Sunday, July 15, 2012

Boundaries

Evelyn felt something give.  Cool air caressed her left knee and she looked down to see a giant run creeping its way up the leg of her stockings.  Well isn’t that just perfect, she thought.  After yesterday’s lecture on presentability from her giant prick of a boss, Ev knew it would be no good to show up to work looking all whorey.   He’d likely take great pleasure in firing her on the spot.  She could see the moment in her head.  He’d stand there in his gross, pit-stained white button down and wrinkly trousers and point emphatically at the door, face growing redder by the second.  She could see the saliva collecting in the corners of his mouth, dotting the pornstache he’d clearly been sporting since the seventies.  Vile, horrible man.

He hadn’t started out so hateful.  Ev remembered him actually treating her with reverence and care for the first weeks of her employment at the agency.  He’d stop by and bring her coffee, invite her out to lunch, stick around to make an off-color joke or two.  It only took a few days for her to realize he was actually attempting to court her, something she was sure wouldn’t be cool with HR.  It wasn’t really cool with her either, in fact it wouldn’t be the first time.  Five foot four and slim with a short, bleached out pixie haircut, Ev had a fragile quality that drew the creepers of the world in like catnip.  It didn’t matter how nasty the B.O., how shaggy the haircut or fucked up the teeth, almost every waste of space fucked up dude would think he had a chance with her, that he had the thing she needed.  In his pants.

Ev hadn’t once needed a penis to make her life complete and she certainly wasn’t going to start now, with her boss of all people.  So she let him down, gently at first, but as he became more persistent she found herself having to be more firm.  Finally, after an awkward incident at the company Christmas party where Mr. Johnson had slid his hand down her back and squeezed her ass like it was bought and paid for, Ev had had enough.  She grabbed his wrist and swung it behind his back, pressing his stupid face into the slick black lid of the grand piano until he begged her to let go.  Admittedly, not the smartest or most career conscious way to handle it, but what else could she do?  She shuddered as she imagined the alternative, pornstache looming over her, yellow eyes rolling back in his head as he got his jollies with, she assumed, no thought to her enjoyment whatsoever.  Ugh, gross.  But now she knew he’d like nothing better than to fire her ass, to send her away with her head hung low, to shame her like she had rightfully shamed him. 

It only took two seconds for her to decide.  The stockings had to go. 

Prompt:  Avoiding a meeting
from ThinkingTen.com