My boss is a cunt

“Well Mademoiselle, shall we, erm…isolate ourselves for a while to discuss the implications of the judgement for our client?”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Come in[to] my study.” (the one with a view overlooking the garden and the antique 19th century chaise longue in the corner by the French doors – in desperate need of reupholstering. The fact that he has let it get into that sacrilegious state is more shameful than the proposition itself.)

Now, before you get all excited with allegations of sexual harassment and how I just shouldn’t stand for that kind of behaviour, know this: I couldn’t care less. It’s only harassment when it bothers you. I’m not afraid to cut him down, and I think that the fact that I don’t get all uptight if caresses my white mink scarf nestling warmly on my breasts, or he mentions that I’ve ‘lost weight off my buttocks, but could lose a bit more’ has, if anything served to advance my legal career. And which man at his age wouldn’t dream of screwing a pretty trainee thirty years younger than him? But then, this man’s level of sleaziness knows no bounds: he flirts with anything in a skirt despite his wife working on the second floor in the same building as the company accountant and her sister being his personal assistant. Yet he asks me to make his restaurant reservations for all too many rich sauces and fancy cream patisseries chez Valentin charged to the company account despite all being for his mistress Carmen.

When he spends hours in the toilet, any other twat would think that it was because he was wanking off to them. I know it’s because he’s constipated.