Brendan, your average office worker

“Wait, who are you?” you ask the booming disembodied voice, just before you are instantly consumed by mist and ejected back into reality.

Moments later, you sit back up, mentally swatting away at your drowsiness. You’re still at the office, just as you were when you fell asleep. Strangely, you weren’t even tired; one moment you were awake and all of a sudden you were dreaming about… something. A glance at the clock on the wall suggests that you were asleep for barely a minute. Unable to remember anything from your dream, you nurse your coffee for a short while before turning your attention back to the bare spreadsheets on the monitor in front of you.

Yours is what some people would call a bullshit job: a human-goddamn-being typing numbers into a computer—a device specifically designed to hold and transfer this exact kind of data instantly—as if it were the 1960s. And then, for some reason, print them out again. The reason why you are part of this inane process instead of letting the overpriced calculator in front of you handle the whole thing is because your Luddite of a boss managed to weasel his way into his current position and impose his paranoia as company policy. If you had it your way, he would be doing something better suited to his abilities, like hawking tchotchkes to bored tourists, or cleaning the restrooms at a weight loss clinic, or…

In the middle of your ruminations, a slender hand with long, cherry-colored nails and a ring with a cheap synthetic jewel materializes in your peripheral vision to slap a short pile of paper sheets (see what I mean?, you think) full of numbers on your desk. Your eyes travel up the arm to see Nora, your boss’s assistant, failing to conceal a grin.

“Finish this up by the end of today. Boss’s orders,” she declares, in a tone of voice that suggests those orders were her idea and probably sounds more gleeful than she intended. Without missing a beat, she immediately swivels around and starts walking away.

“Do you…,” you begin. She stops, turning her head slightly. “…enjoy this? Making me miserable, I mean.”

She turns back around, shifts her weight onto her right leg and places a hand on her hip. “I don’t know what you mean. I just want to maintain a professional working env—”

“Cut the bullshit, Nora,” you blurt out. You didn’t expect to hear yourself say that, and judging by her fleetingly raised eyebrow, neither did she. “There’s no one on this floor today except me. You’ve been giving me extra assignments all day, even though I specifically requested permission to leave early today. I haven’t even used any of my days off this year. What’s your game?”

“Look. You’ve been constantly dozing off while on the clock lately. I don’t know anything about your personal habits and I don’t particularly care either way, but like I was saying before you interrupted me, I’d like to at least pretend this is a professional working environment, not a playground for college dropouts.” Her glare confirms that she means you specifically.

You don’t know how to respond. You didn’t expect her to be so forward about disliking you, although you can’t say you’re surprised, what with her being the manager’s pet.

You struggle to think of a response when, all of a sudden, Nora unzips her business skirt, letting it drop casually around her feet. If there’s something you didn’t expect to see today, it was Nora standing in front of you, wearing a business jacket, shirt, high-heeled shoes and a pair of expensive-looking burgundy lacy panties—and nothing else—in the middle of the office.

“Why’d you… take that off?” is all you can think of saying.

“Excuse me? This attire is perfectly within code,” she says, sweeping her hand from shoulder to hip, ending at her exposed underwear. “It’s hot up here—not that we’d waste an entire floor’s worth of AC for just one person—and your useless questions are making me stay longer than necessary. So you’ll forgive me if I take off a layer or two.”

Has she lost her mind? You know she thinks she can do basically whatever she wants in this company, and you would normally be the first to agree, much to your chagrin. But to this extent?

“What if I took this to HR?” you threaten, though admittedly without much bite.

“Yeah? Over what, a couple of harsh words? Grow up,” she retorts, skipping past the I’m in my underwear in the middle of an office side of the equation. “Besides, I’m not the one making a coworker uncomfortable here.”

Right after she finishes speaking, a small dark patch appears at the bottom of her panties, expanding slowly for a couple of seconds. An amber dribble oozes out, falls on her right thigh and trickles down her leg, some of it getting into the bottom of her expensive-looking shoe, the rest pattering haphazardly on the carpeting. To all appearances, Nora is calmly pissing herself in front of you.

“Wh… What are you doing?” you ask, utterly flabbergasted at the breach of basic decorum happening in front of you.

“Scolding you for insubordination, that’s what,” she hisses, both with her words and with her bottom lips, which are now expelling urine more aggressively. “Now if you’ll excuse me, some of us have important things to do.” She bends her knees to pick up her skirt, briefly allowing the stream of piss to splash unimpeded on the floor beneath her ass before standing up again. She turns her head toward the paperwork on your desk. “Have fun with that,” she grins, walking away briskly and leaving a conspicuous wet trail behind her.