Losing Inhibitions_Sexy in the Sun

by Jools Louise

  “With all due respect…wait a minute I have no respect for you.” I began, smirking at his thunderous expression from my insolent tone. “You’re a bully with dictator-like delusions who thinks because you drive a big car and can yell a lot, that we women are supposed to bow down to the God of small-dicked psychopaths and worship the fact that we are in your shadow.” His gasp of outrage was drowned out as I continued, not giving him a chance to speak.

  “You obviously think women are inferior, but let me tell you we all think the same about you. I really can’t take a man seriously who has a bigger bra cup size than me, since your man boobs are sagging just a tad. I will be leaving, on schedule. I think maybe it’s time you left, don’t you, so that I can continue with my work here, since I am still the manager here until my notice has been served?”

  I retorted by giving him the sharp edge of my tongue, recognising the parting shot of a playground bully who’s lost, before bidding him a sickly sweet good-bye as he left in a huff, his face a startlingly vivid shade of puce.

  “Are you okay?” I asked Karen as I relaxed finally after his departure. Since I was leaving, all the anxiety from our earlier dealings had fled. I had some experience with abused women, having spent some time in a shelter for women as a child. My mother had been a battered spouse, and she had left her husband and my biological father when he had used his fists on me. I had been very young, only about five or so, but I remembered that look in her eyes, the hopelessness and despair after a particularly nasty fight.

  It must have taken a tremendous amount of courage to leave, and I always respected her for that. Sadly, she had taken her own life just a few years later, having become addicted to prescription drugs to combat manic depression. She had ignored offers of counselling, which would have helped give her coping mechanisms, not wanting to admit she was weak. In the end my father had won anyway and she had died when I was twelve, and she in her early thirties.

  Karen looked at me, startled by my question, looking lost for a second.

  “Did someone hit you?” I asked bluntly, since the bruise on her face was fairly obvious.

  “No, no, I was clumsy and tripped and fell.” She brushed off my question, but I had seen the look in her eyes before she lied.

  “The first step to freedom is admitting to yourself when you need help,” I commented and her eyes met mine. She looked embarrassed and afraid.

  “I haven’t exactly been the perfect boss.” She flushed, looking down.

  “No, you’ve been the perfect bitch.” I retorted cheerfully, smiling to myself. “I spoke to a friend about you, who is a psychotherapist, and he says it’s you projecting your feelings about yourself onto someone else.” Karen gave me a look, some of the old fire returning for a second. I continued. “Personally, I just think you were jealous because I have bigger boobs than you and can carry off the whole wrinkled clothing vibe so well.” I grinned at her, gesturing at my less than perfect grooming. She raised a brow, that sneer trying to break free before she flushed again, and gave me a half-apologetic look.

  Impulsively, I handed her a business card with two phone numbers on it.

  “When you get to the point you need help, these people are really professional and discreet.” She took the card hesitantly, holding onto it like it was a hand grenade about to explode.

  “Don’t let anybody keep you in a cage,” I finished, before asking if she’d like a coffee. She looked relieved at the change of subject, and surprisingly followed me into the break room, where I fixed us both a cup of java before discussing a bunch of less volatile subjects.

  After another hour she departed, thanking me graciously for the coffee. In a more surprising turn of face, she actually congratulated me on my store, then told me the company was losing a great manager, and she actually said great, which left me speechless for about the third time this century.

  I escorted her to the shop floor then spied Max’s hunky frame chatting to one of the college lads, an eighteen-year-old boy called Callum who was about to join the Royal Marines.

  I said good-bye to Karen then walked over to Max. His bright smile lit the place up, and he gave me a peck on the cheek as my employees tried to look like they weren’t staring like mad at the hunk who had just kissed their boss on the shop floor.

  “What time do you finish, luv?” he asked, his fresh clean scent tingling my nostrils.

  I had another half hour or so and told him I’d meet him at a nearby restaurant for dinner when handed over to the night manager.

  Giving me another kiss, this time on the mouth, he grinned again and left me to fend off the teasing from various people about my new toy boy. Blushing and laughing, I told them he was a good friend, which did nothing to dispel their raised brows and sly looks and I scampered back to my office to finish up my end of day reports.

  The next couple of weeks flew by. Max had been in contact with Jackson, who was en route to Manchester to get his apartment packed up. Instead of selling, he had decided to lease the place and was even looking into buying my apartment to turn the two into halfway houses for people needing help.

  The long-term plan was to buy the entire apartment building, which was on three floors, containing six apartments in total. They were all two bedroom and a fairly good size, and Jackson’s idea was a good one. Located within fairly easy access to an international airport, close to the main motorway infrastructure and also the city centre, the building was located in a suburb of the city. Manchester itself had been the victim of heavy bombing during World War II, and many of the older buildings had been destroyed. This meant that when rebuilding commenced, there were lots of purpose built places like this to house people.

  For various reasons, Jackson and I had agreed we needed a central office to coordinate the foundation’s business. El Santuario was the refuge, but it was remote. We needed a place located with easy access to the rest of the world, and despite London being a logical choice, both Jackson and I had a fondness for Manchester.

  I had been born in the north west of England, and had grown up in the city. Jackson had used this as his base, moving to the city after Doug was killed and had stayed.

  Manchester was also much cheaper to live in than London.

  So Manchester would become the base for the foundation, which meant Max and I were spending every spare minute putting things together. It was a big job, not helped by the fact that Cyborg had decided to take a personal interest in my last few weeks at the store, and had visited twice more since that first meeting. I was now extremely wary of him, as I sensed he was a dangerous man. Since my outburst to him a couple of weeks ago, I had heard stories about his viciousness, but had not had to suffer anything like that from him. I still trod carefully and tried to keep a lock on my tongue whenever he was there. He did nothing more than offer unnecessary advice about the store, in between making my entire staff uncomfortable as well as generally getting under my feet.

  He was one of those who took over, popping up in different departments to interrogate the staff, whilst irritating the customers with his smarmy, over the top, politician-style sucking up.

  He questioned every little thing that was done, then gave orders how he thought it should be done, whilst it being obvious he had no clue how to run a busy store, selling perishable produce plus groceries plus having a clothing section and cafe as well.

  Each department had its own manager, who had a supervisor plus a team whose responsibility it was. The managers reported directly to me, and gave me regular reports about how their department was doing, plus advising of any issues which needed resolution.

  One key area was the checkouts. They took all the money, heard any complaints from customers at the kiosk, and made sure that after spending their time filling trolleys that the customers were able to have their purchases processed with the minimum of fuss. There is a myth that the English like to queue, which as a manager in a big superstore will tell you is codswallop. If people have to wait any longer than necessary,
there is a definite air of irritation which lingers until everyone is dealt with properly.

  I overstaff the checkouts, deliberately. Any extra staff filter onto shop floor to help with delivery, date checking, and price reductions. When checkouts get busy, they can be called back straightaway, leaving the shop floor staff to carry on with the jobs at hand.

  Cyborg’s idea was that there was too many staff on checkouts, and he kept using the phrase “productivity and efficiency management.” I took this to mean that he wanted the same amount of work done by less people so he could get a big fat bonus at the end of each quarter. Since I was leaving anyway, I decided to let him spew his ideas, while still keeping things as they were. Whoever took over the place could argue with the insufferable man, I was over it.

  Cyborg also expected everyone to be running around after him as his personal entourage, meaning that when he was in the store, I spent half my time trying to locate key members of staff to get essential tasks completed, only to find them carrying out errands for him. He even had one of the duty managers washing his car!

  I did flip at that one, and decided since I had nothing to lose, I didn’t care that I was yelling at the chief executive officer of the company. I think my words went something like “You asshole! We are not your personal slaves, and washing the car of the CEO is definitely not under the job description of a duty manager who is responsible for staff schedules on checkouts. If you need me to, I can recommend a really good therapist who can help you deal with your small dick syndrome, since I can’t imagine any other reason why you need to be overcompensating, since your ego is so big it can be seen from space!” or words to that effect.

  I did re-run the CCTV footage of the expression on his face when that outburst occurred. I thought he would burst. His face went bright red and he looked like a male version of the little girl in Wonka’s Chocolate Factory who puffed up like a blueberry.

  My security team and I also came up with something else when viewing the CCTV footage. Our illustrious CEO was a thief. He had spent a bit of time in the warehouse, supposedly doing spot checks. It wasn’t in his job description I’m sure, but it was one of his scare tactics, trying to find something he could fire me for. The security tape showed him taking a few cases of items, leaving the warehouse through the door to the side of the loading bay, and then depositing those cases in his big black, small-dick-syndrome type car.

  Before he left that day, I made sure I had backup, and then when cyborg made accusations about stock missing from that particular area, I took great delight in showing him the footage. I told him if he didn’t want me calling the police, he would return the stock to the warehouse, under the watchful eyes of the security team, and nothing more would be said. I made it clear that my handover to the next manager would have all reports sent over to head office, and that I would make sure a full audit was carried out before I left for good, ensuring that no one could accuse me of stealing.

  My parting shot was that if he so much as thought about setting foot in my warehouse again without my permission, I would send the footage to the police, and make sure the media knew about what goes on in senior management circles.

  To be honest, I should probably have sent it off anyway, but I had three more days left, two of which would be dealing with auditing the store, meaning everyone in the store would be there after hours counting stock, and ensuring everything was shipshape for the following morning. Then the reports would be filed, and I could hand over with a clear conscience when I left.

  Chapter 10:

  Payback the Bitch

  The staff on my final day made me cry. Everyone had donated to a fund so that instead of flowers or chocolates, I received as a leaving present a cheque for over a thousand pounds, which was made out to the foundation.

  A lot of the team knew of or had been the victim of some kind of abuse, or knew someone who had been badly injured in the military and thought the idea of a foundation offering all sorts of counselling and physical rehabilitation was a fantastic idea. I did have a lot of offers from people who said they were willing to work for free, if I needed anyone to carry my luggage back to El Santuario, which I declined. It wouldn’t do for them to find out I had not one, but eight studs who kept me well supplied with cum.

  The store had shut for the day, the audit was over, and I was enjoying a nice chilled glass of champagne with my team of managers and the staff who had been able to stay. The final reports for the audit had been signed off that day, and everyone congratulated on their performance in store. A buffet had been laid out in the break room, and we munched on an interesting mix of cuisines, sausages on sticks, cheese balls, satay sticks and samosas, crisps, dips, and salad to name but a few. We discussed many things, and between bites we reviewed the results of the reports and what had happened to Cyborg.

  There had been some blips in the audit trail, which had shown up on the audit reports. Cyborg had not been allowed to participate, and an interim manager had supervised the counting of stock. The audit took one night to complete, with an outside team drafted in to ensure accuracy. It turned out that since I had been away, there had been large stock losses, which were traced to times when the cyborg visited the store. Security footage had been retrieved, and just like before, he had entered the warehouse not realising there were hidden cameras, or rather not realising where the cameras were hidden. It had been almost amusing to witness this big, blustering buffoon sneaking about and trying to be nonchalant about taking cases of wine, clothing, and cigarettes out of the store through the door by the loading bay.

  What Cyborg and my security team had not realised was that I had been suspicious of the limitations of the equipment currently in store, and with the permission of my previous area manager had installed a couple of extra cameras linked to a different network which was accessible through my office computer. All my duty managers were aware of the extra equipment, and knew how to access it. It wasn’t common knowledge where the cameras were situated.

  Cyborg had thought he was very clever by disabling the standard equipment. However, I was no idiot, and had a feeling there must have been a reason for both Karen and the cyborg to make so many visits, especially in my absence and with no problems previously with stock losses. Usually, a certain amount of losses could be accounted for by shoplifters, damages, etc. When large amounts went missing, this triggered alarm bells, especially when other key factors tied in…like unexplained visits by senior management who usually spent their time at the golf club, not in stores.

  I took great delight in bringing in the police, handing over the tapes with full reports by myself and all my team, who basically helped nail down the coffin of Cyborg’s deceitful career. I was asked to attend a board meeting, and had nervously sat before all seven of the directors to give my final thoughts on where I thought the company should be heading and how much I had enjoyed working for the company until latterly when they had unleashed their pit bulls and their turnover of managers had suddenly increased fourfold.

  At long last, though, I was finished, and couldn’t help doing a happy dance as I handed the store keys over to the new manager, wished them luck, and left to begin the walk back to my apartment.

  It was getting darker, and streetlamps were just flashing on as I began my commute. The store was only a twenty-minute walk from the apartment, and I usually walked to work. Today, despite a chill in the air, it wasn’t raining so I decided not to bring the car.

  As I set off, I thought I heard footsteps behind, but when I turned around, I didn’t see anyone. I picked up my pace, feeling uncomfortable. There was usually a bit of traffic in the area, since the road was fairly well used, but for some reason, tonight it was quiet, eerily so.

  I was just approaching my street, crossing the road and seeing Jackson’s car parked on the street. He had brought the limo, which would be able to take our increased luggage when we left in a couple of days, and I grinned as I thought how much I would tease him about being the big shot who ne
eded someone to drive him around.

  A faint noise behind me had me turning slightly, before I felt a sharp blow on the side of my head and I fell with a pained cry. My eyes lost focus for a second. I was stunned for a second, giving my attacker time to move in.

  He grabbed me by the hair, dragging me toward a vehicle. Struggling hard, I screamed, kicking and punching and trying to bite anything I could reach. I heard the guy cursing, realising I had heard that voice before, and I blinked, looking up and seeing the bright red, bullish face of the cyborg.

  “You fucking bitch,” he roared at me, spittle flying from his angry mouth. “No one messes with Percival Simmons. You need to be taught some manners.”

  His face was contorted with rage and I smelled the stench of alcohol on his breath. My shirt was ripped, and he slammed me up against his vehicle, ripping my trousers down with brutal force before punching me repeatedly in the face. I didn’t give in, kicking at him like a wild thing. I felt the agony as he ripped my hair out then flipped me like I was a rag doll, his large frame strong even though his bulk was mostly from fat rather than muscle.

  I screamed again, my voice hoarse. He punched me again and I fell to the ground. He roared in rage, kicking me now as I lay in a huddle on the cold ground, feeling the pain reach saturation point and I blacked out after a particularly vicious kick which landed against my rib cage. I heard the crunch of bones breaking, then the shout of other voices over the roaring in my ears, and then nothing.

  I could smell the antiseptic smell of bleach and disinfectant. I was feeling no pain, and tried to smile, which was more difficult than I had imagined since there was something stopping my mouth moving.

  I moved my hand, frowning when even that proved difficult. It felt like I had a brick attached to my arm.

  “Hey, luv.” I heard Jackson’s deep voice. He sounded husky, like he had a cold, and I tried to open my eyes. My eyelids didn’t cooperate.