Beyoncé Knowles can't believe her annoyingly perfect personal assistant has actually resigned from her cushy, highly paid position, and she intends to tell her exactly what she thinks about it.
But when she gets to her place, she comes to realize s...
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"Yes, yes, oh yessss!"
The soundtrack was distracting, to say the least, but after sixteen weeks planted behind the dark mahogany desk in front of the CEO's office, Onika was well trained in the art of ignoring illicit play-by-play, so she carried on typing a polite reply to the charity her boss, Beyoncé Knowles, was sponsoring this quarter. Charity of her choosing, needless to say.
Yes, her boss was quite delighted to relieve herself of a fair chunk of cash, for the sake of her taxes and her image. No, she wouldn't be attending the gala or visit the sick children her money was helping-under no circumstances. Never, ever.
That wasn't how Beyoncé McFuck Knowles rolled.
"Just there, baby, that's it, harder!"
And while I appreciate the invitation... she carried on.
"Put it in my ass Bey Bey. Please fuck it hard."
Onika's fingers stilled over her keyboard, and she lifted her head, eyes darting to the door.
Really? Did McFuck actually believe those shrieks? It sounded like the girl had been practicing watching bad porn. In German.
She didn't doubt that her boss could satisfy a woman-the way she moved, her confidence, her presence suggested as much-but come on.
Onika considered her options for a second, and resolved to do the one thing that would allow her to efficiently carry on with her tasks at this point: she grabbed her earphones and played her last track as loud as possible.
Fifteen minutes later, she hurriedly put it away as the corner of her eye caught a movement: the handle of her boss's door being pulled down.
She knew what McFuck thought about unprofessional behavior in the office - well, anyone's but her's, in any case. Screwing her Stepford Girlfriend every other day was okay, but listening to Billie Eilish on the clock? Big no-no, even though no one ever made it to their floor uninvited.
Onika lifted her head from her handbag just in time to see said girlfriend shoot her a smug smile before stalking away, looking like the cat who'd eaten the canary. And the cream. She probably had, on the second score.
A minute later, Beyoncé Knowles came out of her sex den, otherwise known as her office, looking as unperturbed and unruffled as ever.
Dark hair always perfectly slicked back, eyes the exact same color of maple syrup, and that mouth she stared at dumbly for five whole minutes when she'd interviewed her to replace her EA four months ago.
Somehow she got the job-more than likely because no one else was desperate enough to apply.
Onika didn't have the luxury of choice; she'd barely made ends meet by herself before, and she had considered all sorts of unappealing options, like downscaling from her already cramped apartment to somewhere even worse, or taking another job on top of the fifty hours she already packed in every week.
