Chapter 2

Mindy

I kick off my high heels and collapse onto the couch.

My feet are throbbing with pain. Why did I even wear those heels to work? I could have easily completed all of my accounting tasks in sneakers or even just socks. Or barefoot. Who the hell needs high heels anyways? I want to slap the person who invented the damn thing!

After drooling on the couch for about thirty minutes like the mess I am, I check the time. I have about an hour to take the nudes for Maurice before Betty, my roomie and my bestie, gets home with her latest company gossip.

Besides my mother, Betty is the light of my life. She also works at Global Media, except she’s with human resources. And lucky for her, Maron Korolev isn’t her direct superior. Her job is way calmer than mine, and she always has the latest scoop about what's happening in her department and beyond. "Did you hear about Mark having a boyfriend?" Or "Have you met our new co-worker, Thomas? The stud with the black hair and the six-pack?" I couldn't help but ask how she knew about the six-pack, to which she replied, "I saw it under his shirt while he was getting coffee from the canteen."

Her stories make me believe that the most interesting department at Global Media is HR. The complete opposite of the financial department which she often refers to as "as exciting as dry camel shit."

"You need some buzz in your life, girl," Betty told me the other day. "At least once a week."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "With Maron Korolev around, my wildest idea of excitement is an Excel spreadsheet with the latest numbers from our social media campaigns," I’d said. "Ooh, a hundred and fifty-four new subscribers! Ahh, sixty-seven new likes on our page? And wait for it... a brand new five-star review! Oh Debbie Collins, you are too kind." Cue the laugh track.

“Not work excitement, babe,” she’d said. “I mean, real fun. Dancing. Cocktails. Beach. Sex. You need to spice things up," Betty continued.

I know exactly what she meant. She was referring to the lackluster sex life I had been complaining to her about. “Maurice never initiates sex,” I'd told her earlier. "I think he's too much in love with his video games."

“At least you have a man in your life,” Betty remarked. “I can't even get myself a date. Everyone just swipes left on me on Tinder except a few drunkards and some creepy perverts.”

Maybe Betty’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t complain this much. But what am I supposed to do when my sex drive is constantly driving me up the wall? I am worse than a teenage boy who just opened Playboy for the first time. Some would say that I’m a crazy nympho. Maybe there’s something wrong with my head. Or I have some sort of hormonal imbalance. Either way, I'm constantly horny, especially when Maron Korolev is at the office. It’s driving me nuts and I’m not sure what to do about it.

Perhaps start by getting your mind off your boss, Mindy.

It's dangerous territory.

It’s true. I should get that jerk tyrant out of my head, once and for all. If anything, I should focus on sending those photos to my real boyfriend, Maurice. Sending him hot nudes of myself has worked well in the past. It was all he boost he needed; our monthly blowjob count went from one to three. Maybe this time I can jazz up that number to four.

You gotta appreciate improvement, right?

So far, every time I sent Maurice naughty photos with a naughty message, he would light up like a Christmas tree and we'd end up getting busy instead of him sitting in front of the computer looking like a doofus with his headphones on. But if I'm brutally honest with myself, despite all my efforts, our sex life is still as exciting as watching paint dry.

But then again, who wants to be a constant complainer. No relationship is perfect. Besides, there are many other important things in a relationship than just sex. Maurice is a decent guy. He really is. He may not be setting off fireworks in the bedroom, but he has the qualities of a great husband and a father. And he comes from money, which he inherited from his dad, and now he's using that money to make investments. Not that I've seen any of his investments- he said they're all digital. Things like cryptocurrency and NFTs.

Come on, Mindy, time to get down to business.

Snap those nudes or be stuck in your dull sex life forever.

I get up from the couch and start taking my clothes off. Once naked, I walk over to the mirror and take a good look at myself. I’m somewhat pleased with what I see, even though I've noticed a few extra pounds on my body lately. I blame Maron Korolev for that. He never lets me sit down and eat a normal meal, so I survive on an ultra-processed diet of Cheetos, donuts, and sodas.

My mind starts to wander, imagining myself standing naked in front of him and complaining about the weight gain caused by the unhealthy lifestyle he's forcing on me with his unrealistic work expectations. In this fantasy, he responds with a seductive promise: "You're beautiful just the way you are, Ms. Williams. And now, I'm going to have my way with you right here and right now."

Jesus, Mindy!

Snap out of it and get to work!

I unlock my phone, my fingers tapping eagerly against the screen. I'm determined to capture the perfect angle.

With a playful smirk, I tilt my head to the side, allowing the soft light to highlight my features and enhance every curve. As I snap a few photos, I can't help but wink at my reflection, a mischievous glint in my eyes. 

“That will do”, I think to myself. “Maurice will love it.”

Switching to selfie mode with the tap of a button, I experiment with different expressions, each one more alluring than the last. A subtle pout of my lips channels my inner seductress while playfully sticking out my tongue exudes a hint of innocent mischief. Each click of the shutter feels like a flirtatious dance.

I quickly take another picture and glance at the screen. Ugh, I look like I've had too much botox- delete. Another snap- the scar on my stomach is too visible- delete. I hate that scar. It's a reminder of the operation that made me unable to conceive naturally, which is why I'm pursuing IVF.

When I told Maurice about my infertility, he hugged me and said, “In this day and age it’s not a problem, Mindy. We’ll do IVF and everything will be fine.” Then he kissed me on the temple. He didn't seem to be worried about the astronomical price of the fertility treatment at all.

I strike a last seductive pose and pucker my lips. I adjust my tits to enhance their perkiness, and to make sure I’m hiding my scar. These will be the final naughty photos I'll take before I start gaining more weight and become a hormonal bitch, crying and throwing up all the time.

One last shot and I’m done.

I scroll through the photos on my phone, a bit frustrated by what I see. There are at least thirty, and most of them are terrible: bad lighting, awkward facial expressions, or my post-op scar showing. No way I’m keeping those. I really hate that scar. But then, I find a photo that looks good - sexy even. The last set is actually pretty decent! I decide to keep ten of them. With a tap of a button, I delete the rest.

I look at the photos once more, and a grin spreads across my face. These will definitely do the trick. I picture Maurice ripping off my panties, pressing me against the wall, and doing me with such intensity that I’ll walk funny the next day. It will be our final hurrah before we start the treatment and my body becomes a mess. 

The idea of being pressed against the wall and being taken passionately makes me horny all over again. Before I know it, I’m soaking wet between my legs. 

The only strange thing is, instead of Maurice, someone else’s image invades my mind: Maron Korolev. That’s right. My control freak, jerk of a boss, who makes my every workday a living hell. The way he appears at my office door, hands in his pocket. His carefree stance that screams sin, danger, and seduction. The way he crosses his legs, leaning against the doorway. His chiseled jaw and five o'clock shadow. That impossibly broad chest, shoulders, and perfectly toned six-pack hidden beneath his tailored suit.

And if anything, those thoughts are making me even more wet. It’s wrong, ridiculous, and I hate myself for it. But instead of forcing my mind to push the thoughts aside, I close my eyes and begin to slowly slide my index finger over my wet folds. 

I wish I could simply force Maron Korolev out of my mind.

No. I'm not sure that's what I want. What I really want is… him. Yes. Maron Korolev, my drop-dead gorgeous, asshole boss. It’s all kinds of wrong and I just don’t understand why it’s happening.

My hand stops. I might as well record this. It will be a great addition to the photos I took earlier. I switch my phone to video mode and press ‘Record’.

With my phone propped up in the corner of the room, my finger is still stroking my slick folds. My other hand finds its way to my breasts, kneading them gently as I start to moan softly. I watch my reflection in the mirror. My fingers push deeper into my sex, sliding against my clit as I start to pick up the pace. I grind my center against my fingers, and a needy whimper escapes my lips.

My breath hitches as I increase the speed, rubbing myself faster and harder with each second that passes. The moan that escapes me is louder this time, as I finally come undone under my own touch. Waves of pleasure wash over me, and with a guttural gasp, I cum in front of the mirror.

"Oh wow," I breathe out in a shaky voice. "That was... better… than expected." My body tingles from head to toe.

I hit the ‘Pause’ button on the video, breathless and flushed. My eyes quickly scan the timer - five minutes and forty-seven seconds of pure, unadulterated pleasure caught on film.

Dammit, Mindy.

The mere thought of your boss ignited a fire within you like never before.

And that's bad. Really bad. I really shouldn't be thinking of Maron Korolev, especially while masturbating. And I most certainly shouldn't record it and send it to my fiancé. But the thrill of doing something so forbidden makes it all the more intense.

Feeling a bit guilty, I type a message to Maurice.

“Hey babe,

Enjoy the photos and the video. Tonight is all about us, so get ready for a wild time. ;-) 

Can't wait to be all yours.

Love,

Your Mindy”

I attach the ten photos. Then, I stop for a minute to think if I should send the video or not, but honestly, how could Maurice ever know that I was thinking of someone else while recording? 

Don't overcomplicate things, Mindy.

This will always remain your dirty little secret.

Just get that bastard Maron Korolev out of your head, once and for all.

I attach the video and press “send” with a sly grin. And then, the strangest thing happens. Within seconds, my smile fades as an automated response arrives.

“Re: Your Inquiry

Hello,

Thank you for reaching out! I have received your email and will get back to you as soon as possible.

Best regards,

Maron Korolev

CEO - Global Media.”

…

What the hell?

I frown and check the address I sent the email to: “[e-mail]”.

The address should have been “m.korolev@g***l.com”.

My eyes suddenly widen as the realization hits me like a shockwave.

Oh.

My.

Fuck.

No. It can’t be. What have I done… Instead of my fiancé, I sent the whole freaking lot to my boss!

Oh, God…

My tits, my pussy, my entire naked body, and my ever-so-loud orgasm. All because he happens to have the same initials as Maurice.

No!

Panic courses through me as I frantically search for the ‘Undo’ button, but it’s nowhere to be found. Where is it? How could it have disappeared? My mind races, trying to come up with a solution, but all I can think of is the disaster that awaits me.

The subject of my dirty fantasies, Maron Korolev, with his piercing gaze and seductive swagger, will see me naked. But worse still, he will see the jagged scar on my stomach. And as if that wasn't enough, he’ll also hear me orgasm as my cries echo through the room like the braying of a wild donkey. Maybe he’s already checking the damn email!

Oh God!

What have you done, Mindy???

Shit. This has to be the worst day of my life. How can this be happening? Wait, did I say his name while I was having my orgasm? 

If so, my life is over. 

I hover my finger over the video just to check—

Then my hand stops. Check what? Does it matter if I whispered his name or anybody else's? It doesn't matter. My life is over either way!

I can’t believe what just happened. I am still shaking from the realization. What the hell do I do now? Perhaps I should call him and say, “Mr. Korolev, please ignore the naked photos and the amateur p**n video - you know, the one where I'm pleasuring myself and orgasming like a horny schoolgirl. Those files were intended for someone else. And sorry for thinking about you while masturbating, I know it is highly unprofessional!”

Scratch that. It’s a ridiculous idea.

My best hope is that my email gets lost in the sea of emails he receives every day. Which is unlikely, knowing Maron Korolev’s strict and controlling nature. But then again, he’s the CEO. He gets thousands, if not tens of thousands of emails every day. Not even his team of assistants can go through all that. And since I’ve sent this from my private email address, maybe it got marked as spam and never made it to his inbox.

Maybe he’ll never find out…

With shaking hands, I frantically check the email again. I’m not sure what I'm hoping for. But what I see almost makes me lose my remaining balance and pass out. Besides Maron Korolev’s email address, there is a long list of other addresses pulling up. That’s right. Maron Korolev is an important man. And because of that, the emails he receives automatically get forwarded to a number of other addresses within the company, for the sake of corporate efficiency. In layman’s terms, I'd sent the freaking email to multiple important people within the company. Maron’s entire fucking management team, that is. With all the attachments, of course.

How?

How could I have been such an idiot?

Mother Earth, please open up and swallow me whole!

The buzzing of my phone stops my increasingly terrifying train of thought. I cringe, expecting it to be Maron Korolev, firing me on the spot. Instead, it's a text from Maurice.

"Sorry, babe, I'm running behind schedule. Will be with you as soon as I can.”