Andrea Tells Her Boss to Shove It

Trigger warning for all kinds of offensive stuff. This story is about a powerful man taking what he wants and not giving a damn how anyone feels about it.

-- -- -- -- -- -- / -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"And finally," Andrea raised her glass, preparing for the grand finale of her farewell speech, "a toast to Mister Haver."

"Hear, hear!" someone cheered.

Andrea was still only in her early thirties, but I've always paid my people well, and I particularly appreciated her service. For about five years, she'd been one of my best personal assistants: organized, efficient, and reliable.

She had particularly distinguished herself with her talents for finding beautiful women to introduce to me and for getting rid of them when they threatened to become inconvenient.

Traveling the world at my side, she'd made sure my days and nights progressed without unpleasantness, but meanwhile she'd lived frugally, saving her money, and now it was her turn, she said, to travel the world and enjoy life.

"Well done," I'd told her when she initially gave notice. "That kind of foresight is rare in the working class. I wish you the best of luck."

So on her last day, a couple dozen members of my staff and I threw her a "retirement" party. She'd given a speech full of gratitude to her coworkers for their help and hard work.

But when she turned to me with champagne held high, I saw an acid grin on her face and realized things were about to get interesting.

"Mister Haver," she snarled through her smile, "I've waited so long to tell you this."

She paused for dramatic effect and suddenly everyone was holding their breath.

"You disgust me," she whispered slowly, luxuriating in the words. "You are a vile human being."

Several people tried to interrupt her but I waved them off.

"Let her speak," I said. "I want to hear what she has to say."

I don't recall the exact words of her accusations, but the gist was that I think I'm better than everyone else just because I'm rich and good-looking and tall and strong, but behind my back everyone hates me. They just pretend to like me because they want my money.

"The way you treat women is disgusting," she told me, "absolutely disgusting."

She opined that women only fuck me because they know I'll take care of them if they have a baby for me. I take good girls, she said, and reduce them to whores.

She went on, explaining to the room that I am a chauvinist, misogynistic, philandering, lying, arrogant, authoritarian, corrupt, bigoted -- something or other. I wish I had recorded it so I could give you her exact words.

She'd seen me bribe politicians and cops and judges, she told them. I'd shared girls who must have been underage with them, and with other rich businessmen. These men and I make fortunes stealing from ordinary working people and even killing them indiscriminately, innocent people all over the world, and then we use women and girls like currency, passing them around as favors to each other until we get tired of them and throw them away.

Apparently she was some kind of socialist or something. Can you imagine? Working for me all those years.

After all that, she went on, I had the gall to go out and seduce good, naive girls, promising to marry them, leading them on for months at a time, pretending to be in love, even getting engaged to them before breaking their hearts.

"You think you're God's gift to women, don't you?"

She made the mistake of pausing for an answer.

"No," I smirked into her offended eyes. "Women are God's gift to me."

"You son of a bitch. You motherfucking son of a bitch."

"Andrea," I said, tapping my watch, "you're technically still on the clock, so I have to fire you."

"Whatever. You think I care?"

"It won't affect your compensation, but it will enable me to speak honestly with you."

"What do you want to say to me?"

I made sure she was looking in my eyes so she could see my sincerity.

"I was never going to fuck you."

"WHAT?" she sputtered, outraged.

"You're a pretty woman, most guys would love to have you, but come on, look at the women I fuck. Even five, ten years ago, at your peak, you weren't in their class. And even if you had been, I would never fuck anyone who works for me."

"God, I HATE you!" she screamed.

Then she threw her champagne glass at me. She wound up dramatically, the liquid splattering on the wall behind her, so I didn't expect a very good throw, but I have to admit her aim impressed me. I would assume it is not easy to throw a champagne flute so accurately.

I intended to mock her by staring at her unflinching as her glass bounced harmlessly off my face, but it shattered on my chin and a sharp piece of it managed to slice into my neck. I didn't feel anything but some people screamed, so I turned to see why, and then I saw the blood on my shoulder and realized she'd got me pretty good. It must have directly hit the big artery.

So good for her.

"I'm okay," I assured everyone, using my pocket square to slow the bleeding.

Some shards apparently hit some people behind me as well. I don't know who exactly, but some people missed work for a day or two.

Andrea, perhaps already fearing a lawsuit, ran around the table to apologize to me, literally sobbing: "Oh, my god, I'm so sorry, Mister Haver, I'm so sorry!"

"It's fine," I smiled at her. "I need to take care of this and change clothes, but you stay here and enjoy the rest of your party. I'll call for you when I'm ready."

"You'll call for me?" she asked.

"I'll see you in the library in perhaps half an hour."

"Alone?"

"Of course," I said, turning to leave the room.

"Okay," she nodded, obviously frightened.

-- -- -- -- -- -- / -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

We were in my main home, a palace about an hour outside Paris, and one of its best features -- other than the gardens, the ballroom, the entry foyer, and the formal dining room -- is a grand neo-rococo library with parquet floors, thick Central Asian carpets, silk velvet upholstered furniture, and four floors of elegant wood and marble bathed in natural light. On the ceiling Apollo, who looks rather like me, relaxes as the muses (multiracial in this portrayal) bathe him with their hair.

Andrea had usually met me in my office, a more functional room on a human scale, where I work and have meetings with members of my staff. To meet in the library implied -- and no one would know this better than Andrea -- a tryst. As she'd know, I've fucked a lot of women in that library.

When she came in, I was sitting, bandaged and changed, in a chair at the far end, reading Machiavelli, who is by far my favorite philosopher.

I watched her walk across the library to me. I saw her fear and timidity -- what an earlier and more honest generation would have called obeisance. She had obviously been crying.

When she had almost reached me, I pointed to a chair across from me.

"Mister Haver," she said as she sat in it, "please allow me to begin by apologizing. All that champagne must have gone to my head. I --"

She hushed when she saw my indifference to everything she was saying.

"To be clear," I began, "you no longer work for me. You are now here in a private capacity, as a guest in my home."

"Okay."

"I enjoyed your speech this afternoon."

"I didn't mean any of it. I --"

I raised a finger to stop her.

"Unfortunately, I believe parts of it violated the nondisclosure agreement you signed, the terms of which must be well-known to you."

She nodded, wide-eyed.

"Furthermore, some statements you made constitute slander. In particular, you accused me of committing statutory rape, a incendiary charge that you know to be false."

"I -- maybe I got carried away, but --"

"And finally, you assaulted me."

"Oh god," she lowered her head, covering her face to weep. "What are you going to do to me?"

"A lawsuit would be appropriate."

"No!" she looked at me desperately. "No, please! You know I cannot afford lawyers like you can, you know I --"

"But you've saved so much money," I reminded her.

"Not that much! You'll bankrupt me!"

At this point she melodramatically threw down, grabbing my ankles and putting her face on the floor between my feet.

"Please!" she begged, "please have mercy on me! I'll do anything you want! I'll do -- anything!"

Waiting while her body heaved with sobs, I poured myself another glass of cognac.

Eventually she looked up, red-eyed and desperate, to whine:

"Please, Mister Haver, please. Please, please, I'm so sorry, please...," and so on.

"You didn't calculate the consequences of throwing your little temper tantrum when there were dozens of people to witness it?"

She just bawled away.

"You hadn't foreseen the possibility that unexpected expenses would arise when you decided to torch your bridges?"

"Oh!" she wailed. "Oh, god! I'm so fucked! Oh, god, Mister Haver, please!"

"Calm down," I sighed. "You're annoying me. Have a drink."

"Another drink? No ...."

"Andrea," I lowered my voice. "Have a drink."

"Okay," she agreed, getting to her knees, still on the floor in front of me.

I gave her my own glass, and she sipped it. With a finger I gestured for her to throw it back, and she obeyed.

"Good. One more?"

She looked at me questioningly, and I poured her another glass. When she finished, I took the glass back and pointed to her chair with my chin.

"Sit back down."

She did so, and then she waited silently for me to speak again.

"So you need to find a way to make this right while avoiding a lawsuit?"

"Yes," she hurried to answer. "I'll do anything, Mister Haver. Anything. I'll fuck you, I'll suck your dick, I'll... I don't know what you want, but I'll do it."

"We'll try to figure it out over a cigar. Get me a Padron."

She looked at me, realizing that she still had to follow orders.

"Yes, sir," she said, getting up and walking toward the library door.

"Andrea."

"Yes?" she turned around. "You don't work for me anymore. Call me Felix."

"Yes, sir," she said. "Yes ... Felix."

"Good. You want one?"

"A cigar? I.... Do you want me to have one?"

I shrugged.

"I've never...."

"Have one then. And hurry back."

"Yes... Felix," she said, scurrying to fetch the cigars.

My humidor is in my bar, which is next to the library, so she wasn't gone long, but even so she apologized when she reappeared.

"I couldn't get in," she explained. "They've already removed my fingerprints from the security. I had to get Yvette to let me in."

"Yvette?"

"She works in the kitchen."

"Ah. Well, why don't you take your clothes off and toast the cigars?"

"Take my clothes off?"

"Just a suggestion. You no longer work for me and you want me to fuck you, so I don't know why you'd wear clothes when we're alone together."

"I want..."

"I know you've always hoped I would fuck you," I smirked. "How many times have you tried to seduce me?"

She looked away, blushing brightly.

"I didn't know you noticed."

"Stop stalling. I haven't seen a naked woman in almost ten minutes."

"What if someone comes in?" she asked, beginning to unbutton her blouse.

"You think my staff has never seen me with a naked woman before?"

She herself, of course, had seen me with hundreds of naked women.

"I'm not just another woman...."

"You are now. If you're lucky you'll never see me again."

"Oh.... Well, where should I put my clothes?"

Gesturing vaguely toward the other chairs, I watched her strip.

She really wasn't a bad looking woman. Both her face and body were above average, though her waist was a little thick, her hips weren't very wide, and her tits were a bit too floppy, but nothing egregious. Just an above-average woman.

When she pulled off her panties, finally naked, she looked at me, wanting approval, so I looked her over and nodded.

"The cigars," I reminded her.

"Oh, yes."

I watched her work. Like all of my personal assistants, she knew how to toast a cigar and she knew how I liked them. Meanwhile I poured her another glass of cognac.

"Don't inhale," I reminded her, putting her glass on the table as she lit her own cigar.

When she was ready, we raised our glasses. She followed my lead, taking a slow sip of the cognac and then a long drag of the cigar. We smoked silently for a while.

Eventually she whispered, "Felix?"

I looked at her.

"You fuck so many women. Why not me too? I was with you almost every day."

"I told you, Andrea. You're not pretty enough."

A fresh stream of tears flowed down her cheeks as she nodded.

"And you worked for me," I added. "Why would I fuck anyone who works for me?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I just -- I mean, not even once? In all those years?"

"All those times you wore loose blouses and leaned over to show me your breasts. All those times you bent over in a tight skirt to pick up something."

"I didn't know you noticed."

"You weren't subtle."

"I was -- I couldn't -- I tried subtlety, but it never worked...."

"But you weren't pretty enough for me."

"I tried! I dieted, I worked out, I got plastic surgery."

"I know. But you'll never be pretty enough for me, and that is why you've quit."

"It's humiliating," she complained bitterly. "I just couldn't take so much rejection. Every goddamn day."

"The best job you'll ever have. You'll probably never make half this much again."

"I know."

"What do you know? What advice do you think I would give someone in your situation?"

"We all have a station in life. There are hierarchies. Money, power, beauty. We have to know our place."

"Exactly. You have to settle for what you can get. Even now, even at your age -- what are you, thirty..."

"Thirty-two."

"Only thirty-two? Well, anyway, you're still prettier than most women. You've got a few good years left. You can probably still find a good middle-class guy. A lawyer, maybe, or an older doctor looking for, say, a third wife. A lot of men will happily marry you."

"But you won't even fuck me."

I didn't respond, so she went on, talking to herself.

"No," she said. "Why would you? You can have beautiful woman after beautiful women. They throw themselves at you. Who did you fuck after you got the bandage?"

"The Moroccan girl."

"Anaïs," she told me. "And who's to be your aperitif?"

"The Angolan --"

"Charmaine. And then Olga's for dinner, and if you don't take her to bed, who do you think you'll choose?"

"Maybe Wanling. She's been waiting patiently, and she's very pretty."

Andrea nodded.

"And I can't compete with any of these women."

"There are so many men in the world."

"I know, I know. But like you say so often, the heart wants what the heart wants."

We smoked and drank in silence for a while. Eventually she worked up the nerve to ask me what she wanted to know.

"Are you going to sue me?"

"We can settle out of court. What do you have to offer?"

"My body is worthless to you." she sniffled.

"How about your niece?"

"My niece?"

She looked at me with disgust and fear, and I smirked at her.

"You've often boasted about how pretty she is. What did you think that was going to accomplish?"

"She's a little girl!"

"How old is she now?"

Andrea closed her eyes and threw her head back. "She just turned eighteen. But Mister Haver, she's so young and innocent...."

I snorted. "Sure she is. Kids these days."

"She is!" Andrea objected. "She has no idea! She lives in this fantasy world where, you know, powerful people are good, and justice can't be bought, and sex is for love...."

"But you know better."

She thought for a while and sighed.

"I know that it's easier for a woman to give a powerful man whatever he wants than it is to fight him."

"Bring her to me tomorrow," I told her. "If she's good enough, maybe that can settle things between us."

Defeated, Andrea sighed again.

"Mister Haver?" she pleaded. "Please, if I do this, if I bring you my niece, will you... be gentle with her? Please? She really is so sweet. She --"

"She will get her little heart broken eventually."

"I know, I know. But --"

"Boyfriend?"

"You know how boys are these days. They just watch porn and then whine on the internet that they don't know how to talk to girls."

"Don't tell her why you're bringing her here. After all, I might not even want her."

"But if you do...?"

"What?"

"You'll... forget what... happened today?"

"I don't make vulgar deals like that."

She blinked at me, confused.

"We'll just have to see what happens," I explained.

She looked away. The cigar magnified the trembling of her hands. She was breaking spiritually, and she knew she deserved it.

One of my personal assistants appeared in the doorway of the library.

"Mister Haver?" she asked, pretending not to notice Andrea.

"Yes?"

"Charmaine, the woman from Angola, is ready to meet you. Should I send her in?"

"Sure."

"Thank you, sir," she said, hopping back out of the doorway.

"Am I to stay?" Andrea asked.

"It's up to you."

"What would I ... do?"

"We'll think of something."

Charmaine came into the library arrayed almost like a bride, wearing a tight white lace minidress that barely covered any part of her lovely black body.

"Felix!" she gushed, but she hesitated when she noticed Andrea naked, eyes red from weeping.

"Come on in," I told her, "she doesn't work for me anymore. We're all friends now."

"But am I interrupting anything?" Charmaine worried.

"I was punishing her," I explained. "She misbehaved very badly today."

"Oh."

Obviously Charmaine had heard. No doubt my staff had talked of nothing else for the past hour.

"But are you finished?" she asked.

"Not at all," I snickered. "I haven't even spanked her yet."

"Spanked?" Andrea blinked.

"Come on," I told Charmaine. "You can help."

"How? Should I spank her?"

"No," I said, patting my leg. "Sit here."

When she sat on my lap, I kissed her, sliding my hand from her thigh up over her waist to her breast, and she kissed me back. Then I moved her so that her ass was centered on my crotch and unzipped the back of her dress. She arched her back for me.

"I thought...." Charmaine began.

"What?" I asked, pulling her dress off her shoulders.

"... maybe we would do something more romantic?"

"This is romantic," I told her. "These pearls look great on you."

"Thank you," Charmaine said. "I really.... They're the best gift I've ever gotten."

"Good," I said, lifting her bra off.

"Isn't she beautiful?" I asked Andrea.

"Yes," she said. "Very sexy. Very nice body."

"Fantastic tits," I said, moving my hands over her body. "I love this tiny little waist, and these curvy hips." I pulled her panties off, adding, "And these long skinny thighs. Very nice. I can't wait to fuck her."

"I wish I had a body like that," Andrea lamented.

I held both of Charmaine's breasts with one hand and began teasing her clit with the other, pushing her legs open so that she was straddling me, facing Andrea.

"Wow," Charmaine gasped, startled at having her legs spread to Andrea's view like that. "This is --"

I moved my hand from her breasts to cover her mouth to shut her up, and spread her lips wide with the other.

"You like this pussy?" I asked Andrea. "Look at it. You like it."

"I guess," she hesitated.

"Pussy juice goes well with cognac and a cigar," I told her. "You want a taste?"

"I've never...."

"A lot of firsts for you today."

Andrea and I looked at each other while I fingered Charmaine.

"Charmaine," I said, "do you want this woman to lick your pussy?"

"Oh, yes," Charmaine moaned. She'd apparently figured out the deal.

"What do you want?" I asked Andrea. "You want to lick her pussy?"

She still looked uncertain, so I tasted my finger.

"Oh, fuck yeah. Tastes great. Come over here and put your tongue inside this woman."