Profile Update Gianna Nunez

[Philbill]

I wish I could say that the only problem I had with my coworker and subordinate Gianna Nunez was her voice — nasal and whiny — but that just wouldn’t be true. Since she joined us here as our Social Media Manager a couple months ago, I’ve been covering for her across the board. I’m her boss, and while I didn’t hire her, unfortunately any negativity regarding her performance (and lack thereof) would only reflect poorly on my “leadership.”

I’m pretty sure she’s related to some higher up, so I can’t complain about her, officially or otherwise. I haven’t figured out which one yet. I'm thinking they're at least at the VP level. That’s really the only reason someone so unqualified and untalented could land a role on my small marketing team, being shoehorned in while I was on vacation. She’s much more likely to know a LOL than an ROI or KPI, which may reek of "social media," but it's also not all that helpful in a business sense.

If her lack of performance wasn’t enough, her addition lack of self awareness ices the cake of unfortunateness. She’s one of those out of shape people who still stuffs themselves inside clothes built for someone with a much nicer form. I’m no fashion icon, but I know there’s a right and wrong way to dress for each and every body type. Whatever the exponential term for “muffin top” is, she displays that on a daily basis. And again, I can’t call her on it because I don’t know who might hear about that and what repercussions would fall on me for it.

An anonymous reporting to human resources of her disregard for personal space once led to that particular HR rep being transferred. I felt bad for a moment, but it also served as a cautionary tale. I recognized the lesson immediately — you can’t come down on Gianna Nunez without repercussions. She’s protected from on high.

Today’s questionable work moment occurs when Gianna steps away for her long lunch and leaves herself signed into her personal social media account. Her screen acts like a bug zapper to a moth. I know the danger is there, but the temptation is too strong; the light is too shiny. Besides, there’ll be no way to track it back to me.

I update her profile description to say that she’s “a consummate hard worker.” It couldn’t be further from the truth. She spends more time on her social than positively impacting the company's, and that's when she decides to not take a three hour lunch, or come in late, or leave early, or a combination of all three.

Anyone who knows her is bound to question the veracity, but hey, wishful thinking prevails. And, if it comes back to me, I can always say it wasn’t a jest, but rather a compliment. All things considered, I don’t know how this could bite me. I feel appropriately CYA’d when I step away.

Instead of her customary “triple lunch” — three hours of eating and coming back with at least a bit of sauce around her mouth and something in her teeth — Gianna returns to her desk with her feast tucked under arm and starts to work and eat simultaneously. I’ve never seen this happen before. I wonder if she noticed the update and is trying to stick it to whoever (me) posted it on her behalf.

By the end of the day, she’s proven to be a hard worker, just not a particularly good one. Frustrated, I have to spend twice as much time fixing her ample mistakes than just covering for her not doing anything. Am I a grouch to think that she did that all on purpose, just to fuck with me?

And just when I think I couldn’t be more irked by her…

I shake my head at my situation — stuck in my office well past sundown, grabbing drive-thru on the way home, and passing out on my bed almost immediately after getting home. It's very likely this young woman will be the death of me.

I decide the next day that yes, her fuck-ups were purposeful. What else could they be? Why else would she be trying so hard, if not to fuck with me?

She still faithfully pounds the keys with purpose when the work day begins. I groan, thinking of all of the extra work in store for me that night. I decide to send her on an “executive lunch run” promising “you fly, I buy” and knowing that she isn’t one to turn down a free meal. Any time I can get her to spend away from the computer is work I won’t have to correct later.

Again, she leaves herself signed in on social and I see that she hasn’t corrected the “consummate hard worker” bit yet. Clearly, she leaves it up as an advertisement of what she has in store for me. Instead of just taking it lying down, I decide to update it to read — “consummate hard worker who dutifully and accurately completes tasks.”

Maybe she’ll rise to that challenge.

Doubtful, but hope has always been bulletproof.

She comes back with my lunch order and I’m surprised that she actually got everything right, including my substitution of blue cheese for ranch dressing and the extra croutons. This is a first. Her attention to detail in the past has been on the bad side of atrocious.

She returns to her desk and thoughtfully works between big bites. Watching this, I anticipate another late night, but looking over her work at the end of the day, I see that it’s all been done well. Very well, actually. Gold star worthy, even.

I leave work in a timely manner for the first time in… god, I don’t know even how long. Since Gianna started? The sun is still up. I don’t even bring sunglasses for the drive home anymore, so I’m a bit squinty on the road, but I’m happy to have those hours of my life back. Has she been phoning it in this whole time and these little profile updates, as passive aggressive as they may seem, have been the kick in the pants that she’s needed? I can’t be sure, but I can appreciate the change and hope that she doesn’t backslide.

The next morning, she continues her streak of being a shockingly good employee and I can’t believe my luck.

I swear she looks at me when she leaves for lunch. Her gaze lingers. Is it a challenge? Is she purposefully still leaving her profile open for me to revise? Maybe she wants me to keep issuing challenges for her to rise up to.

I take the bait, but wonder what next? She’s performing exactly how I’d like her to now. I've actually stopped actively loathing her. I mean, how far can I push this? How far should I?

I tread heavy, addressing a concern I’ve had since first meeting, and add a whole cloth new statement to her personal description. “People love my breathy, smokey, and mature voice, often commenting on how erotic it sounds.”

When she returns, I call Gianna into my office. “Can you come here for a moment?”

She nods, enters, and I tell her, “ I just want to let you know that I’ve noticed your improvements of late and I really appreciate the effort.”

I expect her normal, nasal voice, but instead, she speaks exactly as I’d described — in sultry tones. Despite her words being completely work-related, I’m glad I’m sitting behind the desk because of the arousing affect they have on me. “I’m very serious about doing a good job here, Mr. Reeves. I want my growth as an employee to reflect my desire to succeed.”

Growth and desire indeed. My dick grows in desire with every word that leaves her mouth.

She finishes speaking and I realize I’m just looking at her slack-jawed, as if her words had cast a spell over me or left me in a dumbfounded trance.

“Do you need anything else, sir?” She asks and I shake my head.

Fuck if that's not the most erotic "sir" ever spoken by the human tongue.

I’ve never even remotely found Gianna attractive previously, but that voice — that fucking voice — belongs on the other side of a pay service that lonely men call to get their rocks off. That fucking voice would have a one hundred percent success rate.

She walks away and I start to run through all kinds of potential improvements that could be made to her. For her. For me. I stop for a moment. I don’t know how any of this is even remotely possible. It seems truly impossible, really. It defies logic. I think back to that Sherlock Holmes bit. “Remove the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

The truth of this situation appears to be that whatever I write into Gianna’s social profile becomes true for Gianna. It changed her work from lackluster to spot-on. It shaped her voice from a whine into a wallop...

I take a deep breath. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. I focus on work instead of thinking about helping Gianna out with her body… and fashion… and non-work outlooks, behaviors, impulses...

I impatiently wait for her to leave, my eyes never leaving her workstation.

I rush over, unable to stop myself from feverishly adding to her description. “I’m glad to see that my intense daily workout routine is finally paying off, and that I've achieved my perfect body.”

I don’t know what Gianna’s perfect body is, but if I can provide an engine for her to achieve that through her profile, I don’t see why I shouldn’t. Her work benefits me. She should benefit from my influence beyond just becoming a superior employee. Where's the harm? Hell, she may even think her current body *is* her ideal body. I can't be certain.

I remember how I used to think that her wardrobe didn’t appropriately correspond to her body type. When she strides up to her desk, her wardrobe remains unchanged, but her body… oh boy. She’d clearly always been dressing for her ideal body, but just lacking her ideal body to pull the look off. The bulging muffin top stomach as been replaced with a perfectly flat one, the hint of a soft six pack revealed by her midriff bearing shirt. Her pants hug perfectly tapered legs. She’s left round in only two key areas — her ass and chest — everything else is tight as tight can be. Without the excess weight, her face looks… well, gorgeous. I've never noticed this before. A light palette of makeup sets off her dark brown eyes and light brown skin. I want to call her in. I want to hear that improved voice spill out from those luscious lips, but I think better of it. The temptation would be too great. I already feel like she's quicksand and I'm sinking into her.

Despite trying to push them aside, or maybe because of it, I melt into thoughts of her. My imagination runs wild even without the encouragement of close proximity.

I imagine her new lithe form, curvy in all the areas that make her a woman. I think of ways she could showcase her new assets that she hasn’t apparently considered yet. I fixate on possibilities. I stay late at work, not playing catchup like I might have last week, but thinking of small fixes and tweaks to make her all the more appealing. I land on one and I’m happy to see that her computer remains on and active so that I can input my decision into her profile — “I love how high boots make my legs look absolutely delectable.”

When she walks in, I see how important word choice is. I want to worship at the altar that is her legs. I want to lick her boots because they so perfectly form around her tantalizing calves, culminating delightfully up above her knees. I realize that I want her. Legs, yes, but I want her fully and completely. Not in concept, but in reality. She’s lived in my head for the past couple of days, refined and enticing. She is dessert and I would like to forego my prescribed diet for even the littlest sampling.

In for a penny, in for a pound, the next time she’s away, I quickly input the text “I’m so happy with my boyfriend, Victor Reeves. I feel like I would do anything for him” when she steps away to the ladies room.

Impatiently waiting, I don’t see Gianna immediately.

Instead, I receive a red-flagged message from HR with a request to come see them upon receipt. They run me through the wringer, asking if I’ve used my position of authority to influence Gianna at all. I assure them I haven’t — which is true, it’s been her profile and not my authority that’s provided me the means to influence her — and they doubtfully nod, telling me quite plainly that they’ll follow up with her about all of this and they take painful measure to fully outline our company’s very clear fraternization policies.

Gianna’s not at her desk when I return. Instead, she waits for me in my office, running up and straddling her legs behind my back, looping her arms around my neck at the same time. I feel the heels of her perfect boots dig in against my lower back and, in turn, feel my cock pulse in my pants because of them. She’s giddy and that feeling is infectious. She pulls herself closer and it’s clear that she feels my physical reaction to her proximity. She smells tasty. I want to consume her.

“Close the door,” she whispers in a sultry, husky voice and lets me know that my desirous feeling is two-sided.

I don’t want to, but for our safety I try to pump the brakes. “HR might be looking for you soon, so —“

“Don’t care." She kisses me. "Close the door.”

Stopping my internal worries to actually take her in, I realize I’d do anything she tells me to do. Closing a door is nothing. I'd dive into lava for this woman.

Our kisses grow passionate as we explore each other’s bodies like lovers reuniting after a long separation. We consummate our relationship on the floor of my office. I could give a damn if HR came knocking. I am hers and she is mine and we belong together. I don’t know where I end and where she begins; nor do I want to. She is my home and happiness. She is my everything and I am, in turn, hers.

Our sex is a conversation. It starts off exploratory as our hangs and fingers, our mouths and tongues, run over every inch. I learn all of her ticklish spots, but also the ones that make her moan loudly. A nibble on her earlobe has her pull my hair back roughly, ordering me to "stop fucking around and start fucking."

I'd dive into lava for her, plunging into her pussy is a no-brainer. Her ideal form extends to her womanhood. She's tight and hard to press fully into at first, but then I experience the soft wet cushion inside. I fit her inside her perfectly, even as she grips me with a sly smile. As the contact continues, we start to rut like animals in heat, losing all baggage and formality and yielding to the sheer carnal pleasure of the act.

I finish inside of her and hold her sweaty naked form against mine, happy that I had her leave on her boots and nothing else.

HR never reaches out to Gianna. They never follow up again with me, either. Whoever intervenes on her behalf, stepped in on mine as well. The mystery doesn’t go unsolved for long as, at the end of the day, I open an email from our company’s CEO. Receiving one isn’t uncommon, but the content is a bit unorthodox for our professional relationship —

I knew I was right to leave Gianna under your "leadership."

I had the utmost faith you could shape her up. I'm happy to see that she's happy.

Take good care of my niece.

I’ll be watching her profile for updates.

I knew it.

I knew she had to be related to someone.

I have a feeling that, in time, I’ll be related to the CEO eventually, too. There's no way our relationship won't go all the way.

The Gianna that started under me seems like a distant memory. I don't feel like I'm the same person I was, either.

I wonder how long her profile window was active, waiting for me to seize the opportunity. Was it there all along? Could I have discovered this miracle months ago? I don’t give that fleeting thought too much mind, focussing on our future together and making up for any and all lost time the best way we can — together.

I can't think of a single thing I'd change about her now. I love that I get to spend my off hours with her, exploring her physically, mentally, and otherwise.

I lock her social account, not wanting anyone to mess with perfection; blessing the good fortune of providence that led her to me in the first place.

[Awokenchange]

Lots of great stories by The Weaver, and this one is no exception.