tagNonConsent/ReluctanceMy Way Or The Highway

My Way Or The Highway

bydr. Jocelyn©

Dear Dr. Jocelyn,

Perhaps you can help me. For the first time in my life, I am in a situation, where I feel helpless. I thought some proffesional help might be in order.

My name is Candace, and I live in Chicago. I was recruited here out of college, and I work for one of the largest advertising agencies in the Midwest. Although I'm just 25 years old, I've managed to make quite a name for myself in my firm, and I guess that is where my problem begins.

You see, I have a colleague, Michael; who is the reason I have made the advances I have. It is not what you would think, he is not my supervisor, but my equal in terms of position. Maybe I better explain from the start...

I first visited the firm about a year and a half ago. During my visit I impressed one of the managers with some work I had done, while at NYU. He went as far, as to take me in to a staff meeting, and proceeded to introduce me to ad folks currently working on staff. They all nodded and smiled, and said they looked forward to hopefully working with me. The last, a handsome dark haired guy, looked in my direction and grumbled a hey, and went back to work, sketching something on a pad.

"That is Mike, he is our star; albeit a bit moody." Mr. Jones continued "He came here from California, and tends to have his own way of doing things:

I sat through the meeting and liked most of what I seen. The management style seemed to be rather loose, and the employees were given free range to debate, make changes and generally run their own ship. I was very opinionated, and thought I could offer something consistent with what they currently had.

Mr. Jones felt the same, and I was to start work as soon as I could get my affairs in order, back in New York.

The first few months were a whirlwind. I was making steady progress. The bosses loved me. And more importantly I was getting very comfortable in Chicago. My apartment was fantastic, I bought a new car, and I started dating a guy I had met back at NYU who also landed a job in town. My family and friends would come visit, and were very proud and impressed by my lifestyle.

The nights of studying, and the endless pursuit of excellence was now paying off. The independent woman that I had strived to be, was a reality. Even the other ad writers were starting to come to me, to bounce ideas off me. All except Michael, he kept a distance, and seemed to view me with an arrogant skepticism.

That changed when we were thrown together to work on a project. Actually, it was four of us. Kelly, who was a helluva graphic artist. RJ, a guy with a biting sense of humor to write the copy, and Michael and myself, the creative combo. It was a huge account, a high tech firm in Dallas, and an important piece of business for the agency. And more importantly, the chance for the four of us to do something big.

The first days were tough. We had to come up with some print and television ads. We met with the client in Texas, and tried to hammer out ideas on the plane, on the way back. Things got tense, especially with Michael and I. Although we hadn't spoke much in the past, when we did it was usually in disagreement over how a certain client should be approached, or what sort of ad the firm should run. This time, the arguments were a bit more heated.

I would claim that his vision was limited in his writing. He would say that I was too knee jerk and cold in my thought process. Michael seemed to treat people just about everyone the same, men and women, black and white, young or old. But with me there seemed to be a slight tension.

Then one day, things changed considerably. The managers were concerned about the account, and wanted a full meeting to discuss where we were in the process.

"So guys, what do you have?" said Mr. Jones, the man who had initally hired me.

"Well this is the direction I think we should go in" Michael burst out, taking the lead as usual, and explaining what HE thought was good for the group.

Mr. Jones looked, with RJ and Kelly nodding their head occasionally, and looked at me a few times as well.

"Candace, you seem to want to add something, what do you think?" Jones asked.

"Well Mike makes some good points, but where he's wrong...." and I went on to explain some things that I felt as well.

I looked at Michael. He looked beet red. And he looked at me when I was done, and his eyes spoke of his anger. What the hell was the guy mad at me for? I was a grown woman and I was going to tell my opinion. After all, I found out he had only been with the firm eight months longer than had. How dare he get an attitude with me. Where I come from you say what you believe in.

"She is wrong in regard to planning, let me explain." Mike said as he went on. The asshole couldn't even use my name, just referring to me as "she" and "her".

He went on. And on. And before I knew it a debate was raging between the two of us. Mr. Jones and the other nodded their heads in affirmation. I would make a point, he would interrupt, Mike would say something, and I would interrupt him. I called one of his ideas juvenile, he would fume back that I was short sighted. It got very intense, and the execs only egged it on more. They liked the creative tension we had.

By the time the meeting was over, Mr. Jones commented on how much progress we had made that afternoon. RJ and Kelly agreed with management that we had made a weeks worth of progress in one afternoon. The weird thing is, I was pissed, and Mike was still red with anger.

Shit! I thought to myself, if was 5:30 and I still had to finish writing a series of emails to Dallas, to update them on our ideas.

Back at my office I called my boyfriend to tell him I couldn't make it to dinner that night. To just go ahead, and I would catch him that Friday night when we both were free. Being the considerate guy he is, he reminded me of the theater tickets he bought, and would how a show would help take the stress away from a long week. I told him how sweet he was, and why he was so special to me.

I started to make my way from my office to the breakroom. It was going to be a long night, and I needed some coffee to get me through it. Everyone had gone home, and I looked out the conference room window as I passed by, the darkness had already set in on that February night. Winter was not over, I had a productive, but shitty meeting, and now I had to stay late. What a crummy day.

I just lingered on, till I heard something.

"Cunt" I heard in a garbled manner.

I had just passed Michael's office. Did I hear what I thought I heard? I turned around. The door was cracked and a dim light was shimmering from it. I went and opened it.

"What the fuck did you just say?" I demanded as I stuck my head in.

He looked at me with a smug sense of satisfaction. His tie was loosened as he sat in the big leather chair stationed behind his desk.

"What did you just day?" I repeated.

"You have such a fucking attitude" he said, standing up. You disagree with me just to disagree with me" he claimed.

I was pissed. This asshole had just called me a cunt, a cunt of all things! And now he was going to criticize me? I pushed my way in his office and slammed to door behind me, seemingly shaking the entire floor as I did.

"I asked you what you called me motherfucker" I said as I got his face.

"Yea, so I called you a cunt. You are. An East Coast fucking cunt...you think you know every fuckin' thing...always running your that big mouth of yours...bossy as shit...even your fucking name Caaaandaaace...you even have a cunt name!"

And it happened before I could even stop it. And it was over before I could take it back. The mark was immediately apparent on his face. I had punched him hard, my small fist leaving a red mark under his eye. I knew I had made a terrible mistake even before he could say anything.

He didn't have to. Those eyes which had bore through me earlier that day said it all. He looked at me with a fury that I have never seen. And I ran. I got to the door and had my hand on the handle when he caught me. Michael grabbed my head by my hair, and shoulder with the other. I screamed as he drug me across the room. One of my heels broke as my knees buckled, and then the other came off as I struggled with him.

I pulled with my free hand at his hair. His head was twisted as he still looked at me with this damaged eye- both of them still full of fury. He slammed me to his desk, and continued to fight with me.

His handed ripped my blouse, as he leaned down to kiss me. I pulled my head away.

"No, you fuck" I breathed as he leaned in closer.

He persisted, and almost made contact with my mouth. He pressed his lips to mine, as I tried to move my head in both directions. This asshole was trying to rape me.

I moved one time too many, and he caught my mouth. When he did, he caught my pouty lip in his mouth, and began to suck passionately on it. I whimpered like a hurt animal, which only encouraged him further. He sucked back, making me pause if only for a second. I felt his hot tongue pushing past my open mouth. I breathed through my nose as I mistakenly kissed him back.

He continued to rip my blouse, exposing my bra covered breasts, my hand still had his hair, pulling as hard as I could.

He was tearing my clothes off with one hand, and tenderly kissing me with his lips. I despised him, I hated his arrogance, and I was fighting him with all I had. Still I was melted by his kiss.

He backed away to look at me, and I smacked his face with my right hand this time. A clear shot, that left my handprint on his face. I figured this would shock him back to reality. Instead he ripped my blouse off completely, and tugged my bra straps down. My tits fell out of their cups, my nipples hardening. Why were they doing that? And why was I fighting him, but ceased in my screams? I slapped him again, perhaps to shock myself back to reality.

Mike grabbed me again, this time he flipped me over on my stomach. He yanked my skirt up from behind. Oh no, what is he doing. I felt a tear on my pantyhose, as remembered I wore them in lieu of underwear. Why had I done that today? And then there was the matter of the wet spot, which hand formed at their crotch.

"You're a fucking asshole" is all I could get out, before I heard his pants unzip.

Pressing at my entrance, was Mike's cock. He shoved it as far it could reach on the first thrust. I spread my hands over his desk, intentionally pushing much of the work we had done, all over his floor. He banged my pussy hard from behind, as I felt his hand on my shoulder, pulling me back to meet his thrusts. My pussy flexed, as I thought of my boyfriend back at his place, watching a ballgame and thinking of me. Meanwhile, this large prick was being shot into me over and over again.

"You fucking me, you jerk!" I gasped again, feeling violated the whole time.

Mike just grunted as he thrust in to me. By now my pussy had loosened, and this asshole was bouncing his crotch off my butt, his balls hitting my clit as he did.

Just then he bent down and grabbed my hair again. He balled it up in his fist, and increased his thrust.

A tear left my eye, and ran down my cheek. I continued to cry as each moment passed by. I, a professional, educated woman, was being violated. Here I was, bent over the desk of a colleague, a rival if you will; with my skirt around my waist, my hair being pulled, by a man who was having his way with me. Mostly I cried, because as it was going on, I was enjoying it, loving it, and deriving some sort of sick pleasure from it. I started to fuck him back, pushing my ass to match each of his thrusts. Just then he said his first words to me.

"So now I know how to finally shut you up" he whispered in my ear, as he pulled my head back.

I felt like a horse being ridden, as he pounded my pussy to a tremendous orgasm.

"You fucker, you're making me cum." I screamed as he reached around to tweak my left nipple with his free hand.

"Yes!" he gasped, as he continued to pound me steady. This time leaning forward to nibble at my neck and ear.

"Oh you fucking asshole!" I screamed as I came again. "You're raping me, you're raping me!" I said over and over again, cumming continuously.

It must have been too much. Because he locked up immediately. I had my hair yanked again, until I somehow ended up on my knees.

Mike stroked his cock two times, and started to cum on my face and hair, some of it landing on my tits. His face was twisted, and he sweat profusely. I could do nothing, but lie there and take it.

I backed up, gathering my clothes and struggling to my feet. I tripped and landed on the leather couch in his office. We were both a mess.

Michael had a bruised eye, and the mark from my other slap was still apparent. His hair was a mess, some of which had been pulled out by my hand. His shirt was torn his tie hung backwards around his neck. I was in shambles.

"You're beautiful, and very good at your job." he conceded, still breathing heavy. "I've always thought so." he mumbled in that dumb way of his, looking like a boxer after a long fight.

"You too" was all I could say, ashamed to look in his direction. I had betrayed myself, my boyfriend, and my career by putting myself in this position. And I betrayed myself, for letting this asshole know I was very attracted to him.

"Your plans are all over the floor" I said.

"Of course they are, you're still a fucking bitch." he said.

"Maybe I am, your still an arrogant prick" I retorted.

"Get the fuck out of my office" he yelled.

"See you tomorrow" I said.

"See ya then Candy." he replied.

Candy? Had this fucker just called me Candy?

I gathered my things and went back down to my office. It was late by now, and I figured I could email the Texas people some other time. I needed a glass of wine now.

As I passed by the conference room, I noticed two cleaning ladies glancing at me from inside. My hose had runs in them, my hair was everywhere, my makeup ran, the expensive torn silk blouse I wore barely covered my tits and bra, and I was carrying what was left of my shoes. The two middle aged Hispanic women looked in my direction, nodded and went back to running the vacuum and dusting. It was just so matter- of- fact

The next day was interesting. I walked into the break room to get my morning coffee. Mike was speaking to one of the VP's telling him that his martial arts class got pretty rough, and that he was bruised from sparring. Everyone at the company thought he was some sort of tough guy now. More importantly, the previous days arguing, fueled the energy to finish the campaign. We brought the account in on time, and the client was elated.

Mr. Jones and the other execs were so pleased, that they made Micheal, RJ, Kelly, and me a permanent team. In less than two months, we landed four monster accounts. The company was flush, and we were all given promotions. Strangely enough, the infighting only became more intense- and productive. Jones insisted on weekly meetings to chart our progress. What Jones really intended, was to pit Mike and I against each other, to provide creative results. And we did not disappoint. We argued like cats and dogs. We would even call each others ideas stupid, dumb...even going as far as to swear at each other.

The suits only encouraged it, calling us "brother and sister" as we fought like children. The work was getting done faster, better, and more profitable than ever. We were a force.

And Mike and I? We continued our habit involuntarily. After every staff meeting, I would storm in his office or he in mine. A fight would ensue, and he would chase me around the room 'til he would catch me, and subsequently rape me. I would tell him to stop, telling him I had a boyfriend, telling him we were coworkers, anything. But I had pushed him too far, and he would attack me.

The level seemed to get out control. One time, after I blasted an entire project, I thought it best if I put an end to this sick ritual once and for all. Before everyone left from the meeting, I excused myself and left for home without telling anyone. Michael must have been furious. I was home no longer than 45 minutes, enjoying a glass of Merlot, when I felt the banging on my door. By the time I got my bathrobe on and made it to the living room, he was already inside, after bullying his way through my front door.

Michael scooped me up in his arms, ripped my robe off and tied me to my own bed. I cried in shame, as I realized I encouraged him to this, knowing the humiliation of walking out on him, would only intensify the sex, I mean rape, I don't know what I meant at this point. All I know is that I liked it. And I craved it more intense and more often than ever.

Just last month I broke his favorite desk fixture during an argument. I slammed on the floor when he wouldn't agree with my point. This time I made it out of the room, only to have him catch me down the hall. He drug me in the men's room, and we fucked on the filthy floor. I didn't care if the company had cameras that would catch us, the decadent nature of it all would make it worth it.

I was behaving like a whore, and I needed help. I broke up with my boyfriend, he never knew why. I spent all my time working, and my sex life consisted of seducing my co-worker into raping me.

It was then I decided to ask Mr. Jones for a three month leave of absence. The company certainly owed it to me. I thought three months away from Mike and the office in Chicago would help me regain my focus. Everyone would think I went to Europe or something for three months and no one would bother to look for me. Most of all, Michael would not know where I was. Boy would he be pissed.

Actually, I decided to spend eight weeks at the University of Illinois in a summer foreign language seminar. Something completely opposite from my work. The first week has been so healthy.

But why did I call the office yesterday? Why did I call from my temporary apartment phone instead of my cell phone, when I know they have caller ID at the office? Why did I leave a message with Michael's secretary, that I thought his idea on our pending project was the wrong direction, when I wouldn't be there to help complete it anyway? Why did I not wear panties with my jeans today? And most of all, why didn't I deadbolt my lock just now when I got home?

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