Most of the time, the Baroness loved her job, it was fun being the big bad boss. That is until someone messes up the most tbasic task. One foul move when it comes to the Baroness's temperament tends to send her on a rampage like a bull in a china shop, attacking the most expensive thing possible to prove a point. Not to mention any unfortunate staff members happened to be caught in the crossfire.
"Incompetent arse." She grumbled, rolling her eyes as she marched up the stairs to her office, her inner sanctum where she could escape her idiot employees. Such as the fashion designer who had just presented her with... denim... on denim! Every designer in the building was pleasantly surprised to hear he lived.
The Baroness sighed taking a seat in her luxurious office chair and, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She picked up the latest copy of Tattletale that rested on her desk, awaiting her perusal.
The Baroness lifted the newspaper, flicking, through pages at her leisure, reclining with a look of smug triumph. She flicked through the paper, revelling in the glory that she was written in.
The audience broke into rapturous applause at first sight.
They love her.
She really is a genius.
She.
Really.
Is.
A.
Genius.
She was a genius and she knew it, but her ego devoured the words that were on the paper like a rabid beast.
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Perhaps one quick moment?
Who would that hurt?
No one would be able to see her due to her executive, bow front desk blocking the view. The blind on the glass window covered her office door, preventing prying eyes from catching her in any kind of compromising position. Her schedule was free. What was the harm in a little self-reward? She deserved it.
Squirming in her plush seat, the Baroness shimmied her skirt up and let her expensive, black, satin underwear fall to her ankles. No one could see her - and she would crucify anyone who dared enter. There were no plans in place, to her memory, so she was alone.
The last time you were 'alone' with the Baroness, a vase had narrowly missed your eye as the woman threw one of her classic temper tantrums. You still had a scar on your forehead from the shards that flew after her shot. The review she had arranged for today didn't sound fun in the slightest. Wheeling your latest mannequin across the platform to her office, you desperately try to stop panicking.
The Baroness read Anita Darling's words a million times, trying to relive the night in its full glory, how she lived for the audience to feed her ego. There may not have been rapturous applause echoing throughout her office, but the sounds of pleasure echoed enough. Without a care for her unladylike behaviour, the Baroness closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and, letting out throaty moans, she massaged her clit. Her mind recalled the applause she received, the looks of admiration and envy. She was the Queen of Fashion. She was glorious and she, above all, was a genius.
