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|This Is The Sort Of Thing You'd Want To Do To Your Mean Boss by Derajoyce(f): 6:54pm On Apr 10, 2020|
“…I expected more from you!” She bashed.
“Expectations, and more expectations.” Nia thought. “Everyone expects something, even this witch.” She twitched the two pinched toes allowed to breathe in the 12-inch heels, straightened her back and sealed her lips.
Across the table, a towering female figure ogled at her, yanking papers and yelling at the top of her voice.
In past times, Nia would’ve been red, swollen and morose. Pleading to be heard, to explain, to do better. She would be guilt-tripped and would spend the weekend clutching onto her phone for any commanding texts or phone calls. It was her job.
Not today. Today, she sat in silence, purring through the huger that had made a nightmare out of the last three years.
The woman was a beast. Superior commander in a male-dominated field. Towered 6ft3, wore only 12-inch heels and smeared red lipstick against her darkened inflated lips. She easily stood out and if that wasn’t enough, her husky voice did the trick. But, she was damn good at her job; really good. It seemed her brained formed specifically to suit the role. Over time, her gravitas swelled on the praise from colleagues, subordinates and partners. The glorifying stares from the men in boardrooms left her wet and turgid with power.
She filled the room with influence; that’s how Nia met her. She was in awe at such feminine voracious force. It beckoned on her to be something more and so, in utmost naivety, she submitted her time as an apprentice to this general.
At first, all snares and unruly remarks appeared as mild concern from a teacher hell-bent on infusing knowledge into a student. Then, it seemed the better Nia got, the hotter the general’s rage; the louder the screams; the tougher the weekends. For Nia, it became a life spent pleasing the general. She would’ve served her blood and still fallen short.
Avertedly, the days of dampened pillows, swollen eye bags and a half-shattered esteem tangled to form a psychopathic Nia. The type that could typhoon three million dollars in a cunning scheme. What appeared an unprecedented misfortune had been a carefully mapped out ploy to drain the witch of a few dollars.
While she yelled, Nia scanned her face, noting the crinkled folds at the corner of her lips. “How does she do that?” she wondered, “all that yelling must hurt … what a tough throat.” Her protruding eyes truly frightened, for a second. The stomping of the feet, the slamming on the desk and then, the peak; a loud scrunching scream. The type that blanks out light for a few seconds.
“Get out!” she thundered.
Nia pulled her chair in such elegance that would make the English wane in envy, stood up, straightened her skirt and made her way to the door. Her pleasure slipped through a half-formed smirk, while the other lady grovelled in frailty.
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