Office Harrassment

Mr. Kincaid sits behind his desk, all chest and ego, while Valerie runs down his schedule. Mid-sentence she stoops for a dropped pen, and that brutish grin spreads when he flicks the thing right back to the floor. The second time she bends over, the camera crawls over her tight ass, and she pops upright, cheeks burning. She tells him she’s done with his petty bullshit—his swagger, his put-downs, the way he makes her feel small. Her voice cracks; sweat beads between her tits. Kincaid just leans back, eyes never leaving her body, and asks for coffee. Valerie storms off to fetch it, fists clenched, every muscle tight. Later, coffee mug in hand again, she watches him spit the first sip across his desk and call it garbage. He sneers that she’s been here ten years and still can’t pour a decent cup, and she’s nothing but a dumb blonde. He strokes her cheek. She calls it harassment. He laughs—his name’s on the checks, so it isn’t. Then the mug tips and dark coffee splashes over her white blouse. Kincaid shrugs, tells her to lose the shirt before it stains. She tries to leave; he offers the only open door: stay and play nice and she gets the job she actually wants. The camera stays tight on her face—tears, clenched jaw, then the slow curl of a smirk. Shirt hits the floor. Valerie steps in close, tits bare, fingers tracing Kincaid’s shoulder as she purrs how right he is: she’s here to make the boss happy now.