. Even she’s done something like that— at your job. That’s gotta sting.”
I vow to spit in her Hot Tamale jar when I get to her office.
“She’s such a fuckin’ liar!” I hiss, just barely fighting the urge to kick Jennifer’s trash can over.
Not Kat— though lord knows it applies— but Jennifer.
The stupid paper slicer isn’t even in here!
Her office is the same as ever— couch, desk, two chairs, one desktop with two screens, and that damn candy jar. The air smells of her: cinnamon and something smoky and metallic. And it pisses me off even more, like she’s omnisciently watching me and laughing right now.
I stare at my own reflection through the pitch black window that usually displays a great view of the parking lot, deciding to take a second before I head back. I can feel my heart pounding and the heat in my face— telltale signs of the kind of stress that can easily snowball into a meltdown with this much overstimulation in one night. My plans were ruined, the band was loud and bad, Kat was Kat, Jennifer was Jennifer, and I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast but those apples (that might not have even been that good now that I think about it, I was probably just hungry).
I close my eyes, take several deep breaths the way that therapist I used to have taught me. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Feel the breaths in my stomach. Feel my feet in my shoes and my shoes on the floor.
Click.
“Looking for this?” Jennifer tosses the paper slicer onto the couch near her door.
Did she just lock us in here?
I don’t turn to face her, crossing my arms to ground myself with the pressure, “Why’d you say it was in here, Jennifer?”
She laughs bitterly, taking a leisurely seat on the couch next to the paper slicer behind me, “Oh, so now I’m Jennifer. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”
Our eyes are locked through our reflections. I suck my teeth, dropping my gaze from hers like begrudgingly surrendering arms. Then, I turn around, finally crossing the room to pick up the paper slicer and place it on her desk. I slide the fresh templates under the guide ruler, channeling my growing agitation into making sure they’re perfectly aligned for the blade.
I’ll just ignore her. It’s gotten me this far.
“Why have you been being such a fucking downer all month? Are you seriously still pouting over Caillou? Jesus, just get over it already— she’s a loser.”
Fuck it. Time to cuss her out and get fired.
“I don’t fuckin’ need this right now, I’m so sick of y— agh! Fuck!” I cut my finger.
It's like the universe immediately punished me for letting my temper get the best of me.
God forbid I get a single win on my favorite holiday.
“‘Need?’” Jennifer sneers, suddenly standing up faster than I’ve ever seen anyone move.
In those heels? Bitch must have knees of titanium!
She snatches my wrist and I try to yank it out of her grasp, “It’s fine, it’s just a—“
I freeze midsentence in complete shock because Jennifer Check just put my fucking finger in her mouth.
She’s licking the blood from my fingertip, swirling her tongue around it once, eyes daring mine to look away, daring me to keep talking.
“…W-what’re you doin’?” It’s quiet now, my voice.
Soft with disbelief and the distraction of trying to process the weird fluttery sensation in my stomach. I don’t know how she can even hear me over the sounds of the party still raging in the rest of the office beyond the door, but if she does— she doesn’t answer.
She sucks my finger one last time then releases it completely. “You’re seriously gonna stand there— in that ugly-ass, divorced old man sweater— and act like I didn’t do all of this for you?”
I swallow. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
I’m having this… primal reaction. I’m buzzing in a way that reminds me of how humans must’ve felt trying to avoid being eaten by prehistoric animals during a hunt— the constant ricochet between offense and defense and the thrill of a hunger that hungers back. In the back of my mind, I wonder if that’s some evolutionary instinct to tell me that this woman is about to cannibalize me. The kind of alarm that normal people recognize as a sign to run. But if I leave, I won’t know what happens next.
And, god, I need to.
“This party, Nia.” Jennifer unbuttons her cuffs and rolls up her sleeves, revealing a hair tie on her right wrist. She pulls her hair back, wraps it around itself, then secures it with the elastic.
“S-Sam threw this party for you.” I don’t even realize I’d been backing away until my hamstrings press against the edge of her desk.
She frowns, “What? No. I told Sam we needed to have a Halloween party for you. To celebrate your new card line.”
Oh my god.
She watches the realization dawn in my eyes and steps closer, “Mmhmm. And you’ve been spending the entire night avoiding me and watching her.”
The heat is back in my face, but not the pre-meltdown kind. It’s a blush that slowly spreads across my cheeks and down my neck like a drizzle of syrup.
Jennifer makes this sound somewhere between an indignant huff and a snarl, unbuttoning her blouse until her lacy, black bra is unshielded. “You know the thing that pisses me off the most? You follow her around like a puppy, and she doesn’t even make you cum, Nia.”
I choke on my own spit, “What?!”
Did Dean seriously blab about my sex life to my boss?!
“Oh, please. It’s so fucking obvious.” She leans over me, nose to nose now, her eyes flicking to my lips. “You walk through life with the energy of someone needy and untouched.”
My breath catches, and I wonder if she can hear my heart pounding in my chest, in my neck, in my wrists— yanking the chord to every bell like it’s trying to summon her.
Closer, more, don’t stop.
It seems to work, she dips her head, nuzzling along my carotid and inhaling with a low moan, “I could taste it in your blood just now.” She leans back, mouth barely a whisper from mine, “Does that scare you, Nia?”
I shake my head, “N-no… no, it doesn’t.”
And truly, it doesn’t, because whatever innocence I should’ve been born with like most people were was never there. I’ve always had these desires. Always been drawn to feelings, concepts, ideas that normal people don’t enjoy. That don’t make them bite the heel of their own palm to muffle their moans as they hump a pillow late at night.
Jennifer chuckles, it’s dark yet approving, her fingers tracing the path her nose had taken along my neck, “Mm…No.” She affirms, “It wouldn’t, would it? Because you’re not who everyone thinks you are. You’re not the kinda woman who fucks a loser like Kat contentedly. You think she doesn’t make you cum because she’s selfish— but I know she doesn’t make you cum because she can’t.”
Her fingers slide from below my ear to the nape of my neck. She opens her hand to press her palm to my throat, “I know what could get you there. I know what you need.”
I believe her instantly, as if she’d just uttered a universal truth.
She squeezes— just once— and I jolt, biting my lip hard, eyes darting to the door as if anyone could possibly hear or see us right now.
Jennifer releases my throat to yank my hair, reclaiming my attention, “No. Don’t look back there, don’t look towards them— towards her. Look at me, Nia. Only me.”
Her glare feels like it burns, watching me and contemplating the sentencing for my repeated acts of lèse-majesté. I obey in a manner that’s practically Pavlovian, chest heaving with each breath— entranced by her presence, her scent, her touch. Really looking at her more than I’ve ever allowed myself to. Studying her like a figure model I plan to sculpt in my mind from memory later tonight. I’ve always known she was gorgeous, but it’s one thing to know that as an objective fact, and another to have that beauty shining down on me and demanding that I don’t look away.
I reach out without thinking— fascinated by her close proximity— tracing my fingertip down the faint scar over her left breast, now unconcealed by her blouse. Noticing things about this woman who’s orbited me for almost two months that I would've never seen or appreciated before now. Like the light patch of freckles on her nose, or the depth of colors in her eyes— not just steel grey, but a captivating blend of bluer greys too— and is that… hazel? It’s almost yellow-ish, like sunlight attempting to break through a storm.
“Yes,” Jennifer praises, watching me watch her— always, “Touch me. Stop fucking acting like you haven’t wanted to. Like you haven’t needed this.”
Looks like I’m not the only one who’s needy.
Her permission is the final crack that breaks the dam.
I abandon the scar to cup her breasts. She has the perfect handful, nipples pebbling under my touch. I don’t squeeze, don’t even knead— just circle them, acquainting myself with the sensation of their weight in my hands. I move lower, thumbs swirling around her nipples until she gasps, until I hear her breathing tremble and feel it in the way her chest stutters into my palms.
I made her make that sound, I made her shake like that.
Jennifer bows, little pants puffing against my hairline, tip of her nose gliding a straight line from my forehead to my philtrum, “Open your mouth.”
My lips part on command, molding to the ‘O’ shape her mouth makes as it hovers over mine, breaths exchanged with the fervor of securing oxygen masks on a plummeting flight.
Her tongue is just as torturous as its mistress: darting out to tease along my bottom lip before retracting, going places unexpected— the tip of my nose and the corner of my lips and the dip in my cupid’s bow— only to plunge into my mouth when I attempt to chase. The message is clear: she’s setting the rhythm and leading this dance. And that gets me wetter than Lake Champlain.
“Mm, fuck—“ she shouldn’t get to taste so good, it isn’t fair. She can’t have everything.
But, dammit, she does. It’s what I've always imagined the forbidden fruit tasted like— plump, dripping flesh promising something tantalizingly perverse that made Eve keep eating, that wouldn’t let her stop. Not even with the promise of eternal damnation looming over each bite. It’s the same way I can’t stop kissing Jennifer Check. Not even to breathe.
Jennifer finally breaks the kiss, and I gasp like I’ve been resuscitated— then whine at the loss.
“More.”
She clicks her tongue, tugging my hair to tilt my head back and forth, examining my expression through heavy-lidded eyes, “Look at you.”
Her grip in my coils suddenly tightens, turning my head until I’m forced to make eye contact with my own reflection in the dark window, “Trying to tell me what you need like you don’t wear it on your fucking sleeve.”
Her free hand snakes between us, tearing my trousers open and cupping my mound through embarrassingly soaked panties, “Look at this mess. I’ve barely fucking touched you, Nia.”
She swirls her fingers through the fabric, smearing my wetness over my clit and circling it lightly, too lightly, “Just to make sure you never question me again, why don’t I tell you exactly what you need—“
I whimper, eyes squeezing shut, “Oh my god…”
A sharp tug to my hair makes me snap alert again, “Eyes open, dyke incel. Ms. Check is talking.”
She’s having way too much fun with this.
“What you need is someone who won’t let you hide behind your fake-ass Daria persona.”
Rude!
“It’s called a flat aff—aaaaahh… aaanh…” The bitch abruptly increases speed and pressure.
“I don’t give a fuck, Rain Man. You know what I’m talking about. You know what I mean. You know just like I know that what you need is for someone to finally stick their fingers so far up that poor, desperate, cobwedded snatch that you finally have to feel something you can’t ignore. And you’re just in luck— because that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. And then you’re gonna suck my fingers clean, and thank me for it after. Aren’t you?”
This is the first assignment she’s given me that I have zero problem with.
I nod, hips bucking to urge her along. “Y-yes! Yes, I am—“
Jennifer withdraws abruptly, “Ah ah ah. Slow your roll there. I seem to recall spending weeks planning a party for an ungrateful bitch who wouldn’t even look at me for a month. And you know what—? That really gets me down. It’s hard to be turned on when I feel so… unappreciated.”
Oh, she’s evil.
Jennifer’s hand slips from my hair, returning to my face. She cups my cheek, thumb pressing my bottom lip open with a soft, wet pop. A string of saliva follows my parting lips, and she licks it out of my mouth.
“If only a certain someone would apologize.” She moues, as if it’s out of her control.
I squirm against her desk, swallowing the fire that tells me to cuss her out again, “…I’m sorry.”
She scoffs, “That’s it—?! Oh, c’mon, Nia! Everyone knows a good apology includes the wronged party’s name.” Her grip tightens on my jaw, “Say it. Properly. Like you’ve moaned it, like you’ve dreamt of this. Of me. Like that underutilized pussy cries for me at night. Now, Nia. Or I leave you here.”
I grip the edge of her desk, nostrils flaring.
God, I don’t know if I want to kill her or if I want her to kill me.
“You’re such a bitch—“ I moan it like it’s not an insult, because it’s not. Not in a way that matters.
It’s a prayer at her altar.
Jennifer seems to get that, chuckling like a Disney villain who’s being hyped up by her favorite henchman, “I know, right?”
Her fingers return— both reward and reminder of what’s at stake— deeper pressure now, but much too slow. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, Nia. This isn’t just about me doing you a favor— though I definitely am— it’s camaraderie. Communion. Two freaks who crave the same meal. But I need you to apologize before I take a bite, because I need to know you needed this just as much as I do. That you’re tasting what I’m tasting. So use your fucking words before I get impatient.”
Margot was right. I’m obsessed with her.
“I-I’m sorry—“
“Louder.”
“I’m sorry, Jennifer! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry— so fuckin’ sorry, oh god—! Ohmygod—“
Fucking finally. Two fingers twist around my panties, wrapping them around her skin before she slides them inside me. I grip the edge of the desk, blunt nails clawing at the wood as my brows furrow from the sheer volume of my relief.
“That’s it, I knew you could be expressive with the right motivation.” She’s putting her whole arm into it, making sure not a drop of the arousal she’s made me secrete goes to waste, letting it lubricate the fabric around her fingers so she can push deeper.
“Spread your legs.”
I do, shakily, barely registering the paper slicer clattering to the floor in the background as I scoot up her desk. The snap of suspenders being ripped from fabric and the sharp whir of her zipper ripping open quickly follows. Then she mounts my thigh, rubbing her own wet clit against my knee.
I let go of the desk to grip her hip, and she grips my shoulder in return, tossing her head back as she grinds harder, faster. “Fuck! That’s what I fucking thought, this is what I fucking thought you’d look like, what you’d feel like— how quickly you’d drip down my fucking wrist!”
The desk creaks beneath us, setting a percussive tempo to the choir of pants, moans, and whimpers we exchange in a lewd duet.
Outside the party rages on, unsuspecting frequenters of Ghosttown’s underground music scene making history with the first ever greeting card company mosh pit. But here, in the privacy of Jennifer’s office, there’s only us.
Only her.
And lord, she’s glowing like a goddess— skin almost opalescent, that hazel splash in her eyes expanding rays across grey skies— dawn officially conquering the storm. Those perfect breasts bounce in my face with each of her undulations against my knee, begging to be sucked, bitten, devoured.
I snatch a cup down, lace crumbling in my grasp like tissue paper, then seal my mouth over her nipple, as though I could siphon her glow through her breast and drink it. Her hips stutter, and she adds a third finger inside me, pumping with a curved motion and wrist-twist combo that makes my nails scrape her hip and stars explode behind my eyes.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum so hard!”
The realization makes me dry sob, months of me and my Hitachi doing our damndest to recreate fantasies that Jennifer has just shattered without even trying.
Jennifer cackles manically, digging the tips of her pristine, stiletto-shaped acrylics into my shoulder— drawing blood and lapping it up, “Good! Lay back!“
I shake my head, “T-the computer—“
“I don’t give a fuck!” She releases my shoulder to shove her monitors from her desk herself, making room for me to lay flat.
As soon as my back meets the wood she kicks into turbo mode, gripping my throat and grinding against me fast enough to start a fire, her fingers keeping pace with her hips— relentlessly stroking my g-spot over and over and fucking over.
“I— I’M—!” I can’t tell if I’m being exorcised or possessed, but I don’t even care.
My orgasm doesn’t detonate, it blooms. Hot, slow, then sudden— starting with my pussy and spreading outwards until my entire body trembles, until I’ve kicked halfway off the other side of her desk because the crazy bitch doesn’t stop moving her fingers inside me.
I scrape her hip and bite her breast, too gone to be mindful of excessive force. When I taste the blood in my mouth, I just suckle.
Jennifer’s fingers piston to a level of overstimulation that echoes her punishing words: “Never! Fucking! Ignore me! Again! Look at me, dammit— SHIT!”
She follows me over the edge with a growl and a grin, flopping down until her entire bodyweight presses me into the sweat-streaked desk beneath us.
The silence that comes after feels like the same kind that follows a tornado. The kind of quiet that forces you to face the devastation of nature and your powerlessness in the wake of it.
I haven’t even caught my breath when Jennifer finally, blessedly, withdraws those three fingers— slow enough to torture my oversensitive nerves on last time— untangling them from my panties and spreading my release across my bottom lip until I open my mouth.
I lick her clean as promised, moaning around her invasive digits, eyes fluttering closed, “Thanmk yewf.”
Covenant fulfilled, muffled by our ministrations.
She cups my face with those same saliva and cum slick fingers, tongue tangling with mine to continue the ritual of communion.
Then, we just lay there. Pants slowly evening, bodies cooling from sweat, breasts smooshed against each other so tightly it feels like they’re bridging our heartbeats.
”…Happy Halloween, gay-ass.”
Of course that’s how she decided to break the silence.
I chuckle weakly, “Careful. I still might report you to HR.”
“Shut the fuck up, Nia.”
“You shut the fuck up.”
