Office B*tch 2 - The Reckoning

Alex's hands hovered at the open edges of his shirt, the air in the room thick with expectation. He could feel the weight of their stares—five pairs of eyes, unblinking, appraising. Elliot's command still echoed in his mind, but no one moved to enforce it further. They didn't need to. The silence was its own pressure.

"Stand up," Elliot said, his tone measured, almost bored. He shifted in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, the picture of relaxed authority. The others followed suit, settling deeper into their seats, arms draped over the backs of neighboring chairs or resting casually on thighs. No one approached. No one touched. They simply watched, like an audience at a private performance.

Alex rose slowly, his legs unsteady beneath him. The low chair had made him feel small; standing now only amplified the exposure. His shirt hung loose, framing the taut lines of his torso—the product of early mornings at the gym, protein shakes, and a vanity he'd once worn like armor.

"Take it off," Julian added quietly. "The shirt. Slowly. We have time."

Alex's fingers gripped the fabric. He shrugged out of one sleeve, then the other, letting the shirt slide down his arms and pool at his feet. The cool office air raised goosebumps across his chest, his nipples hardening under the scrutiny. He fought the urge to cover himself, knowing it would only invite more commentary.

Theo tilted his head, smirking. "Keep going. Pants next."

Alex's breath hitched. His hands moved to his belt buckle, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. He unfastened it, then the button, the zipper rasping down. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pushed, the tailored trousers dropping to his ankles. He stepped out of them awkwardly, kicking off his loafers in the process, socks still on for a moment of absurd modesty.

Now he stood in just his black boxer briefs—fitted, clinging to the curves of his thighs and the subtle bulge at the front. The material was thin, high-end, but it did little to hide the way his body reacted to the humiliation: a faint tremor in his muscles, the flush creeping down his neck.

Marcus leaned back further, his grin widening. "Socks too. We want the full picture."

Alex bent slightly, peeling them off one by one, balancing on each foot. When he straightened, he was nearly bare, the office lights casting shadows over the definition of his abs, the V-lines dipping into his underwear.

"Good," Elliot said. "Now, recount your mistakes. All of them. Start from the beginning. And don't stop until we tell you."

Alex's mouth opened, closed. He stood there, exposed, the bosses reclined and impassive, their postures screaming control. He began to speak, voice low and halting at first.

"The first one was three weeks ago. I... I misentered the trade volume on the Henderson account. It was supposed to be 500k shares, but I put 50k. Cost us the spread on the difference."

As he spoke, he felt their eyes roaming—over his chest, his legs, the way his underwear stretched when he shifted his weight. He continued, detailing the next error: the forgotten compliance check on a wire transfer, the decimal slip that had nearly tanked a client's portfolio.

Caleb's gaze lingered on Alex's thighs, but he said nothing. They all said nothing, just listened, letting the words spill out while Alex stood vulnerable, his skin prickling under the invisible touch of their attention.

"Last week," Alex went on, his voice steadier now but laced with shame, "I skimmed 0.01% off the algo trades. Thought it was invisible. Put it in my personal account. I was going to pay it back, I swear—"

Julian raised a brow, but still, no interruption. Alex kept talking, recounting every slip, every theft, his body on display like evidence. The humiliation burned, hot and undeniable, stirring something deeper he didn't want to name.

When he finally trailed off, listing the final mistake—the one that had brought him here—Elliot nodded once.

"Not bad," he said. "But we're not done."