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“Can you stay a little late tonight Jessica?” my boss asked me as I was gathering up my purse and coat. I glanced over my shoulder, keenly aware that there was no one else in the break-room with Mr. Turner and I nodded quickly, hoping I didn’t seem too enthusiastic. I loved Mr. Turner. Not really of course, I hardly knew him, but I just, well loved the guy. He was funny and sweet and a really good boss. I doubted he even though about me outside of work, but I found myself thinking about him a lot at home, or at work. I especially thought about him late at night in my bed, lying in the dark, my pajama bottoms in a tangle around my ankles, my slender and soft fingers tracing circles along my c**t.
God, if Mr. Turner ever heard half of the crazy things I said about him in my head he would probably fire me. He’s a happily married man you see, a shade over fifty, his hair the sexiest shade of gray you’ve ever seen. He’s tall and strong looking, with a tiny scar just to the right of his nose. The scar is my favorite part of him. There’s a story behind it, one I don’t know. I want to lie in his bed one night, both of our bodies sweaty and shining in the moonlight flowing in through his window. I’m turned on my side, trailing a finger lazily through his chest hair and resting my chin on his shoulder. I look up to him, letting the fingertip follow my gaze until it’s skating along the shiny and smooth scar.
“What happened?” I would ask, and he would turn to me, never having told the story to anyone and slowly he would tell me. Then he’d make love to me again. Man, if he even knew. Little Jessica, mousy and small with brown hair always tied back in a boring pony tail. I wear shoes with low heels and skirts to my knees. My blouses are never low cut, but underneath my clothes I’m a true blue slut.

Fiction & Literature
June 2
Emily Dickinson
Smashwords, Inc.

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