Office BitchCourtesy of Erin McNaire
This is something that happened to me a few years ago. For the sake of my private life, call me Bob. At the time I was 28 years old, 5’8” and a solid 180 pounds. Not a muscle head, but fit; I ran track on the weekends and did team sports. On the day that I want to talk about I was smoking a cigarette next to my car, chatting with my office mate Latricia, when the bitch rolled up. The forest was hooting, owls making noise before they went to bed, and the sun was a blob on the horizon.
All ten of us from the office were there except the bitch. Every office has a girl or woman that is a bitch, the one that spreads rumors and rolls her eyes behind your back, and ours was no exception. Our team leader invited her at the last moment, without telling us, so when she rolled up in a green car with a low-hanging fender, I groaned and put out the cigarette.
Kelly Maddison.
19 years old and fresh in our internship program, Kelly was a bitch and a snob. No one knew how she ended up at our yearly team building program. Interns didn’t usually earn invites. But she did.
A heel stretched from her car. Shiny like latex, it belonged to a heel boot. The rest of Kelly Maddison followed it, stretching out from the car into the strawberry jam sunlight of early morning. The rest of her short leg followed, the boots flowing to her ankle, where a pair of snug black jeans took over. They hung low on her hips, barely clutching to her slender but very round thighs; a sparkly silver belt finished her ensemble. All of her stomach was exposed, the sun crossing it with smooth sunshine.
Stretching into the sunlight, she yawned, “Let’s get this stupid ass day over all ready.” At standing height, the top of her hair didn’t even clear the top of her junker. She stood probably 4’9”. The scale she climbed onto at the doctors probably met the top of her hair and the scale also probably read 90 to 95 pounds with all her clothes on. The sort of girl that could blow away in a strong gust of wind.
She was one slender, petite bitch, but as we all immediately noticed the second she put a black booted foot gingerly on the ground that she was one tightly built bitch.
Teal green eyes sparkling behind finely curled midnight lashes. Fine hazelnut brows trailed off in an arrogant arch, always questioning. A pointed nose with high cheekbones, very gorgeous and very bitchy. Hair the color of brown sugar flowed along fair cheeks, around her slender shoulders, curling next to her small breasts. The size of small apples, they strained the white crop top she wore. The top itself represented her taste: cut above her stomach, it was too tiny to show in the office, but here in the wilderness she could wear what she wanted and she fully intended to.
Also, it showed off her six pack abs.
Yes. Six pack abs.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
Abs. Solid like sculpted marble, somehow sleek and almost sexy and tough looking at the same time. An adorable little innie belly button marked the middle of the rock hard stomach, at total odds with the muscles slabbed to guard it. The rest of her body looked like a pretty teen girl that kept in shape while her stomach belonged on a fitness model or athlete.
“Oh,” Latricia said, her mouth forming the letter that began her word. “Wow.”
A few of the men muttered comments.
I couldn’t keep my jaw off the ground, and hated myself for it. The fact that this young girl impressed me in any way bugged me. See, Kelly and I had problems. The boss passed her for a promotion in favor of me. That seemed perfectly normal, me being with the company for four years and 28 years old, versus her not even having college experience and ranking in as only a three month intern. The day after the news was posted on the company board I heard her whispering claims about sexism to the other women in the office, who really didn’t want to give her the time of day, and since then she had refused to talk to me. One time she even tripped me and sort of flashed lashes, pretending it was an accident. Like I said, she had attitude problems. So I hated to give her any kind of due, but that stomach of hers was seriously impressively cut, putting my own flat and firm stomach to shame.
Everyone gawked at her body, men and women alike. More accurately, everyone gawked at her shredded stomach, lines rippling with each breath. The contrast to her height and slender build and twig thick (but very firm and solid, I noted with new appreciation) arms was clear. It was really strange to learn that the cute small girl that sat at a desk all day in a suit could shrug off her suit and have a body all the more incredible for her height and slender build.
“What’s going on?” she said. “Are we getting this over with or what?”
“Your stomach,” Latricia said. “I mean, I had no idea you worked out like that. Wow.”
“I wish I could get muscles like that,” one of the men muttered.
Kelly responded with “Yeah?” like it was no big deal that she had a stomach you could do laundry off of.
Our boss and “team building leader,” Ted, blinked a few times as if he was trying to test a mirage in the desert before clearing his throat. “Ok, now that we are all here, let’s get to work! Or, I think I mean, play. It’s both, really, so have fun guys - and gals!”
Splitting us into two groups, Ted placed me on one team and Kelly on the opposing team. Good. No need for us to awkwardly work together. I was really looking forward to splattering her with a shot to win the game.
From his car, Ted pulled the paintball gear. Padded green jumpsuits sort of like what a janitor wore to protect our bodies and plastic masks to shield our faces. Strapping up, I heard Ted arguing with someone. Kelly, of course. Shaking her head, I heard her say, “No way. That’s dorky shit.”
“It’ll keep you safe, dear,” Ted said. “There’s reinforced bits for the chest and stomach. Think of it like what the police wear so they don’t get hurt training.”
“Does it look like my stomach needs armor?” Rapping her knuckles in the middle of her six pack, Kelly smiled cockily.
“Well, you have…”
“-breasts? Yeah. Sure I do. Like any of these losers are good enough to hit a tree trunk.” She was glaring at me when she said “losers,” thinking I was not paying attention.
“I won’t make you wear he padding, but please think it over. No one should be hurt while we build our little teams!”
Kelly tossed the clothes in the dirt in answer and went to pick a paintball rifle. God, what an asshole, I thought. Smirking, I figured that if I ran into her I might show her how hard her abs felt if they took a paintball shot. From experience, even in the padding the paintball shots could sting. Without them, stomach and arms bare except for a halter tank top, the shot would feel like taking a stiff punch. I bet I could make bitchy little Kelly Maddison cry from one shot. Who would the loser be then?
*
The red sunrise faded to a plated gold. As the game stretched to its last legs at noon, it wound down to me and Kelly. Strange how things work out sometimes, huh?
Camped outside her team’s base, an old storage shed crumbling from the weather and poked through with twisting branches, I waited and did not dare to breath. The shattered windows showed nothing inside but shadows. I had just taken out the only remaining person on her team, Latricia, when she peered through the window. That left me with five shots left to take Kelly.
I waited for her to make a move. The birds swirled in the sky, white on blue.
Time passed. At least, I think it did, but I couldn’t be certain how much. Crouched in thick bushes next to a tree, I waited for the bitchy little intern to show.
She did. Bursting out of the front door, Kelly aimed at me and fired. I ducked, the shot splattering into the tree trunk behind me. The young girl cursed, tugging at the paintball gun trigger. Even from flat on the ground I could see the feed tube was empty.
Kelly was out of ammo. Defenseless.
Smiling, I aimed a shot at her.
The ball soared through the air and hit where she had just been standing. The door to the shed was swinging shut. Damn, she was fast for a girl with such short legs.
Taking my time, I slowly stood. The flag was inside the shed somewhere. Kelly had no ammo. My gun carried four shots. I was the winner in all but name. Strolling to the shed door, I politely knocked. No response. Swinging open the door, I squinted to adjust to the dim light.
Inside, the shed was the size of a root cellar. The floor was chipped wood that showed dirt through the decay. Grime and dust hung on the walls. Sunshine slanting through the broken windows highlighted Kelly Maddison in a golden haze that hung through her long, long strands of hair. She was standing there, hands at her sides, glaring at me like she hoped it would kill me.
“Give up,” I said, wanting to rub in the win. Don’t get me wrong, I had nothing against her except her attitude toward me. “It’s over. I won’t even shoot you if you give me the flag, I don’t want to hurt you.”
That set her off. Pretty exotic eyes lifting and pouty mouth sneering, Kelly said, “You want it? Come get it.”
“Fine.”
I could see the flag hanging from her black designer jeans, tucked between the glittering silver belt like a red tail. Walking up to her, I reached out a hand to pull the flag from her belt. The cloth was rubbing along the ridged lines of her naked six pack.
The cloth moved, and I wondered why until I noticed Kelly’s upper body twisting, tight abs clenching tighter as the movement ran through her, and her arm swung at my face.
Kelly back handed me. The knuckles on that hand the size of an actual little girl’s whipped by cheeks like a club, stinging them red. I hate to admit it, but my eyes started tearing from the force she hit me with. From nothing more than a bitch slap, I was shaking and dropped the paintball pistol.
“Go ahead and cry,” Kelly said, standing there. “Or take the flag and be a man.”
Blinking through the stinging pain in my face, I went to pick up the paintball pistol. I didn’t see Kelly’s foot move, but I felt the result. Like in the office, she tripped me, but this time she didn’t pretend. Laughing, she watched me slam against the ground with a thud.
Angry. I was angry. What was her problem? Did she still hold some weird grudge against me for preventing her from getting a promotion that was a total faux pas for her to even apply for to begin with? I guess she couldn’t comprehend that she was only a six month intern that the bosses already considered letting go due to her showing up late, texting during work hours, and rolling her eyes at clients. So I bit my teeth, snatched the paintball pistol in my hands, and shot her.
The ball smacked into her exposed abs. Baby blue paint smeared the creases of her muscles, running lazily down to where her waist dipped into her jeans. A trickle of it painted the rim of her innie belly button.
She laughed. The muscles in her stomach drew in so tightly that the abs looked ready to pop from her stomach. The paint ran faster, tracing an outline in blue that only highlighted those muscles more.
I was flabbergasted. This was some snob teen girl with a bad attitude, but her stomach just took a paintball gun shot and she didn’t even flinch. I didn’t even know any guys that tough. Size had nothing to do with it, but it seemed even more shocking from a girl who barely reached the roof of her own car.
Suddenly, Kelly’s face flashed to a serious look. Kicking the paintball gun away, she said, “I deserve that promotion, you little shit.”
I don’t know who she was calling little. But I didn’t bother pointing that out to her, me, I was pissed. Somehow it annoyed me even more that not only had she made a fun day sour by turning a mock fight real, but that the paintball shot seemed funny to her, like I was a sissy for wearing the normal protection that every player used.
“Cut this fucking shit and give me the gun back, Kelly,” I said.
Dancing around me, she said, “Or what?”
“You might have nice abs, but you’re still only five foot at most and a girl a year out of high school. Don’t make me get rough.”
“Babe, you want that gun or the flag you need to go through me first,” she laughed.
Despite my words, this was an office sponsored trip. Escalating violence was not what I had in mind. I thought that while yes Kelly had slapped and tripped me, those only amounted to messing around, and that she had been satisfied. But Kelly had no intention of stopping. She wanted violence. She wanted me.
As I moved around her to pick up the gun, her fist flung out fast as thunder and hit me like lightning. The tiny teen fist busted my mouth wide open with a spurt of blood.
Kelly punched like a man.
A big man.
Reeling away from her on liquid knees, I only barely managed to swing my body forward and stay on my feet, steadying my balance and forcing myself to not go down. Then I just reacted. Swinging my arm, I curled my fingers into a fist and tossed a punch out blindly at her.
My fist pounded her in the mouth, sending her slamming into the shell wall hard enough to rattle the tin or aluminum or whatever the hell the siding was made from. But she stayed on her feet.
I expected her to cry or drop. She didn’t.
Stepping back, a trickle of blood stained her lip. Sneering, she wiped it off with her palm like I had spat it on her face instead of drawing it with a punch. “I’m going to fuck you up,” she told me matter-of-factly.
When she strolled up to me like she all the time in the world, I tried to grab a hold of her with my bigger, male body. I weighed almost twice her body weight and had an entire foot and three inches on her height. She was definitely strong, but if I could only grab a hold of her…
…but I couldn’t: she swung her shiny black leather boot up at my cheek, the heel snapping my head back with the crack of meat slapping on a table. The kick hurt as much as her punch, or maybe even more: my thighs dropped like exploded pillars, sending me to my knees in front of her, the top of my head reaching the bottom of her tank top; that was the height difference between us. With my gaze thrown toward her feet, I glimpsed her boot painted with blood. Touching my palm to my cheek, too dizzy with pain to fight back, I felt a deep gash pouring liquid from my mouth to my nose.
“This is for stealing my position,” she snickered. “Payback is soooooo sweet.”
Her tiny hand wrapped itself in my hair, jerking my head up to look her in the eye. By that time she was pulling back her other hand in a small fist, and I noticed for the first time she had blood speckling her dainty little teen knuckles.
My blood.
The anger surged through me again, dimmed like a light but still there. Powering myself to my feet with my remaining strength, I shoved her away and tried to swing at her, but she dropped to her feet.
Thrusting head first into my stomach, she tackled me into the door like a total powerhouse. It literally threw me off my feet. All 180 male pounds of me flew back like I had been hit by a rocket, but it was just a 4’9” teen girl.
Banging against the door, my head landed in an odd angle, ears ringing with noise. Pushing herself to her feet, Kelly wiped her hands free of dirt, studying her pointed, manicured nails for a moment.
A dozen thoughts rushed through my mind as I stared up at the pint-sized intern. How could this be happening to me? How could mean and apparently crazy little Kelly Maddison be messing me up so badly? For all her lip gloss and eye shadow and perfectly done hair, she was tough. Very, very tough. I could tell from the way she swaggered over to me in the next second and plowed her fist through my nose so hard my head swung to the side, into the door, and leaked blood like a faucet.
Smiling, Kelly crouched on me, her small but round ass cheeks brushing my knees. They felt firm, like she had an ass you could literally bounce a quarter off. Sprawled against the door, I felt helpless to stop her.
“Get off,” I begged, body sparking with my pain that flashed through my eyes.
“Want me off? Make me, bitch boy. God, how can you be right for that position? No backbone. No strength. You need to fuck people up in our business, or you get fucked up…like you’re about to be.”
I didn’t know what she meant by about to be. At that point, I thought she had kicked my ass pretty well despite only throwing a punch or two and a kick. I couldn’t imagine any more pain than what I was in.
Then she snagged my paintball uniform by the lapels and I thought she might drag me to my feet to tell me she was finished, but no, I should not have expected good sportsmanship like that from Kelly Maddison. Instead, she head butted me in the face.
I went flat. Leaning on me with her tank top covered little breasts brushing against my firm pecs, I brought my legs up to around her body and tried to grab her arms with my hands, trying to clinch her to make her stop. Laughing, she dropped her elbow into my stomach, blowing my air out in one huge gust. Dangling, my arms and legs relaxed, the male muscles in them useless. Smirking right in my face, she seemed to ignore the blood on her own forehead, from heat butting me like some football player. Standing on sturdy sleek legs cased in black jeans, she brought me all the way to my feet with her. She used only one arm, of course. My weight didn’t bother her twig thin arm, the firm skin flexing with sinew. Those arms of hers still seemed very small and skinny, with bicep peaks that I doubt passed the roundness of 9 inches, but they looked crammed with every cut muscle a girl could have, cording with cables of muscle.
Like a drunk, I swung a punch at her gorgeous model face. She sidestepped the punch and got me with an almost contemptuous back hand. My head was swinging back again and the room was like a carnival with all the lights and moving walls I saw. Stumbling into the door, it rattled for a second time with my weight. Seizing my wrists in a machine clamp firm grip, Kelly forced me down, my knees buckling under her strength, easily pressing me to my knees.
“You’re not man enough for the position,” she sneered at me, squeezing my fingers tighter until I cried out, a tear falling from my eye. “Whose dick did you suck for the job, fag?”
Once again, I was staring up at her gorgeous model face and her sexy ripped stomach. She stared at me like I was a stain on her favorite blouse.
A knee shot into my face, snapping my jaw shut against my upper lip. I tasted fresh blood. “Whose dick did you suck?” she repeated, spitting on my face.
I collapsed at her heeled boots.
“Lick my boots, bitch,” she said with an arrogant toss of her head.
My only response was to groan. A boot crashed into my stomach. Flashing black in my vision, the boot crashed into my face. I practically skidded across the floor. Kelly followed me, kicking me in the chest, the ribs, the stomach, the face. Each blow drew a scream from me as her foot practically lifted me off the dirt.
Laughing, she said, “I told you I was going to fuck you up for punching me. And I told you I was going to fuck you up for taking the job I deserved. Don’t you remember?” Kelly was right. Now that it was happening to me, I remembered the moment. It happened a few days ago. At the fridge, we got into a shouting match and she accused me of stealing the job, telling me she would fuck me up before storming off with a snort of “men.”
I started to scream from the pain, for Kelly to stop kicking me. Please, stop, I begged her with almost sobbing-like screams.
With her boot, Kelly rolled me flat onto my back. The boot lifted into the air, moving toward my body. It seemed to happen in slow motion. Expecting her to kick me, I cowered, or tried to, barely able to move my body, her boot moving toward my face.
The boot pressed gently into my throat. Then she stepped down on me with a smile, looping her tiny fingers through the loops that held her glittering silver belt on.
It was like having a truck standing on my chest.
Flashing with fireflies, my vision clouded. The breath coming into my lungs slowed until I was gasping in a pathetic plead for air. My head was dropping on the floor, lifting, dropping. I tried to ask her to stop, that she was killing me, but she just smirked proudly at me as a long gagging noise came from my mouth.
Mercifully, she then lifted her boot from my throat with a dainty shake. I clasped at air, struggling to breath it in but needing it. I swore she almost choked me out.
Crouching on top of me in an intimate straddle, she stretched her short sleek legs out, jeans rubbing my suit, crouch touching mine. Smiling, she started pounding me in the face with big punches that knocked my head right and left, knocking on me with loud smacks drawn by her girlish teen knuckles.
When my mouth flooded with blood and my nose poured it in steams and even my cheeks and forehead bled from cuts, face a map of bruises, she pushed herself off of me to her feet and said, “Consider yourself fucked up by the best, dickweed. Now get the fuck outta here before I want to kick your ass some more.”
I couldn’t have argued even if I wanted to. The beating she put on me was massive. While she dabbed off the blood on the corner of her lip and wiped it from her forehead, I crawled through the shed door into the blinding afternoon, practically painted with blood, moaning “Somebody please help me.” I felt like I had been mauled by a bear. In fact, Ted, who found me crawling on a path a few yards from the shed, thought I had been mauled by a bear or hit by a whole team worth of paintball shots, I was so red and cut and bruised.
Running over to me after he judged himself out of danger, I do slightly recall him asking me what happened and I just muttered “Kelly” in reply. Ted didn’t understand, but he got me help. I also remember the floating feeling as EMTs lifted me off the dirt path onto a stretcher, their ambulance flashing red lights across my shirt that I thought were Christmas lights like at my aunt’s house when I was a kid.
To lead me out, they carried me past my lined up team mates and rival team members. They all muttered and stared and told me to hang in there. Except one. At the ambulance, the EMTs had to lead me past Kelly. Standing there with the pain streaking her ripped belly, she said, “Wait. I wanted to tell him something.”
The EMTs shrugged. She stepped up to my stretcher.
“What’s it feel like to get beat by a girl, little man?” she mocked before tossing my gun and her team flag on top of the stretcher. They both landed on my chest. “That’s for you. There’s our team flag and your gun, but you never got it from me on your own—I let you tag my abs with your gun, remember—even by force. I had to give it to you. Just like I’m letting you keep my job now that you paid up for it.”
Through the delirious cocktail of pain and drugs, I moaned a pathetic, “Thank you.”
“Whatever, pussy,” she sneered, and all 95 pounds 4’9” of her strutted off to her car with my blood on her knuckles and boots.
*
What happened next? Did Kelly Maddison make me her slave? Or maybe I spent the next year getting my ass kicked around the office by her, me the one with the higher rank but her the intern with all the power? No, this is not a story. Of course, I still get teased by the women in the office from time to time, little comments like them mock-ordering me to get something, dismissed with a laugh, but my work is not run by stupid people. The office figured out what happened in the next few days and fired Kelly on the spot. She had been all concern for me until then, when she spat, tossed the boss’ desk contents on the ground, and stomped out the door. The police had quite a few questions for her, pending the charges I wanted to press, but she skipped her court date and probably skipped town all together. Good riddance.
Kelly’s someone else’s office bitch now.
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