The plan to get back at Stacy never materializes. Instead, something far worse begins to happen. You start slipping—badly. It’s not that the work is too hard, but more that your focus has been drifting. Every day in this office feels like a constant test of your self-control. The women around you seem to dominate not just the workplace but your every thought.
It’s small things at first. Your eyes wander during meetings, lingering on the click of Olivia’s flats or the sharp, confident stiletto heels that Scarlet always wears. You find yourself fixated, unable to concentrate on the presentations or the documents in front of you. You miss key points in discussions, your gaze following the elegant curves of Courtney’s legs as she crosses them in her seat, or the way Stacy’s heels add just that bit of extra height as she hovers above you.
And the women notice.
During one meeting, you’re supposed to present a key report, something Scarlett herself asked for. But as you’re about to speak, your attention strays. Olivia’s foot taps impatiently under the table, her legs crossed, her short skirt riding up just slightly. Your throat dries up as your gaze locks onto the rhythmic movement of her foot in those black tights. The numbers and words on the page blur, your focus completely shattered.
“Tom,” Scarlett’s voice cuts through the haze like a whip. “Is something wrong?”
You blink, pulling yourself back to reality. But it’s too late. You fumble with your notes, your palms suddenly clammy, and try to salvage the presentation, but it’s clear to everyone that your mind is elsewhere.
Scarlett’s piercing gaze doesn’t leave you as you stammer through your half-forgotten points. Her lips curl slightly, a faint smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. The silence in the room feels suffocating as you try to avoid looking at any of the women directly, but you can feel their stares on you, judging, waiting for you to trip over yourself.
When you finish, there’s a beat of silence, then a snicker. You glance up and see Jess leaning over to Amber, whispering something under her breath. Amber stifles a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand, her eyes flicking toward you.
“Well,” Scarlett says, her tone sharp, “that was… informative.” Her sarcasm is biting, and the rest of the women laugh quietly in response. You feel the flush creeping up your neck, the embarrassment burning deep. “Perhaps you should focus more on your work, Tom,” she continues, her voice cold and commanding, “and less on… distractions.”
You nod quickly, ashamed, but a part of you—deep down—feeds off this. The humiliation, the dominance of the women, it’s all tangled up in your desires. You know you should fight it, resist it, but you don’t. You can’t.
As the meeting ends and the women file out, Olivia gives you a mocking smile, her eyes lingering on you just long enough to send a message. You lower your head, feeling your stomach churn with a mix of shame and something darker.
The following days are no better. You keep messing up, constantly distracted. It’s as if your brain has split in two—one part trying desperately to hold onto your professionalism, and the other consumed with fantasies, distractions, and your overwhelming fetish for the very women who dominate your work life.
The worst part is, they know it now. They see how easily you crumble under their presence, how you stammer and falter when they stand too close or when their heels click a little too loudly on the office floor. They exploit it, using your weakness as a constant source of amusement.
In another meeting, as you’re trying to explain a project update, Jess suddenly leans back in her chair, crossing her legs with exaggerated slowness. She raises an eyebrow as she notices your gaze flickering downward for a split second too long. She smirks and exchanges glances with Amber, who’s barely containing her laughter.
“You good, Tom?” Jess asks sweetly, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You seem… distracted again.” Her tone is mocking, and the laughter that follows from the other women stings.
You choke on your words, fumbling with your notes. “I—uh, no, I’m fine,” you stammer.
But they aren’t buying it. The snickers continue, and even Stacy, the once-timid office worker, has started to enjoy the spectacle you’ve become. She sits across from you, arms crossed, watching with an almost gleeful look in her eyes as you struggle to keep your composure.
By now, you’ve sunk so low in the office hierarchy that even Stacy, once beneath you, now has more authority and respect. She doesn’t miss an opportunity to rub it in.
One afternoon, you find yourself buried in paperwork—yet another task that Stacy used to handle but has now been handed to you. She strides over to your desk, her heels clicking loudly on the floor. “Tom, could you double-check those reports for me? I’d do it myself, but I’m kind of swamped with, you know, *important* things,” she says, her voice dripping with condescension.
She doesn’t wait for your response, already turning to leave, but not before giving you a pointed look. You feel the familiar rush of shame, but there’s something else, too—something you can’t ignore.
The women have turned you into the office joke, and instead of fighting back, a twisted part of you revels in it. You know it's wrong, you know it's only digging your grave deeper, but you can’t stop. Each snide comment, each laugh at your expense, only tightens the grip they have over you.
And you hate that you love it.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author