Use the shower. Use Greta.

Striding past Cindy and Beatrice, who are giggling and snickering at their ex-manager's plight, you make your way into the newly always-been-there Executive Shower, and find Greta, soaking wet from head to toe, still clothed in her apron, skirt and shoes, looking rather upset. It's the hottest thing you've seen in years, and you're responsible for the whole thing, with this new Rulebook.

Since there's no such thing as harassment in this country, now, she puts up with it; you're her boss, and this is her job.

The Executive shower room is tiled to the ceiling, with tasteful linens laid out on the vanity beside the open-air shower. The shower is recessed, and the water is already flowing from the broad, polished shower-head, a soft stream of clean, warm water.

"The shower's ready, Mr. Al," says Greta, pouting.

You walk up and look the young thing over. She's a beautiful, fit woman with full tits, a slender body, sad, pouty lips and wet hair sticking to her chest and shoulders. "Get back under the water," you tell her, enjoying her discomfort. For so many years, this shitty world has looked down on you, and now, you get to do what you want with all those superior people, and you should, right? Claim what you're owed?

Greta hesitates, so you shove her into the shower, and she reaches out to brace herself against the tiled wall. The water runs over her, and she spits some out of her mouth, wipes her eyes, and yelps when you place a hand on her bubble butt.

Pushing her forward, you step into the shower. Just as you're pulling your cock up to the young woman's behind, though, you stop.

The fresh, cleansing water streams over your filthy, neglected body, and you feel a wave of energy renewing your disgruntled self. This is the executive shower. You are the fucking VP of Operations. This little blonde thing is all yours now.

You slap her on the ass, and slam your dick into her, reaching for the soap and washing the stench of the city off your body while the stench of your dick comes off in poor Greta.

Eventually, Greta's moans turn to whimpers. Your rutting is setting her off despite herself. You thrust harder and harder, and she yelps. "Ahhhhnnnn Mr. Al, please, don't cum inside meeeee."

You reach around and grab her juicy tit, squeezing it, feeling the firm, bumpy nipple against your palm, listening to her begging moan.