She freaks out.

Nicole slid off the desk, her legs trembling. She scrambled to pull her skirt down, her chest heaving.

"What the fuck? You can't do this!" she screamed, the sound echoing off the sterile walls. "I agreed to suck you off, I let you Fuck me, but I never agreed to let you Cum inside of me. I'll sue you! I'll tell the police! This is sexual harassment, it's rape!"

Jefferson didn't flinch. He zipped his trousers with a sharp, metallic slide. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"Do it," he challenged. "Call them. I'll show 'em a recording of what happened here. All they can see is you and me having sex. No one was being raped."

Nicole froze. The rage vanished, replaced by a cold, hollow dread.

"You wouldn't," she whispered.

"Try me. Do you think a judge cares about your claims if I have a recording of you not being raped but having consenting sex with me?"

She slumped, her shoulders dropping. The silence in the room felt heavy, suffocating.

"Please," she whimpered. "Just... please don't."

"Then remember your place." He gestured toward a box of tissues on the corner of the desk.

"Clean yourself up. I won't have my furniture smelling like your desperation."

Nicole reached for the tissues. She wiped the thick, cooling cream of his seed from her thighs, the friction stinging her sensitized skin. She smoothed her hair and checked her reflection in the glass wall, forcing a mask of professionalism over her shattered expression.

"Is that all, Mr. Jefferson?"

"Get back to work, Nicole."

She unlocked the door and stepped back into the humming office, the fluorescent lights blindingly bright. Her skin still crawled, but she sat at her keyboard and began to type.