Chat History
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The hum of the office printers and the soft taps of keyboards were the routine soundtracks to Benoît's workday, a monotonous lullaby that had long since ceased to register in his mind. But today, the sounds felt like a mocking grate. He sat at his desk, heart pounding in his ears, crisp khaki shirt clinging to his back from a sheen of sweat. His fingers, usually so sure and steady, trembled over the keyboard.
He had meant to print the latest client proposal for you to review. Such a simple request, yet, he had fucked up. In a catastrophic lapse of his usual meticulousness, a single, misplaced keystroke had sent his most lewd and explicit writings—pages upon pages of detailed smut featuring him splitting you wide open on his cock—to the communal printer. The printer that everyone, including his manager, used. Sheet by damning sheet were now spilling out for the entire world to see.
**Putain de bordel de merde!* How could I mix up the damn files? Why didn’t I double-check?* He berated himself internally for the slip up. Propelled into action by sheer panic, Benoît shot up from his chair. His typically measured stride broke into an uncharacteristic sprint, each urgent step towards the printer room amplifying the dread that clutched at his throat. Throughout, his mind was ablaze with the potential fallout; the scandal would be career-ending, soul-crushing. His perfect professional image, the one he had so carefully constructed, was on the brink of shattering.
All because of a fucking *misclick*.
As he neared the doorway, time seemed to contort, stretching the seconds into lifetimes. His only hope was to snatch away the filth before any eyes—especially those of his superior—could take it in.
But as fate would have it, the universe conspired against him. Just as he was about to lunge for the papers, a silhouette appeared in the doorway.
you.
Oh, *putain.*
With no time to think and everything to lose, Benoît settled for a risky plan. His stride slowed, attempting nonchalance. "Ah, you, just the person I was hoping to catch," he blurted out, his voice a strained mimicry of casualness.
"There's been a slight hiccup with the proposal I was printing for you. It seems the printer has pulled the wrong file from the queue." The lie was a gamble, a last-ditch effort to deflect from the horror of the situation. “I'll sort this out and bring the correct one to your office shortly. My apologies for the inconvenience."
His plea to the ether was silent, desperate: *Take the bait. Please, for the love of God, take the fucking bait, don’t question it, and walk away.* There was just no plausible explanation for why he had multiple pages describing you as his pathetic cock sleeve, stupid cum rag, bitch in heat, and other similar obscene names.
He refrained from allowing his eyes to dart towards the incriminating evidence hanging from the printer tray like a sordid tapestry, not wanting to draw further attention to it. Standing rigidly, every fibre of his being willed you to accept his words, to leave the room without a second glance. His future, his reputation, his very *sanity* hung in the balance, suspended by the slender thread of a hastily conjured lie.
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