She followed the dress code. A full-blown corpo costume: blazer, blouse, brittle blink. Except for the socks. They were her personal protest, a power fist stitched in red, right below the ankle. Her true outlook on capitalist work culture written on the soles of the fabric, for no one to see. "Procrastinators of the world unite tomorrow".
The meeting room was already filled with the scent of lemon-sanitized ambition and lukewarm coffee. Her eyes wandered away from a laminated poster in boredom: “Stronger together: One Team, One Dream.” A slogan weaker than an Achilles’ heel.
She didn’t believe in dreams. Not corporate ones.
The regional manager entered with the stiffness of a spreadsheet come to life. His shirt was way too tight. Each button barely holding on, like it was about to fail unionizing the fabric with his paunch. His eyes dropped; like they dropped the ball on that slogan. And of course, he smirked at the word ball, like it somehow reaffirmed his masculinity through office small talk osmosis.
“Thanks for showing up,” he said. “We value… commitment.”
Her mind zoned out. She crossed her legs. Sock edge visible. The rebellious fist lurking below the seam, waiting for a moment to strike. He considers himself untouchable. Well he certainly is, just not in the way he thinks. His eyes still locked onto her boobs like an aimbot. Video games are the only chance, he’ll ever get to cheat. That guy is terminally single. She broke his crappy aimlock by planting her sneakers on the desk as if she was playing T-side in CS. T like tits. T like terrorism you absolute nutjob.
Suddenly the power shifted like a slide in Powerpoint.
She imagined a world beyond this fluorescent cage. One not run by men who worship quarterly earnings like false gods. One where softness was sovereign, where law is enforced without force. A post-capitalist society where the sacred feminine didn’t ask for justice: it became it. Through subtlety. Through fabric. Through symbols stitched, where no man dares to look with dignity. Through fashionist Avantgarde.
In that world, he wouldn't be regional manager. He’d be lucky to serve mineral water in silence.
A warmth sparkled in her thigh: sovereign, feminine, hers alone.
He poured water. She held the spark, a mistress of fire.
Seraphine glanced back at him. Still smirking. Still locked in his cartoonishly outdated hierarchy of gaze and greed. This idiot believes ignition point is a synonym for burnout. You wouldn't survive five minutes in a world where the feminine reigns.
The smirk across the table blurred into background noise.
His shirt, his slogans, his gaze: all static in a world of noise.
What rose inside her wasn’t anger, it wasn’t lust. It was something way more powerful: the slow, secret glow that came when she remembered she didn’t belong here.
The warmth in her thigh wasn’t an invitation. It was a manifesto.
That spark belonged to her alone.
It was the same spark that had gotten her through years of fluorescent cages, of men mistaking eye contact for ownership.
The same spark that had whispered not yet when she wanted to give up, and not yours when they reached for her.
And now it shimmered against her skin like a small smoldering fire, burning under the surface of corporate rot.
She let her sneakers stay on the desk. Her sock seam revealed itself.
The knuckle of a tiny, stitched fist poking out, red like period blood.
A pulse of another world woven into cotton planted on composite wood.
Her breath slowed; pupils widened like aperture.
She sensed the outline of another world; one where the feminine reigned, rhythmically like a pulse.
He vanished into static, a sudden discharge short-circuiting his existence. The projector whirred to life, coughing out slides like a collapsing stock broker, desperate to cut his losses. A machine grasping for control in a world, he mistook for his own.
“Quarterly Growth Opportunities,” the title announced: a micropenis complex disguised as strategy.I hate the way you drown in it.
Her daydream turned into wet reality. The projector gurgled, squirted, died. She didn’t flinch, but something above her did. A hiss, a click, a pressure drop in the ceiling. Warmth spread across her thigh, not from within, from the pipes. A wet kiss against her hairline. No hand, no tongue, no phallus, just water drowning all half arsed corporate ambitions.
The manager stiffened, soaked and screaming. A man trying to cling to power while his pants clung to him. „Let’s all remain calm!“ he yelled, the irony of losing composure while demanding it, evaded him.
The door busts open. Four feminine figures fly into the office – asphyxiators in their fists. The manager turned. His jaw dropped exposing a gaping hole of fractured masculinity. They pulled the pins and made him swallow.