Reversal: The Erotic Fixer by Eden Smiles

Author:Eden Smiles [Smiles, Eden]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Erotica, Bdsm, Interracial, Romantic Erotica
Amazon: B00LK2NXKQ
Published: 2014-07-04T04:00:00+00:00

Office awkwardness degrades to a phenomenon so uncomfortable and toxic that English has no word for it. But the burden of this mutated awkwardness is not Constance’s to bear. This time, the burden is on the mutineers. Desire for Mr. K dominates her heart, mind, cunt, ass, even the backs of her knees. She masturbated herself to sleep, masturbated during a dream (she is sure of it), and masturbated upon waking. For good measure, she beat it on the toilet and in the shower and touched herself surreptitiously on the subway. The desire isn’t just to feel Mr. K in her. The desire is specific and dark and relentless. I want to be his dog, or at the very least, his property. My fantasy is to be a piece of property like Thea was, but to be more cherished. I want to be a part of him, and I want him to love me as a part of him.

At the same time, Mr. K is human, as human as she is and Paul is, and nothing more. If he trained Constance, she could be like him. In time she could be a partner in crime, whether Mr. K. liked it or not.

Back to reality: Inga’s at the door, a document in hand. “Inga, like, didn’t you already quit?” Constance asks.

The old lady inches into the room. No explanation. No pleasantries. Only business. Her spiel is sad, and a snail would deliver it faster: “Paul meets with his backers this afternoon. If the green light is given, the full staff will quit en masse. You deserve to lose this business.” She presents the paper. “The staff has written you a letter repudiating your vicious tactics. Stalking Paul, engineering his arrest, framing him for assault. You should be ashamed of yourself. Of course, you’re not. If your mother were here, Constance, I would spit in her face for raising such a disgrace.”

The sadness in Inga’s voice induces tears. The absurdity of the charges induces laughter. The tears and laughter cancel one another out. Constance’s reaction is pure non-reaction.

Until…

She holds the letter up above her head. The staff of forty-six watches through the glass. In a gleeful motion, Constance pulls the left top of the letter up and the right top down. The tear is symmetrical and loud, gratifying every nerve ending in Constance’s body. The din in the office ceases to be. The workers are done. Three, six, twelve employees pick up and go.

And Inga… Inga looks like she is about to become intimately acquainted with cardiac arrest.

“Idiot, get the fuck out of my office,” Constance says.

The entire floor empties. Constance scopes the scene. Checks inside cubes and under benches, just to be sure. Women left purses. Men left phones. They will return, dozens of them, soon. Her plan is to sit in the office and wait for the trickle and glare at it. But Mr. K texts, changing the plan: “Equinox, Fifth Ave. You’re late. Roman, your trainer, is waiting. Proper attire and nutrition are complimentary.

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