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Bossy: An Erotic Workplace Diary

Bossy: An Erotic Workplace Diary

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Bossy: An Erotic Workplace Diary

3.5/5 (10 evaluări)
75 pages
1 hour
Jun 16, 2020


Phoebe, a graphic artist in her thirties, has come to loathe her boss. To distract herself from the endless meetings and micromanagement, she turns to her go-to coping strategy: dreaming up workplace sexual fantasies between herself and a superior.

As she later recounts this practice to her therapist, Phoebe is drawn back into her work history and the various fantasies she has concocted over the years between herself and her bosses. But will these escapades remain forever contained in the realm of Phoebe’s imagination?

Jun 16, 2020

Despre autor

Ada Stone is a queer and trans book-obsessed human from the Pacific Northwest, where they live now. They love spending quiet time among trees and mountains, listening to their favorite albums on repeat, and receiving “your holds are ready for pickup” alerts from the library.

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Bossy - Ada Stone


Part 1: Imagining a Better Meeting

When Phoebe let her eyes lose focus, her boss’s features faded to the extent that she could be almost anyone — almost. There was still Lucy’s distinctive tinny voice, and Phoebe wasn’t quite bold enough to wear earplugs into a work meeting. From the back corner of the conference room, Phoebe crossed her right leg over her left until it went numb, then put her left over her right until the same thing happened. Back and forth she switched. Some amount of time had passed — probably more than ten minutes but less than twelve hours — since Phoebe and her coworkers had entered the room for their weekly departmental meeting. Training her eyes on the whiteboard, she saw that Lucy had crossed off about half the items on the agenda. Phoebe had already left once to use the bathroom. The situation was quickly becoming dire.

Though laptop use was not permitted during meetings, taking handwritten notes was encouraged. Phoebe’s notebook lay open, the page blank except for a deadline scrawled across the upper margin; for which project, she could not remember. Without moving to a new page, she began writing:

It was a dark and stormy Friday evening. Though I had turned in my project ahead of time, Lucy had required that I stay at the office late today to support another group’s proposal, which would be overdue by Monday morning. Typical. It was clear Lucy respected me, or my artistic abilities, at least; she assigned me to projects serving our most important clients, often naming me team lead. And yet she was also eager to tax me near the point of breaking, ready with an especially rigorous task as soon as I had completed my assigned work for the week. Maybe the problem was that she saw me more as a capable pawn than a human being who happened to be in her employ.

I watched the wall clock’s hour hand creep toward the six as I waited for the software to render the image I had just illustrated. Only a few final touches remained. Assuming the piece’s approval by the original team’s leader, I hoped I could get out of the office by seven. I thought of my cozy (and yes, that means cramped) fourth-floor walkup, in which my cat, Benny, awaited my return. He was probably all curled up in the mess of blankets that perpetually covered my couch. All I wanted to do was join him there with a book and a mug of tea, letting his fluffy body serve as my foot warmer.

Potential freedom had just started to enter my sights when a coworker on his way out stopped by to chat. The problem with this particular coworker was that a chat with him was always endless stream-of-consciousness word-vomit about his life, professional and personal whipped together as if by one of those fancy stand mixers people who bake perpetually display on their counters. After being subjected to far more information about the personal drama between his child’s friend’s soccer coaches than any person should be asked to bear, the conversation was mercifully interrupted by a phone call from his spouse. Realizing, as I was all too aware, that it was already 6:45, he scurried out the door.

Ten minutes later, I was hitting send on an email containing my contribution to the lagging project. From her cubicle, Nancy, the project lead, strode over to my desk and asked me to make a handful of changes. I disagreed with every one of her editorial decisions, but knowing her stubbornness, I just nodded, reasoning that I would be able to leave faster if I just made the changes. Trevor once won an argument about an artistic decision with Nancy five years ago, and it is still part of office lore.

By 7:30, Nancy, Lucy, and I were the only people left in the office. I was still finishing up Nancy’s requested edits when she stood up from her desk, gathered her things, and announced she had to pick up her partner from the airport. She would review my changes from home later that night. This injustice only pushed me to work faster. At five minutes before eight, I sent my final draft to Nancy, leaving the body of the email blank to prevent myself from erupting in a passive-aggressive tirade.

I had just finished a series of ten deep breaths to process my frustrations when I heard the door to Lucy’s corner office crack open. Oh, great; now I was really going to be the last one to leave. All of this despite turning in my own project on Thursday morning. I started gathering my things, closing the crusty tupperware that had held my lunch and shoving it into my backpack. When I turned around to face the opening of my cubicle, Lucy was there leaning against the makeshift wall. I had not heard her approach. She didn’t appear to be on her way out, since she held no bags and wore no coat.

I take it you’ve wrapped up your extra work. I really appreciate you helping Nancy and her team. They didn’t have anyone close to your skill level on board, and I should have never assigned that team such a high-pressure project. Anyway, I wanted to thank you for making up for my error.

I didn’t think I had ever heard Lucy thank anyone, much less own up to a mistake. Hoping I didn’t let my shock show, I managed to reply, You’re welcome. I’m glad we got it taken care of.

At that point, it seemed, there was nothing else to do but leave for the night, but Lucy continued to stand in the way of my exit. In a pause in the conversation, I realized that Lucy’s peach lipstick looked unreasonably bright for the end of a long workday. She

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  • (1/5)
    Boring story, Boring character ?. Trying to figure out the link between reality and imagination.