Georgia Lemmings

You wouldn't be exaggerating to say that Xenia wasn't the only woman who hated you in this office, but Georgia's anger has nothing to do with your inappropriate language. You've actually struggled to befriend her since you got hired, mostly out of fear of her power as the secretary to one of the more powerful shareholders in the company. She's middle-aged, has a narrow nose that went with her fit, narrow body, and seems content to frown for most of her life. Her hair, a mess of dreadlocks tied in a puffy ponytail that pointed back instead of down, was cute at times, unlike her usual dress, drab and gray. Today she defies your prediction with a white and rather frilly peplum that hugs her bust in an unusually flirtatious way, if this married hatchet of a woman was ever capable of the act. Perhaps even she is being won over by your pheromones, and on that note you admire her when you walk up to her desk: her milk-chocolate skin, her frank brown eyes, and her pursed, thin lips as she stares daggers at you-

"Do you have something to say, Mr. Peck?" You realize now that you've been caught staring, and that such was unwelcome... even now. Even with half of the rest of the office turning face for you. While the ladies were treating you with more respect and joy, Mrs. Lemmings seems unusually upset with you without any reason you can tell. "Out with it," she urges, bordering on hostile in her tone.

"Ah, sorry Georgia, I... guess I lost myself for a... second," you stumble your excuse out the door of your face, hoping she accepts it. With a flare of her nostrils she begrudgingly does, lowering her head back to the scratchpad of short-hand of her latest instructions from the boss.

She's particularly edgy for the rest of the day, and your pheromones don't seem to be helping her relax... not that you have intentions. You took measure of her with your sixth sense: something is imbalanced in her, and you can somehow identify a chemical therein as being a kind of birth control. There's also something... off about her as a woman, something just beyond this new sense, just on the threshold of knowing. You ultimately dismiss her; as far as you can tell, she, like so many modern women who took reproductive rights in their own hands, was useless for your intentions in every way.

~Later that night~

... which is why your present predicament irritates you. It's 7:04PM, and by now you should be on the prowl for another {if Morality > 0}unfortunate member of your experiment{else@}victim{endif}, or at least be balls deep inside {if@ Mothers > 1}one of your current slaves{else}your current ****{endif}. Instead, at the behest of none other than Georgia's boss, you're stuck with more unpaid overtime under the veiled threat of unemployment for failing to find the desired document, misfiled somewhere in dozens of filing cabinets. Your only solace, that you might be paired with an outlet for your sexual desire, proves fruitless: he entrusts the task of keeping you working to none other than Georgia herself.

"Derek, you better not be skimming these files," Georgia hisses in a low voice. You are now on opposite sides of the same filing cabinet, where you both started on opposing ends of the filing room. Given that you're both running out of cabinets to search, one of you must be on the verge of finding the errant document... or one of you fucked up and missed it, somehow. You're keenly aware of the chances that it was Mrs. Lemmings who missed something, but you've been very vigilant (and very eager to escape this mind-numbing task). "If you get distracted for a even a second-"

"And be stuck here until midnight? No thank you," you declare, trying to add a laugh as you say it. Her silence rates your humor. "Hey, I've been looking very carefully at each document, pulling on the stapled or loose tips to make sure I see every document in every page. I can honestly say I've been overly thorough-"

The clicking of heels. Fast. She rounds the corner, trapping you in the small enclave. Three walls of filing cabinets box you in; a wide-eyed, furious secretary stands in your only route of escape. "What... the fuck do you mean?"

Despite what you've become, and whatever you've done to women these past few days, you find yourself cowed and put your hands up defensively. "I mean I'm looking at every docu-"

"You're not even opening the files completely? Just tugging on them to peek at each one?" You nod dumbly. It was a sound strategy, though her clenched teeth tell you otherwise as she half-spits through them. "The notice we're looking for folds into a 3.5" by 5" document once opened. They are... rarely... very rarely kept flat, and certainly they would sink beneath the width and height of any regular documents that you've been... fucking... pulling on." You feel color draining from your face as dread sinks in. You've been looking at the tops of the documents laid down on their sides in folders: 8.5" by 11" or 14" documents. At best, the notice would be a full 3" below the threshold by which you checked every file... and even if it was unfolded, given the orientation, you'd still miss it, though you dare not add that to her summary of your fuck-up. You've spent the last four hours proving... nothing... with your search. The window of chance, of the blame being hers, narrows infinitely. She looks so angry as to be on the verge of tears. "You... you fucking... piece of..." Her face darkens with blood as she grows more and more furious.