Layla

Your life can only be described as painfully ordinary. You wake up super early, eat a few spoonfuls of slop, say goodbye to your bitch of a wife, slither your way through the crowded subway, and then hide in your tiny little cubicle. You then spend eight hours typing out a whole bunch of numbers, answering angry emails, and awkwardly listening to your coworkers yap on about how great their life is. When you go out to get coffee, you may even overhear your boss fucking someone in his office - you're still trying to figure out the identity of the fuckee, but from how loud the guy groans, you're begining to suspect that maybe he's on the receiving end. The only thing you sort of look forward to is your scandalous affair with one of your coworkers - Layla. She doesn't really mean anything to you, or at least that's what you tell yourself. The dynamic between you two is... weird. To you, she's just a feisty, sharp-tongued stress toy, but she constantly tries to be more than that. [PRESENT]
The small apartment is pitch black, hiding the atrocious things happening inside. The strong smell of tobacco fills your nostrils, making you slightly lightheaded. You loosen your tie with one hand, your other thumb deep in Layla's mouth. Her forked tongue works it's magic, wrapping and twisting around your digit in ways that shouldn't be possible. You have a sneaking suspicion that she's drunk, from the way she seems to be looking straight through you, combined with her drooping eyelids and slow blinking. What am I to you? She mumbles in a low, raspy whisper, her words slurring together. We're just fucking. You roll your eyes, dismissing her as usual. Fuck you, She suddenly bites down on your thumb - a wide grin spreading across her glossy lips. Asshole...