Final Review
"A harassment complaint has been filed against him—false, but damaging. The HR director seems to enjoy watching him squirm. He realizes she's not trying to fire him. She's playing."
The complaint is bullshit.
I know it. My manager knows it. Half the office knows it. Carla filed it because I wouldn't cover for her missing a client deadline, and now I'm sitting in Conference Room B, waiting for Human Resources to decide if I get to keep my career.
The door opens at exactly 3 PM.
Victoria Chen enters like she owns the building. Which, in a way, she does—as Director of Human Resources, she decides who stays, who goes, and who spends their life in mandatory sensitivity training.
She's tall for a woman. Slim, angular, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Her black hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her makeup is minimal but precise. And behind thin-framed glasses, her eyes are cold and calculating.
"Mr. Reeves." She sits across from me, sets a folder on the table. "Thank you for being punctual."
"Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Chen."
"Victoria." She opens the folder. "In situations like this, I prefer a less formal approach."
That doesn't sound good.
She starts with the basics.
Date of the alleged incident. Witnesses. My version of events versus Carla's version of events. I answer everything carefully, precisely, the way my manager coached me.
Victoria writes nothing down.
"The witness statements are inconsistent," she says, flipping through pages she's clearly already memorized. "Ms. Parker claims you used aggressive language. Mr. Torres says the conversation was entirely professional."
"Because it was professional. Carla missed her deadline and tried to blame the team. I corrected the record."
"By saying—" Victoria glances at the file. "—'I'm not going to lie to a client because you can't manage your time'?"
"That's accurate."
"Aggressive."
"Honest."
She looks at me over her glasses. Something flickers in her expression—not anger, not sympathy. Something more like... interest.
"You're not nervous," she observes.
"Should I be?"
"Most people in your position are terrified. Sweating. Making promises they can't keep." She leans back in her chair. "You're sitting there like this is a mild inconvenience."
"It is a mild inconvenience. Because I didn't do anything wrong, and you know it."
The flicker becomes a spark.
"Interview concluded," she says. "I'll be in touch."
Three Days Later
Another meeting request. Conference Room B. Same time.
"Mr. Reeves." Victoria is already seated when I arrive. "Thank you for returning."
"Did I have a choice?"
"There's always a choice." She gestures to the chair across from her. "Some are just better than others."
I sit. She's wearing a different suit today—navy, with a white blouse that's unbuttoned one button lower than last time. Professional, but with an edge.
"I've completed my initial investigation," she says. "The complaint has insufficient merit to proceed to formal discipline."
Relief floods through me. "So I'm cleared?"
"Not quite." She slides a document across the table. "Before I can close the file, I need a more... thorough interview. One-on-one. To ensure there are no underlying patterns of behavior that require attention."
I scan the document. It's a consent form for an "extended HR review."
"What does this involve?"
"Multiple sessions. Detailed questions about your workplace conduct, interpersonal relationships, communication style." Her eyes meet mine. "I'll be assessing whether you pose any risk to the organization."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I recommend immediate termination pending further investigation." She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes. "Your choice, Mr. Reeves."
I sign the form.
Session One
She asks about my childhood.
Not workplace stuff—personal history. Where I grew up, how I was raised, my relationship with authority figures. I answer because I have to, but I'm watching her now. Watching the way she writes, the way she pauses, the way her tongue touches her lips when I say something that interests her.
"You have difficulty accepting direction from women," she says.
"That's not true."
"Your manager is female. You've contradicted her in three meetings this quarter."
"Because she was wrong."
"You see?" Victoria sets down her pen. "That's the pattern. You believe you're always right. That gives you permission to be... aggressive."
"I'm not aggressive. I'm direct."
"There's a difference?"
"Yes. Aggressive is attacking. Direct is refusing to lie."
She studies me. Long enough that I start to feel like a specimen.
"Same time Thursday," she says. "Don't be late."
Session Two
She asks about my relationships.
Ex-girlfriends. Dating history. What I look for in a partner. The questions are invasive in a way that can't possibly be HR-appropriate, but every time I push back, she reminds me that this is a formal investigation and compliance is mandatory.
"You've had four serious relationships," she says. "All ended by you."
"Two were mutual."
"The other two?"
"I ended them."
"Why?"
Because they bored me. Because they wanted to control things they didn't understand. Because I couldn't respect someone who couldn't challenge me.
"We weren't compatible," I say.
"Mm." She writes something. "And what would make someone compatible?"
"Someone who doesn't play games. Someone direct. Someone who—" I stop.
"Someone who what?"
"Nothing."
"Someone who can match you." She looks up. "Someone you can't dismiss. Someone who keeps you... off-balance."
The room feels smaller suddenly.
"Same time Monday," she says. "We're making progress."
Session Four
We're in her office now.
It's after hours—7 PM, the building nearly empty. She said the conference rooms were booked. I don't believe her, but I'm here anyway, sitting in the chair across from her desk while she types something I can't see.
"Your pattern is interesting," she says without looking up. "You don't respect authority you haven't earned. You respond to competence, not titles."
"Is that a problem?"
"It's useful information." She finishes typing, turns to face me. "You've been wondering why I'm doing this."
"The thought crossed my mind."
"The complaint was baseless. I knew that from the first interview." She stands, moves around her desk. "I could have closed the file that day. Saved us both a lot of time."
"Then why didn't you?"
She perches on the edge of her desk, directly in front of me. Her skirt rides up slightly, showing a flash of thigh.
"Because I wanted to know more about you." Her voice is lower now. "Because men like you fascinate me. Competent. Confident. Absolutely certain you can't be broken."
"I'm not certain of that."
"No?" She tilts her head. "Then prove it."
I should leave.
This is textbook harassment—the kind I was falsely accused of. If I reported this conversation, she'd be the one in the chair. I could end her career with a single email.
But I don't want to end her career.
I want to know where this goes.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"I want you to admit something." She crosses her legs, the movement drawing my eyes. "Something you've been thinking since our first session."
"I've thought a lot of things."
"Tell me the most dangerous one."
The most dangerous one. The thought that's been lurking at the back of my mind through every invasive question, every power play, every look that lasted too long.
"I want to fuck you on this desk."
Victoria smiles. This time it reaches her eyes.
"Finally," she says. "Honesty."
She doesn't move.
Just sits there on the edge of her desk, looking at me like I'm a puzzle she's almost solved.
"Do you know why I took this job?" she asks. "I could have been a lawyer. A consultant. I had offers from firms that pay three times what this company does."
"Why didn't you take them?"
"Because this is better." She uncrosses her legs. Slowly. "In HR, I control everything. Hiring. Firing. Promotions. Discipline. Every person in this building exists at my pleasure."
"That doesn't sound healthy."
"It sounds honest." She leans forward. "I have a type, Mr. Reeves. Men who think they can't be touched. Men who believe their competence makes them untouchable." Her hand finds my knee. "I like watching them realize how wrong they are."
"Is that what you're doing? Breaking me down?"
"I'm giving you a choice." Her hand slides higher. "You can walk out that door. The complaint is closed. Nothing happens, we never speak again."
"Or?"
"Or you stay." Her fingers find my belt. "And we see what happens when you stop pretending to be in control."
I stay.
She undoes my belt with practiced efficiency. Her hands are cool, precise, the same hands that sign termination letters and approve promotions. She wraps them around my cock and strokes slowly.
"There," she murmurs. "That's better."
"Victoria—"
"I didn't say you could speak."
Her grip tightens. Not painful, but commanding. I shut my mouth.
"Good." She strokes faster. "You're learning."
I watch her work. Her slim wrist moving, her elegant fingers wrapped around me. She's still fully dressed—suit jacket, blouse, everything buttoned and proper. Only I'm exposed.
"Do you know what I want?" she asks. "I want you to beg. I want you—Mr. Confident, Mr. Direct, Mr. I-Don't-Play-Games—to tell me exactly what you need."
"I need—"
"Ah-ah." She stops moving. "I said beg."
The word sticks in my throat. I don't beg. I've never begged for anything in my life.
But her hand is on my cock, and her eyes are burning into mine, and I realize that she's right. She's had control of this situation from the beginning. I just didn't see it.
"Please," I say. The word feels foreign. "Please, Victoria. I need your mouth."
She smiles.
"See? That wasn't so hard."
She lowers her head.
She's precise in this, too.
No wasted motion. No teasing. She takes me deep and works me with clinical efficiency, her tongue finding every sensitive spot, her lips tight and insistent. It's not about pleasure—it's about demonstration. Showing me what she can do.
I'm close in minutes.
"Don't," she says, pulling back. "Not until I say."
"Victoria—"
"Victoria what?"
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
She stands. Walks around to her chair. Sits in it like a throne.
"Strip," she commands. "Everything. Then come here."
I obey. Shirt, pants, boxers—everything hits the floor. I stand before her, naked, while she remains fully clothed.
"On your knees."
I kneel.
She spreads her legs. Under the skirt, she's wearing nothing.
"Show me what that direct mouth of yours can do," she says.
I worship her.
She's neat, groomed, clinical even here—but when my tongue finds her clit, she gasps. When I suck, she moans. The sound is shocking from her, human in a way nothing else has been.
"Yes—" Her hand finds my hair, grips tight. "There. Right there."
I give her everything. Long strokes, short flicks, pressure and release. Her hips start moving, grinding against my face, and I hold her thighs and take it.
"You're good at this," she pants. "I knew you would be—ah—knew from the first interview—"
She comes with a cry that echoes off her office walls.
I don't stop.
She comes again. And again. Her body rigid in the chair, her perfectly pressed suit finally wrinkling.
"Enough—" She pushes my head back. "Enough. Stand up."
I stand.
She looks at my cock—hard, straining, desperate.
"Bend me over the desk."
She stands and turns.
Braces herself against the desk, her hands flat on papers and folders. I step behind her, lift her skirt. Her ass is small and firm—slim like the rest of her—and when I thrust into her, she's tight and wet and gasping.
"Fuck—"
"Now who's losing control?"
"Shut up and fuck me."
I do.
The desk shakes with every thrust. Her papers scatter. Her coffee mug falls and shatters. She doesn't care—she's moaning now, really moaning, all that composure stripped away.
"Harder—God—don't stop—"
I grab her hips and give her everything. Pound into her while she screams, while she begs, while she comes apart under my hands.
"I'm going to—" I'm close, so close.
"Inside me," she gasps. "I want to feel it."
I explode.
Fill her while she shakes through another orgasm. Collapse against her back, both of us panting, both of us sweating, the desk completely destroyed beneath us.
We stay like that for a long moment.
Then she laughs—a real laugh, startled out of her.
"Well," she says. "That was certainly worth the investigation."
Later, we straighten our clothes. Fix the desk. Make everything look professional again.
"The file is closed," Victoria says. "Formally this time."
"And informally?"
She looks at me. Something different in her eyes now—not cold, not calculating. Something that might be respect.
"Informally... I'd like to continue our sessions."
"In an official capacity?"
"In whatever capacity you're comfortable with." She hands me her business card. Her personal number is written on the back. "Same time next week?"
I take the card. Pocket it.
"I'll be there."
As I leave her office, I realize something.
I don't feel broken.
I feel like I've finally found someone who can keep up.