Jocelyn often worked late, but she liked her job. “Something real I can sink my teeth into,” she’d told her dad yesterday at dinner. “And I really like my boss, Mr. Redford.” Jocelyn didn’t tell her father that every time her boss was near, her ears would thicken, her chest would flush, her womb would flood. “Mr. Redford’s so brave,” Jocelyn did say. “Two months ago his wife died tragically, but he carries on.”

Tonight, late again, Jocelyn decided to visit the break room for cocoa before the ride home. Stepping past Redford’s office, Jocelyn was surprised to hear noises through the door. Little grunting noises. She’d thought Redford was long gone.

She paused. She listened. Redford’s voice. “Easy now. Don’t bite. Mm, that’s better. Good girl.”

Ears aflame, Jocelyn hurried to the break room. How could he! Must be that Marci from accounting. Was there a way to find out? Probably not without Redford knowing, and that would be horrible—a kind of sexual harassment. Jocelyn sat in the break room chair churning with anguish and indignation. Gradually she calmed down. Instead of focusing on that slut, Marci, she tried to picture whether Mr. Redford wore boxers or briefs. She wondered how big he was. Her hand crept inside her panties. She imagined the feel of him blooming. Bursting.

“Oh!” she said, startled. Redford was standing in the doorway, a puppy in his arms.

“Are there paper towels?” he said. “We’ve had a little ... accident.”

“I thought...” Jocelyn sputtered, blushing fiercely. “When you said, ‘don’t bite,’ I thought...”

Redford set the puppy down. He brought her cunt-scented, cunt-slippery fingers to his lips. “Would you like to come to my office and show me what you thought?”

Jocelyn let herself be led.

Boxers.

Big.

Beautiful.