Office Mediation

Abigail Mac sat at her desk when Sinn Sage stopped by asking for reports. Abigail kept her voice steady as Sinn leaned against the chair and told her she looked good in that blouse. The compliment landed wrong, too close, too familiar, but Abigail forced a smile. Then Sinn told her to stand up so she could see the full picture. Abigail stayed seated and said no. Sinn pouted, said Abigail was no fun, and finally walked away. The second she was gone, Abigail grabbed the phone and dialed HR. Lindsey Cruz met her in the conference room. Abigail exhaled and said Sinn had been touching her, complimenting her clothes, leaning in too close, making it hard to get work done. Lindsey listened, nodded, then suggested mediation. Abigail shook her head—no, she didn’t want to sit across from Sinn. Lindsey explained that Sinn had the right to respond to the claims. Abigail hated it, but she agreed. Lindsey made the call. In the meeting room later the air felt tight. Sinn claimed complimenting an outfit wasn’t harassment and the whole thing was bullshit. Abigail shot back that compliments and innuendos weren’t the same damn thing. Voices rose. The argument twisted, heat mixing with something heavier. When Sinn sneered that Abigail dressed like a stripper, Abigail spat that Sinn wished she were a stripper, wished she could get Abigail naked, wished she could fuck her the way she clearly wanted to. The words hit. Neither woman moved for a second. Then they lunged. Mouths crashed, teeth clicked, wet sounds filled the room. Lindsey tried to slip out of her chair but Abigail caught her wrist, breathing hard, and told her to stay—for compliance, she said, voice low. Lindsey hesitated, then leaned in instead of pulling away. The three of them tangled fast. Sinn’s mouth closed around Abigail’s nipple, tongue flicking, while Abigail’s hand pushed between Lindsey’s thighs. Abigail shoved Sinn’s head lower, made her lick until she shook, then pulled her up to kiss the taste off her mouth. They used every chair, every edge of the table. Every unspoken glance, every near-miss, finally got answered in sweat and gasps and the slick sound of skin on skin.