The Office of Mercy

"You coming?"

Victoria gave no response.

Leaning on the door frame to her office, Max rapped on her name plate with the knuckle of his middle finger. "Hel--"

Victoria lifted an agitated index finger that stopped him in his tracks. Max sighed, and waited. In the dark of her office, only her face was illuminated by the light of her computer screen and her fingers flew over the keyboard. She snatched the pencil from between her clenched teeth and scribbled some notes in an open moleskine. An emphatic punctuation, and she clapped the pencil down against her notebook and looked at Max, annoyed.

"Do we have to go to this? I'm sort of on a roll and I have like 75 unread emails, and--"

"Vic, it's our team, we have to go," Max laughed. "Plus, I refuse to suffer through it alone." He extended a squatty plastic cup filled generously with wine in her direction.

"Uuugh" Victoria groaned. Pushing against her desk, she arched her back and threw her head back exaggeratedly. "Don't make me. They won't even miss us."

"Come on," Max insisted as he stepped into her office and set the cheap wine down on her desk. "We have to make an appearance." He pulled Victoria's chair back and tilted it forward to dump her out of it.

Victoria stood reluctantly, and took a swig of the Malbec. "Alright let's do this. But I'm cutting out early. I want to get through this script before heading out today."

"Attagirl."

Max put a hand on her shoulder and led her out of her cave and into the light of the open office space. "I don't know why you keep it so dark in here anyway."

"So your Suits can't find me and I can actually get my shit done."

"Staffing and projections and timesheets ARE your shit now, hotshot. Welcome to the top."

"I don't know how you spend 50 hours a week in Excel and PowerPoint without blowing your brains out. It's admirable, really."

"Alas, we can't all be artistes" Max chided in a faux haughty tone. Vic gave a cynical laugh.

A chipper, young female voice over the intercom, "Last call for the Toast and Boast! Everyone report to McMillan--we're getting started in fiiiive minutes, with or without you."

Vic squinted her eyes up at Max with a smile. "You said without wasn't an option."

"It's not. Why do you hate these things so much anyway? It's about celebrating the work. Seems like you'd love it."

"Because it's not about celebrating the work." Vic went off as they descended an extra-wide contemporary staircase. "You celebrate the work when you make it. When you stay up until midnight for weeks making it as good as it can be only to have the client water it down because they think they know better. 'I have a keyboard and know English! Let me write the opener!" Smug fucking business majors." Energized, she practically jogged down the stairs in her stilettos, a talent that never failed to impress and arouse Max. "This whole toast and boast thing is exactly what it sounds like... it's about visibility for promotions and score keeping between accounts. It's not about the work. The work is done."

"Ok, Passionate Patti, I get it." Max laughed "Just drink your shitty wine and keep me company. You're high strung today."

Vic joined the Ram account after a wildly successful three-year run with the Bank of America team. Despite a handful of industry awards earned for the work, she was bored and burned out with the Bank and requested a move. The timing was good as she was also up for a promotion and there was a VP, Creative Director-Copy role out on the Ram team. Max was relatively new to the brand as well, one year in as VP, Group Account Supervisor. The day she joined, Victoria knocked on his floor to ceiling office window with the toe of her Doc Martens, arms holding a tub of tangled wires and devices and books.

He looked up at her. "I guess we're gonna be neighbors," she had said. Her reputation had preceded her, so Max knew she was whip smart and no-nonsense, but he wasn't prepared for how gorgeous she would be. He couldn't make words looking at her standing in the doorway, her sinewy arms straining against the weight of the box. She wore a black casual dress that clung to her slim body flatteringly and came down below her knees. Her combat boots were a tasteful contrast to her petite form. She had fair skin and rich, wavy brunette hair cut in a cheeky French bob. And eyes so deep brown they were almost black, crowned with long lashes. Thinking back to that day, Max thought he fell head over heels for her right then and there.

His relationship with Vic started off icy, her professional persona an intimidating mix of passion, intellect, and sarcasm. She had a no bullshit policy, but her dry humor amused him endlessly, and they soon found a working groove built upon light digs at one another and collaborating to navigate agency and client politics. He thought she liked him well enough, but couldn't quite tell. She always kept him guessing. Even at 6'2" and in the best shape of his life at age 38, felt like the skinny poindexter chasing the cool girl.

They reached the bottom of the stairs where the room opened up into a large flex space set up with tall boy tables. Contemporary, linear chandeliers lit the space in warm light. The hundreds of staffers at the ad agency were gathered in clumps, hands occupied with booze.

Victoria sighed, and faced Max, clinging onto his biceps and hanging her head in feigned desperation. "I'm sorry, I'll loosen up... it's just that lately I feel like a hack. I don't get to write anymore and goddamn Tom is all over me about 'talent to task' and 'optimized utilization' and other buzzword bingo that I did not get into this industry for, and--"

"Vic, you're brilliant and everyone knows it. You wouldn't have gotten the promotion otherwise. This is just growing pains of a new role." Max placed an index finger under her chin and lifted it until she looked at him. "So quit being so hard on yourself."

Her dark eyes remained deep and cold, but a little smile pinched one corner of her mouth. "I need a fucking massage and a vacation."

Falling into her eyes, Max paused to consider before he spoke. "I can help with one of those."

Vic blushed scarlet and looked away. Max regretted his borderline comment, but her smile remained. He liked that he flustered her a little. Vic was a tough cookie. She never backed down from a confrontation, and always fought tooth and nail for the quality of the work and her people. He admired her. And if he was honest, he wanted her too.

"Is that a real offer?" Vic flirted back, still looking down at the carpet as they tossed their empty plastic cups and made their way over to a drink station.

"There she is." Thought Max. "Never turns down a good comeback." He decided to let her wonder, and smiled mischievously at her. "Depends on which one."

"What's up, fools!!" Slade teleported in between them. Vic nearly jumped out of her skin. "Thought you were skipping out on us!" Slade punched Max's arm and took a drink from a nearly empty beer that couldn't have been his first. Vic's annoyance was palpable as she looked at him. Max, ever the diplomat, returned a half-hearted laugh and a "yeah be there in a sec, just getting a drink."

"Alright well hurry up, show's about to start!" Slade backpedaled away into the fray.

"The fuck is it with Motion guys? That's like a whole personality type," Vic joked.

"Always looking for something to interrupt," Max said, knowing she'd remember. One evening a few months ago, Vic stayed late fighting writers block up against a deadline. Max's office light was on, but he knew better than to interrupt her. His cell rang, and by the sound of it, it was Laurie, his wife. Max's placations and apologies turned into frustration that bordered on anger. And based on his "Laurie... Laurie?!" it seemed she hung up on him. His heavy sigh drifted over the tempered glass 3/4 wall that separated their offices.

Vic tried to mind her own business, but she was distracted thinking of Max right on the other side of the wall, bummed out. A glint in her eye, she tore a page from her notebook, balled it up and hurled it over the wall. It landed with a little crunch. Nothing from Max. She crumpled another one... reconsidered... unfolded it, scrawled a little doodle inside, recrumpled it, and threw it over with more force. Max felt something hit the back of his head. He looked down and retrieved the paper ball from the floor. Immediately he knew the culprit. He opened the paper and on it was a drawing of a low ball glass and a bottle of whiskey. "Drink?" It read in borderline psychotic handwriting. His heart rate quickened.

By the time he was in her doorway, Vic had two fingers of Bulleit in her hand, and a glass waiting for him on the coffee table in front of a tiny IKEA sofa opposite her desk. Vic almost always worked at the sofa--her desk a repository for piles upon piles of books and papers. Her heels were kicked off and her tiny feet were propped up on the coffee table. He could have taken her right there, just as she was. But then she said deadpan, "schtep into mein office, Herr Upchurch," in such a ridiculous, terrible accent that cut through all his angst and made him laugh loudly enough to elicit some shushes from many offices down. God, nobody could make him laugh like Vic could.

Max slumped onto the couch beside Vic, kicked off his shoes, and took a generous swig from his drink. "Thank you, I needed that." Vic gave him a half smile, and refreshed his glass. Max suppressed an erection watching her slim fingers squeeze the neck of the heavy bottle.

"So, why are you here so late?" Max inquired, "other than after hours therapy services?"

"Writers' block. Sometimes I don't know why I try so hard." Vic rolled her eyes and sipped her drink. Max looked over the top of his glasses in dramatic fashion and returned the Freud spoof--"Go on." Vic huffed a laugh.

"It's a truck. The research says women find trucks sexier than cars." She threw up her hands. "That's all we need to say! Just run the strategy! 'Hey guys! Buy a truck and women will think you're sexy!' We're done here! And yet I'm over here thinking I'm fucking Shakespeare or some shit... just sell the cars Vic. Tell the men what they want to hear."

Max nodded empathetically. "Are we that boring?"

"I don't know. Would you drive a truck if it made you sexier?"

"That depends. Sexier to who?"

"To women."

A pause. "Which women?" Vic began to answer but he interrupted her. "Do you find trucks sexy?"

She looked at him for a beat. Given the clip of their conversation the lengthy pause was notable. Vic leaned forward almost imperceptibly to set her drink on the table but she was so close to Max he could taste her. He was most definitely hard now. And then she said to his lips, slowly, "I guess that depends on who's driving it."

Max couldn't take it anymore, he leaned forward to kiss her--

"KNOCK KNOCK MOTHAFUCKAAAS!" Slade walked right into Vic's office like he owned the place. "That's a wrap on the social cutdowns. Vic wanna come take a loo--Oh hell yeah! Hit me with a glass of that--hold up..." Slade exited as recklessly as he had entered. In the moments before he reappeared with a SOLO cup in hand, Vic and Max shared a little glance that was part desire, part embarrassment, and resituated themselves. Vic handed Slade the bottle, and it glugged as it filled his cup.

"Glad I caught you here before you headed out, Vic. You too, Max? Down in the dirty trenches with the Creatives, huh? Your woman not nagging you to get your ass home--haha!" When Slade spoke, he was never really looking for an answer, so the pair on the sofa just let him ramble on. "Alright you ready to DO THIS?" he asked Vic as he bounced out of the room with cocaine energy. Vic reluctantly stood and followed him. She looked back at Max and mouthed "Sorry!" He gave her a tight-lipped smile that he hoped didn't reveal his disappointment, and--elbows on knees--he watched her go.

Max twisted his wedding ring around his finger and felt a pang of guilt. He kicked back the last of his rye, returned to his office, packed up his satchel, and headed toward the elevators. On the way, he passed Vic at the Motion desk, looking over Slade's shoulder at his three enormous monitors. Her delicate arms were crossed and she looked beautiful and strong and exhausted. Just her eyes moved as she glanced up at him, and then back down to the work. He wasn't sure she even saw the little one-handed wave he gave her. And by the time he was in the elevator, he knew he was absolutely fucked up for her.

Max got home around midnight. He turned the key lightly in the lock and the door squeaked as he stepped into his Cambridge duplex. He set his satchel down in the drop zone by the door and kicked off his shoes. Using his phone light for illumination, he padded quietly into the bedroom to find Laurie gone. He sighed and checked the guest room, where he found her fast asleep, snoring lightly. He gingerly closed the door, secretly grateful that he wouldn't have to answer questions should he wake her crawling into bed. Max returned to the master bedroom and flipped on the bathroom light. He stripped his clothes off and tossed them on the floor, grabbed his toothbrush and watched himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He had to give himself credit... he looked good. He had a broad chest and a trim waist. His arms were built but not ridiculously so. He kept himself healthy. He didn't know why Laurie couldn't manage to do the same. They married young and she was never slim, but she used to enjoy staying active. But then came adult life, work, stress. They had tried to have a baby through IVF, which failed, and it wrecked her emotionally and physically. She became depressed, overweight, isolated. He loved her, of course, but they weren't intimate anymore, ever. And he was lying to himself if he said he found her attractive. And for these thoughts, Max felt like an asshole. He spit his toothpaste vehemently into the sink. He regarded himself once more and wondered--despite himself--what Vic would think of his body. Is he sexy? Thinking of Vic recalled the memory of her petite frame leaning over the coffee table. Her delicious lips teasing him. His cock stirred and his hand followed the sensation. He exhaled and pictured Vic half-seated, propped against her desk as he had seen her so many times--her little ass pressed into the edge--and he exhaled deeply as he pulled on his growing erection. He flipped the light off and indulged his imagination...

There she was, leaning against her desk in her dark office, beckoning him with her doe eyes. He walked over to her, and she spread her legs for him as he fit himself between the gentle curve of her thighs. In the bathroom, Max's hand dove into his boxer briefs and took a firm hold of his thick cock slick with his excitement. He imagined her relenting as he lifted her onto the desk, pushed her cotton skirt up with his hands, and pulled her panties to the side to feel her wetness. He wanted to watch her beautiful, pixie eyes beg him to please her. He would lean her back on her bed of papers, not caring if stacks of them ended up on the floor, and kiss and lick her beautiful legs and tease her clit with his firm, hot tongue until he heard her whimper for him to make her cum. The image of Vic--strong, resilient, intelligent Vic--laying there splay legged begging for release drove him to the edge of orgasm. Max was sweating and panting as his hand flew over the nine inches of his cock. He wanted to take her so badly--he wanted to own her. He wanted to feel her shudder and her pussy convulse and her fingers in his hair as he pleased her. Only then would he pull her hips to the edge of the desk, and pressing his fingers into the backs of her white-pink thighs until her knees were by her ears, would enjoy her however he liked. He would fuck her tight pussy deeply, and watch her perfect breasts bounce with every thrust. She would cry out and he would silence her with two fingers inside her gorgeous mouth, wishing he had two cocks with which to fuck her every hole.

In the dark of his quiet bathroom, Max fucked his hand greedily, imagining Vic's hot, wet pussy. Each thrust and grunt echoed around him, and he came violently, far louder than he intended. His knees buckled and his cum exploded over the bathroom vanity and floor, and the waves of convulsion rolled over him like waves.

As he cleaned up, he couldn't have known that at that very moment, Vic's face was pressed into her pillow in her Brighton apartment. One hand gripped the edge of the bed with white knuckles, while the other alternated between flying over her clit and plunging into her pussy, reaching desperately for her G-spot. Ass in the air, knees apart, drenched in sweat, she climaxed powerfully and screamed "OHMYGODMAX!!!!" into her bedsheets so as not to wake the neighbors.