The Boss Crush

by Penny Wylder

  Stroking my length, I let my imagination take over.

  Laying my head back, I picture Dalia sucking my dick. My tip disappears into her mouth, and her cheeks hollow as my cock hits the back of her throat.

  With smooth strokes, I work from base to tip, moving faster and faster. Pumping harder, squeezing firmer, knowing just how good it could feel to actually be inside her.

  She swirls her tongue around the tip, licking the precum, and moaning as she drives her mouth back down with so much force I hit the back of her throat.

  Squeezing my dick, I relax my body deeper into the chair, knowing how badly I want to fuck her. I want to bend her over my desk, and slam my cock in her wet heat while I listen to her scream for more.

  Her pussy will milk me, it'll drip to just have a taste of my cock. Dalia won't be able to walk when I'm through with her.

  My balls tighten as the orgasm starts to build. Pumping faster and faster, I give one last jerk of my hand, and hot come spills all over my knuckles. My dick pulses as I grab a few napkins and clean myself up. A thin sweat coats my forehead and I'm breathing heavily.

  I feel better, more relaxed, and I know I have to keep myself under control. But, I'm never going to make it. Dalia Greene is going to destroy my very existence. And why? Because I can't stop thinking about her.

  Groaning, I slam my palms to my forehead.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Why is this girl affecting me this way?

  Dragging my hands down my face, I look over at the wall of pictures, my eyes landing on the one of me and my sister with our parents the day we graduated from high school.

  Fuck! Sandy will fire her in a second if she fucks any of this up!

  And if she ever found out that there's even a sliver of attraction between us, my sister will make her life a living hell.

  Sandy doesn't tolerate any bad behavior, especially when it comes to our business. Relationships, undermining direct orders from either of us, you're gone.

  When it comes to me, she's even worse. Sandy and I are twins, but according to her, she came out first, so she's always been protective of me in an older sister kind of way. Back in high school, Sandy became obsessive with the Dalia, actively searching for ways to hurt her. And somehow, she got me involved.

  Regrets are a horrible curse. They stay with you, forcing your brain to actively search for ways around the damage.

  But I could never fix what happened. All I could do was hate myself for it.

  Regrets are a pain that never leave. I still feel the same about it, even all these years later. And if I'm lucky, maybe I'll get the chance to make things right.

  I'm not sure if Sandy's up to something, but if she is, I'm not going to look the other way.

  Not anymore.

  4

  Dalia

  Senior year

  “Fuck, it's broken. What am I going to do now?” My skin pales as my eyes turn owlish. “I can't go out there like this?” My voice borders on frantic as I shake my hands at my sides. “I want to make a good impression.”

  “It's going to be fine, Dalia, trust me. Come here, let me fix it.” Kira grabs my shoulders and spins me to face the mirror. Pulling the loose button off, she tugs a pin from her hair and starts to work it through the buttonhole. “My mom taught me this trick. It works beautifully. No one will ever know it's broken.”

  I feel the fabric as it pulls tight, then loosens, and then tight again. “There,” she says, smoothing her hands down over my shoulders. “All better, check it out.”

  Looking in the mirror, I twist so I can see the back of the dress. “Oh my God, thank you, you're a life saver.”

  She hops down off the sink and smirks. “I know.” Leaning back against the porcelain basin, she picks up my portfolio and thumbs through it. “I don't know why you're so worried. Look at these, they're incredible. I mean seriously, you're like a female Andy Warhol. If any of these companies out there don't want to hire you now, or draft you for after college, they're crazy.”

  “These aren't scouts for football or something, Kira, it's graphic design. I'm not going to get drafted or anything.”

  “Well, whatever the hell it is, they'd be stupid not to snag you now while they can.” Passing me the leather folder, she pushes the bathroom door open, and we both head into the hall.

  “Yeah, well, fingers crossed they think the same as you do. These companies have big expectations, they're always looking for something special.” I step back, about to turn and head into the gym for the job fair, when I'm hit from behind.

  “Hey, watch it!” Sandy says, lifting her head. Her expression is hard at first, then quickly changes. Her lips flare and her eyes turn to glass. “Oh, Dalia, I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was you.”

  I flash her an apologetic smile, like I'm at fault too. “Sorry, I didn't see you there.”

  “It's fine, no worries.” She gives me her signature fake ass grin as her gaze drops to my hands. “What's that you got?” she asks.

  “Oh, it's nothing,” I say, trying to slip it behind my back.

  Sandy throws her arm out, snatching quickly before I can hide it away. “It doesn't look like nothing.”

  “It's just my portfolio.” I attempt to take it back with a fast grab of my own, but she turns away from me and I only get a handful of air.

  “Can I see it?” She isn't really asking, just like she isn't really waiting for an answer. Sandy opens the front cover and starts to thumb through it.

  “Um. . .” My mouth wrinkles, unsure why she has this sudden interest in my art. “Sure.” Warily, I let my arms go limp as her eyes are in my folder.

  I'm not going to fight her over it, not here, and not right now. The sooner she's done with whatever game she wants to play, the sooner I can get into the job fair. I have a goal, and I'm not going to let her get to me right now.

  She flips through each page, one at a time, her eyes growing bright as she looks over my art. “You did all these?” She sounds surprised.

  “Uh, yeah, I did.” Picking at my nails, I actually feel super nervous that she's looking at my stuff. She always has something to say, and it's never nice.

  Her eyes jump up to mine, and her brows arch high. “These are really good, Dalia, like really, really good.”

  Opening my eyes wide in surprise, I ask, “You think so?”

  “Yeah, I actually do, they're incredible.” She's still flipping pages, her fingertips tracing thick lines, and sweeping over curves and around the sharp edge of the portrait she's open to.

  “Thank you.”

  Sandy closes the cover and hands me back the folder, then holds up a thoughtful finger. “Hey, would you be willing to look over my stuff, and maybe give me some tips? I mean, your art is so much better than mine. I would really appreciate it.”

  Is she serious right now?

  I stand stunned for a second, not sure how to answer. Sandy doesn't have a nice bone in her body. She's always treated me like shit. For her to ask for my help is sending up all kinds of red flags. This isn't who she is.

  She smiles at me, her brows bouncing and head bobbing for me to say yes. “Please, I could really use some advice from someone with your eye and talent.”

  That's the most genuine I've ever heard her. She's always so cruel, her voice always on the edge of annoyance. But the look in her eyes is so believable, I can't say no.

  “Wow, yeah, I—”

  “Can't,” Kira answers for me, her tone dry and wary. “Dalia really should get going. Right, Dalia? You wanted to get to the job fair early, isn't that what you said?” she asks me, tugging on my arm, and trying to pull me toward the double doors.

  Sandy cocks her head and grabs my other arm to pull me back. “I think she has time. The job fair isn't going anywhere, and I have my portfolio right here.” Tugging a black folder from her bag, she pushes it in my direction.

  Kira's eyes sharpen, filling with agitation. She's standing beside me, her gaze fixed on Sandy. I can feel the tension
coming off her, and I just want to keep things calm.

  “It's fine, really. I've got a few minutes.” Kira rolls her eyes, dropping her arms to her side and twisting away. I just want to keep the peace. “Here, let me see.” Taking her portfolio, I flip through the pictures.

  They're not bad, they're really not. I can see a few areas where she should clean up some lines. The detailing is good, but sometimes she goes overboard and creates a puddle of mess.

  But I'm not sure how to criticize them without hurting her feelings, or how to give her pointers without insulting her.

  What do I tell her? How do I say it without making her mad, or upsetting her?

  So, I do my best to point out all the stuff I love about her pictures, then softly suggest a few things. Sandy's listening, she looks like she's taking mental notes as she nods and agrees with what I'm saying.

  Closing her folder, I hand it back. Kira forces a fake smile and takes my arm again. “All right, time to go.” She starts to pull me again, but Sandy stops her.

  “Wait, Dalia, let me pay you back for your advice. I can give you a hand with your hair and makeup?”

  Style has always been an area I lack. My makeup is subpar, and my hair is either down or in a ponytail, nothing fancy.

  Running my fingers through my hair, my eyes dart to Kira who is shaking her head no lightly. I know she hates Sandy, and she has good reason. We all have a good reason for hating Sandy Vox.

  Except, this is a side of Sandy I've never seen before. She's actually being. . . nice. My walls are down, she isn't giving me a reason to throw them up. Maybe things will be different between us now that we share this thing, this love of art.

  “I'll meet you inside,” I say to Kira and give her a smile.

  She doesn't like my answer, flaring her nostrils and grinding her jaw. “I think—”

  “I think you should let her make her own decision. Besides, I'm just going to freshen her up some, that's all.” Sandy pulls me back into the bathroom.

  Looking back over my shoulder, the last thing I see before the door closes is Kira with a frown on her face. I don't want her to feel bad about this. She doesn't need to.

  People can change, even her.

  Sandy catches me looking back, and giggles. “Don't worry, she'll be fine without you for a few minutes.” Pulling the portfolio out from under my arm, she sets both of ours down on the sink. “Stand here.” Moving me by the shoulders, she looks me up and down.

  “Well?” I ask, running my fingers through my hair again. “What do you think?”

  “I think we're going to make you drop jaws to the floor out there.”

  “Really?”

  “Fuck yeah, are you kidding me?” Slipping her sweater off, she lays it over a stall door, and sets her bag on one of the sinks. “I mean look at you. You really should show off some more skin.”

  “You think so? It wouldn't be too much?”

  “Just let me do my thing, I promise, everyone will remember you once I'm done.”

  Sandy braids my hair and pulls a few pieces out so they frame my face. She digs around in her bag, taking out foundation, blush, lip stick, and mascara.

  Spinning me so I can't see in the mirror, she does my makeup, and starts to adjust my dress. “You really need to work your assets here. If you want the guys at those tables to notice you, you need to give them a reason to look.”

  Pulling the straps on my bra, she ties them together with a small elastic. My tits are now up near my neck, and she uses a clip to pull the skirt up to the middle of my thighs, pinning it in place.

  “There, now you're going to turn some heads.” She grabs our stuff off the counter, and hands me my folder.

  We walk out of the bathroom together, and I feel this rush pass through my body. I don't feel like a sheep right now, I feel like I'm part of the wolves.

  Sandy and I start for the gym, when she lets out a heavy breath as she's searching her bag. “Shit, have you seen my sweater?” Her gaze shifts from her bag to me. “It's my lucky sweater, I can't do this without my lucky sweater.”

  “I think you left it on the stall door, want me to go grab it for you?” I ask.

  “Would you really? That would be so nice.”

  “Yeah, sure, it's no problem.”

  “You're a life saver, thank you.”

  Running back into the bathroom, I grab her sweater and come back into the hall. Looking left to right, Sandy's gone.

  Where the hell did she go?

  Standing on the tips of my toes, I check down the hall. She's really gone. Vanished as if she was never there. Checking the time, there isn't much more time for the job fair, and I don't want to miss out on any opportunity.

  I'll just give it to her later.

  Heading in the gym, I can feel everyone staring at me as I browse the booths, searching for the few that are exactly what I want. I'm only here for the graphic design jobs. That's all I care about.

  I want my art to be seen on billboards and in commercials. I want to create something that people will remember and will last for a lifetime. I want to be like Carolyn Davidson and create something as memorable as the Nike swoosh.

  Finding a booth in the back, I walk in and I'm stunned to see a woman behind the table. She looks me up and down, obviously judging my outfit choice.

  Why did I let Sandy dress me like a five dollar hooker?

  Pulling the top of my shirt up to cover my cleavage, I sit in the chair and rest my portfolio on the table. I spit out the speech I came up with earlier, about how I'm a hard worker, and I take pride in my art.

  She seems to be mildly interested, despite the awkward introduction. The woman leans forward, resting her chin on the back of her hands as I express my love of design and list some impressionable artists from over the years.

  “I put together some of my favorite work that I've done. I hope you can see how much time and effort I'm willing to put in by the quality of my portfolio.”

  The woman smiles, taking the folder and leaning back in her chair. She opens the cover, her eyes popping up to me, and then back down to the folder. She flips a couple of the pages, closing the cover angrily.

  “Is this some type of joke?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, confusion and uncertainty filling my voice.

  “You tell me,” she says, sliding the portfolio back across the table. “You say you're a hard worker, but this doesn't show it. If you want to play games, I suggest you go elsewhere.”

  Pulling back the cover, I stare in shock.

  Blank.

  Blank.

  Blank.

  There's nothing here. Page after page is nothing but crisp, white sheets of fresh unused paper.

  “I don't understand, this isn't right. Where's my art?”

  “Look,” the woman says, bluntly. “I don't have time for this. So, if you get serious, and you want a real shot at graphic design, I suggest you really put some effort in and grow up.”

  “No, really, this isn't my portfolio. Mine is full, it's filled with all my work.” Tears cloud my vision, bubbling up over my eyes.

  The woman purses her lips and folds her hands on the table, shrugging her shoulders at the same time.

  “I don't know what to else to tell you, I don't see any art.”

  Embarrassment gushes through my body, turning my skin ghost white. I want to throw up, I want to cry, I want to scream and flip the table over. But I can't do any of that right now. Hanging my head, I don't say another word to the woman.

  Jumping out of my seat, I dart off toward the hall. The tears are falling freely because I can't keep them in. This is unreal. It's a complete fucking mess.

  It's ruined! My future is ruined!

  Pushing through students, I run into the hall, unable to look anyone in the eyes. All I want to do is cry. I can hardly breathe as the tears fall harder. Leaning against the cement block wall, I lay my head back.

  This can't be happening! Not now! Not today!

  Staring
down at the folder in my hands, I slowly peel back the cover again. It's possible my eyes played a trick on me, and the woman just wasn't impressed with what she was looking at.

  These pages aren't blank. It was me. It was only me. . .

  My eyes are closed as I open the cover. Peeking slightly, the bright white paper is blinding me with more tears.

  It's really all gone. All of it.

  Laughter echoes in the hall, causing me to turn my head. And that's when I see her. Sandy Vox. She looks over at me, a devious smirk on her face as she laughs again with extra volume. The friendly sparkle I had seen in her eyes is gone, replaced by the bitch I always knew.

  And that's when it hits me. It didn't register at the time, I was too naive and excited, bloated with her fake compliments.

  Sandy did this.

  It makes sense, that's the only thing that makes any sense at all.

  Anger inflames my soul, flipping a switch inside my head, and causing me to do something I never would have done before.

  Storming over to Sandy, I shove her sweater against her chest. “Here. You forgot this.” My voice is sharp as the thin edge of a knife. I want her to hear me this time, I want her to know I'm not afraid of her.

  “Hey!” she yells, her jaw jetting to one side. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “You screwed me!” Pointing a finger in her face, I hold up the empty portfolio.

  “I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I didn't do anything.”

  “Yes you did. All my work is gone. All of it.” Opening both ends, I tip it over, letting the pages float to the floor. “Where's my stuff, Sandy?”

  Sandy flares her nostrils, tipping her head to look down the bridge of her nose at me. “I don't have your shit, Dalia.”

  “This is all your fault. You did this to me. It's because of you I lost out on an incredible opportunity. You made me embarrass myself.”

  Scoffing, she looks around as kids start to circle us like sharks. Touching her chest lightly, she purses her lips. “It's not my fault you went in there looking like a slut.” Her eyes run up and down my front, and she circles my torso with a single finger. “I mean look at you. Maybe you went in there looking for the wrong job. I think the escort booth is in the far back corner.”