The Boss: An Erotic Collection

By Temptation Press, Cee Wonder and E W Farnsworth

Ever wonder what a relationship with the boss would look like? 

In The Boss, seven talented new writers pen their erotic short stories as cautionary tales. 

Featured Contributors:

Cee Wonder
E. W. Farnsworth
Illiana Martinez
Janiece Malone
Shanjida Nusrath Ali
Valerie Brundage
and W

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zimbell House Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Oct 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643901206

Temptation Press

Temptation Press is a new imprint for our parent company, Zimbell House Publishing. ZHP’s readership clamored for steamier romantic and erotic offerings of quality fiction and the result was the birth of Temptation Press. Our goal is to become the number one independent publisher of quality Erotic Romance Fiction. We want our readers to experience the best mental stimulation elegant writing can produce, allowing them total immersion in stories that meet their particular fantasies. We hope you’ll help us in that endeavor!For our authors, Temptation Press is dedicated to helping you lead the way to elevating the genre.For our readers, Temptation Press is dedicated to creating a safe, comfortable environment to explore some of the best fiction of this genre-from tasteful, yet steamy romances to escapism of a more graphic kind and everything in between.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Temptation Press would like to thank all those that contributed to this anthology. We chose to showcase seven new voices that best embodied our vision for this anthology.

We would also like to thank all those on our Temptation Press team for all their hard work and dedication to these projects.

Consent to be Filmed

Valerie Brundage

Grace knew the Aberdeen blazer she wore made her look overly tough in the production meetings, to the point where she could overhear the whispered bitch that followed her when she laid down the law to some producer or director and stalked out.

But she didn’t care.

Working at the Quality Broadcasting Studios wasn’t a popularity contest. If her harsh tone scared the weaker producers or made them resent her power or her eye for good television, that was due to their own insecurities. They could set up their tired shows elsewhere.

Grace had always followed the lead of her mentor, Richard Stein, who took her under his wing when she first became an intern at the studio ten years ago. He wore Aberdeen, always kept his tie tightened, and never put his feet on the table, even after hours. Now, Grace held the vice president in charge of production post, responsible for supplying ten hours of programming every week. And she wore Aberdeen, kept her blouse buttoned, and never put her feet on any table, either.

Chet came by her office after Tuesday’s sales meeting. Jesus, Grace, he said, handing her the notes. He was a production assistant in Development and wrote down everything at the meetings. I know you don’t like those guys, but they may come in with something really good next season.

How can they? Grace stood and walked out with him down the hall. They’re scared, arrogant, and always following last year’s trends.

She stopped at the coffee nook by the reception desk and turned on the Keurig to make herself something quick and flavored.

"If you scare them away, you may never get the next Bachelorette, Chet warned. He took an errant hair out of his mouth and continued, They may take their reality show ideas to Roque, or Film Road, instead of QBS."

Grace didn’t particularly mind that she scared away the men surrounding her. They were weasels anyway—hangers-on and ex-MBAs looking for a quick buck on the side of the television industry behind the camera, where there was more backstabbing than glamor. She’d be damned if she’d fall into the cliché of the female executive who slept her way to the top, or the dumb blonde who dressed sexily to get what she wanted.

Even behind the cameras, local TV fell victim to the worst trappings of sexist Hollywood. She kept her hair up in a bun and wore glasses to emphasize the fact that she didn’t put much value on getting made up. Her only concession to feminine fashion was high heels. They added three inches, and, clicking on the tile floors of the administration office of QBS, they added a certain hard crack to her reputation as a ball buster.

Let them. I won’t cry over that, Grace said. The Keurig spit, and she took her fake cappuccino and walked down the hall back to her office. She had another meeting in five minutes. Richard Stein was gone now. He died of a heart attack at fifty-five about two years ago and never married. Grace, in spite of advice she’d heard to the contrary, feared she’d end up like him. Too busy to ever get hitched and too stubborn to ever find happiness.

She walked into her office and closed the door. She felt, just for a moment, very alone. Don’t let them get to you, she whispered to herself. Richard had given her that advice on her first week. Never let them see you weak.

Grace straightened her jacket and smoothed the front of her dark polyester slacks with her palms. She looked as sharp as alabaster.

The buzzer sounded. Grace, you have that reality show crew outside, the voice said. They’re ready to give you that demonstration you asked for.

Grace shook her head. Reality shows. She had asked a crew to come by to make a pitch. Reality shows were still all the rage and she never really believed the fad had lasted this long. None of them were believable. People were artificially placed into uncomfortable, made-up situations, just to see how they would react under stress.

Okay, be right out.

Grace stood, making sure her suit was straight and her hair tight in the bun so that she would look appropriately implacable for her meeting. She took one last sip and went to the door.

As she reached for the knob, it opened inward suddenly and knocked her coffee out of her hand. What the hell?

A voice said, Hello, I’m— then stopped, as the speaker realized there’d been an accident. Ah, sorry.

The cappuccino formed a brown amoeba-shaped spill on the light carpet.

You clumsy— Grace stopped. She stood face-to-face with a short woman with a short, severe haircut. Grace was a good three inches taller (the heels) and looked down on her.

This interloper had on a T-shirt and jeans, which was awfully casual for a production meeting. The jeans were loose and showed faint wear along the knees and top of her thighs, in carefully distressed areas that passed for fashion. She had a camera hanging off her shoulder.

She was about thirty and dark-haired, and even though she’d knocked Grace’s coffee out of her hands, the look on her face showed she wasn’t particularly contrite—or scared of this executive she’d just met.

So sorry about that. I’m guessing you have someone who can clean that up?

Grace nodded. I do.

Two younger women stood behind her. The woman in front had a half-smile. We wanted to be on time. Just to show you our demo. I’m usually not in such a hurry.

Demo.

The two other girls were prettier and about college age. But it was clear the woman with short hair was the ringleader of this makeshift crew.

Grace thought, I’ve had young producers like this for breakfast. Let’s see what she’s made of. Your name again?

Anita. The woman with the short hair held out her hand. I’m the assistant camera—and producer. The idea is to keep us creative people hands-on, rather than detached from all the action.

Grace nodded. Yes. Production overhead can get out of control. She looked over at the girl sitting behind the reception desk. Jane?

Yes, Miss Orsavi?

Can you have the service look at my carpet?

The receptionist picked up the phone.

Grace turned back to Anita. So, what do you want to show me?

They walked down the hall. Anita led the way. Miss Orsavi—can I call you Grace?

No. Not yet. Let’s keep it professional for now.

Well ..., Anita smiled, pausing, choosing not to call her either name. Reality shows are often so scripted that they lose their immediacy. My team and I, she said, nodding to the others, agree it’s best to capture something unexpected.

Indeed, Grace said. I can surprise you more than you’ll surprise me when I throw you out of here. How can you and your team address this aesthetic challenge?

The two other women stayed quiet. One had a clipboard, the other, a battery pack, plugged into Anita’s camera with a long cable. Ready.

To use the camera the way it’s supposed to be used: to capture reality, Anita said. That is, after all, what photographic equipment was designed to do in the first place, a hundred fifty years ago?

Grace nodded. But do people want reality?

"Good point. No, they don’t want reality. They want the truth. All the great shows, Grace—er, Miss Orsavi. They may be on soundstages. Or with actors. But if they are truthful, if they reveal something never shown before, that makes the hit."

She was right. Grace had been around long enough to know production value only went so far. The most important elements were who you put in front of the camera, if they could emote without artifice, and the people behind the camera, if they had an eye to see it when it was happening—to capture it when it’s happening in real-time.

They got to a small stage at the end of the hall used for rehearsals.

If we go in here, we can demonstrate our technique. Anita gestured for Grace to lead.

Inside, Grace found they’d set up a simple set: two seats and a couch, along with a divan with wine glasses set out as props. Behind them was a window that opened up to a brick wall.

No one can see in, Anita said.

She took the camera, small as a toaster, and unhooked it from the battery pack. We have four hours of capability before recharge. She put it up on her shoulder. It’s all in the editing.

What are you planning to film here?

We’d like to film you, Anita said.

Me?

This is just a demonstration, Miss Orsavi. Anita smiled, stepping closer. Her energy was interesting to Grace. Confident. Maybe only a couple years younger than her, Anita was not like the other producers she’d dealt with. She knew how to ask for what she wanted—like she knew she’d get it. She wasn’t shy like some. And really, she hadn’t asked for very much so far.

Why would you want to film me? Grace asked.

Because, Grace, to demonstrate how to capture truth, what better way than to turn the camera on you, so you know how true what we get is. You see my angle. My strength. My approach is different than all the other guys who come in and pitch to you, I can guarantee you that.

Grace still wasn’t sure. Okay. I’ll go along for a while.

She looked around and got comfortable. The other two girls were in the back; the one with the clipboard wasn’t paying attention. The hot lights above threw a slight blue tint over the set.

"So, Grace—I’ll call you that—I’m going to ask you some questions. Maybe you can ask me questions, too. She held the camera up, near her face. She didn’t look through the lens. Do I have your consent to be filmed?"

Yes.

Okay, Anita said. First question. Would you like to take off your jacket?

Sure. The Aberdeen was thick and stifling. Grace removed the blazer. How long will this take? I have a meeting in—

Until we have nothing more to show each other, Anita said. She handed the camera to the other girl in her crew, the brunette. She stepped back into the shadows.

To fully appreciate my demonstration, you have to trust me.

Okay, Anita.

Anita took off Grace’s glasses. Can you see?

Grace smirked. Not so well. She figured Anita was trying to put her at a disadvantage. It won’t work that easily.

That’s fine, Anita continued. You’ll see well enough. She grabbed her own shirt, a red, single-color sleeveless, and fluffed it up and down. It is hot in here. Now, Grace, I don’t want you to be too uncomfortable, but I’d like you to do exactly what I tell you.

Grace laughed nervously. "Well, I am the VP here."

Not here. I’m in charge of this shoot, and for the purposes of our demonstration, you need to listen to my commands unconditionally. I have your consent?

Grace nodded. Okay. Some kind of gonzo interview style. She was willing to play along. Let’s see what you got.

Anita unbuttoned the top button on Grace’s blouse. Grace watched her, surprised. She unbuttoned the next one.

I want to see what you have under here.

Are you filming?

We’re keeping it real right now, Anita said, lowering her voice.

It was soon undone. Anita saw the brassiere under the fine cotton blouse. It was a pale tan, plain, and functional.

Hmm, Anita said, disapprovingly. That’s not very sexy, is it, Grace?

I don’t do sexy.

You need someone to tell you to do sexy?

I haven’t met that person today, Grace said.

You just met me. And I’m safe. Right?

Grace looked at her.

Anita took her chin in her hand. She said again, harder. I’m safe, right?

Right. Grace let a smile cross her face. This was interesting.

Anita said, I’m not one of those assholes. I’m a lesbian. Did you know that?

Of course, it was clear now to Grace. The short haircut. The jeans. The attitude.

I guess so.

So, this is a different power dynamic than the other guys.

Grace shifted in her seat. Yes, it seems to be. What do you want me to do?

Just respond to my questions. Sit back.

Grace sat back. She liked wondering what was going to happen and not being the one in charge