Lisa Learns Her Place

Author's Note: This story contains strong sexist and racist language and is definitely NOT for everyone. I co-wrote this with a friend who knew this was my fantasy so if you find raceplay offensive, please do not read any further.

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Day 1

Walking into the office, I see that you're already as your desk, as usual, hunched down over some paper, your computer screen already alive with emails and spreadsheets and some word document that you've probably been working on all night. I smirk, knowing you've probably been busting your ass for weeks to finish the report that's due today, that we're going to present together to the CFO and the senior execs, and that I've basically done shit on the project, letting you slave away, spending nights and weekends to do the work of two people.

"And why not?" I think to myself.

Why the fuck should I do the work when there's an Asian slave to do it for me?

It's not like they hired you for anything but your work ethic. Shit, you're the only woman in the firm, and the only minority for that matter. Everybody else is a white man, most your typical frat guys, guys who partied through college, drank and fucked and smoked their way through four or five years of school, coasting by on their parents' money and a minimum of effort. I know, because I've done the exact same thing. I probably spent an average of about two hours a week on actual schoolwork, if that, and most of that was busy work for the cake classes I took. The rest of the time was spent "dating" one random slut after another, a few of them who were so dumb that they actually thought I would be interested in being their boyfriend or some shit. Instead I'd just fuck them for a night or two, maybe two weeks in a row if they were particularly hot or into a threesome or something kinky like that, and then they'd get tossed aside. I don't think I went more than two days in a row without drinking the entire four years I was in school. I graduated with a degree in finance management and a 2.9 GPA, but my frat brother's uncle runs a big firm in New York, so I got a job offer two weeks after graduation and started working a week after my three-week vacation to Thailand.

You'd actually started at the firm almost a year before I did, I remember seeing you when I first started, the only woman in the office, but the Junior VP who showed me around on my first day didn't even introduce you. And now, seven years later, you're in the exact same spot you were then, still hunched over your desk working your little ass off, and I've been promoted three times and have an office with a big desk and a bigger window. And today we're going to hand in the report you've been slaving over and I'm going to take all the credit.

I stop into my office for a moment, wash down a couple Advil with a bottled water from the fridge in my office, and grab the phone. "Lisa, print out twenty-five copies of the report, get 'em bound and bring them in here for the 10:30." I hang up before you can say a word.

A half-minute later you appear at the door to my office, standing just outside the doorway, unwilling to enter without permission. The last time you came in without asking, I yelled at you for two minutes about respect. You learned your lesson, apparently. I let you stand there for a moment, pretending not to notice, and then finally look up, staring at you for a second. You're wearing something that looks like the same outfit you wear every day, some kind of plain skirt, knee length, with an equally plain blouse. Your jet black hair is cut short. Today the skirt is black and the blouse is white. Whatever. I nod and you come in quietly, trying not to make a sound.

You silently walk to the side of my big desk and lay a pile of bound folders down. I can see your tiny arms are about to fall off from the weight, and you gasp as you finally set them down. That minute I made you wait in the doorway must have been torture. I smile and grab one off the top, flipping it open. "Shit, Lisa. The font is supposed to be 14 point Verdana. You Chinese are supposed to be good at this shit."

"I... I'm Vietnamese," you say softly, head down.

"The fuck do I care where your boat came from? Did I ask you for a geography lesson? Next time, how about you worry less about your ancestry and more about following simple fucking directions."

"Sorry," you whisper, almost under your breath. I can see your face is flushed, your eyes almost look like you're about to cry. I feel my dick hardening in my suit pants.

"Don't apologize. Just do it right the first time, then you won't have to apologize when you screw up. Again. It's no wonder you've never been promoted, fuck." Your shoulders slump in the white blouse that's clinging to your slim body, and I dig deeper. "You know, sometimes I wonder why we don't have more women or Asians around, and then I remember what happened when we hired you -- we got a fuck-up of a cunt who can't do a single thing right."

Your head darts up, your eyes flashing for a moment, shocked at my language, your lips parted slightly. I see your round little white teeth behind your thin lips, the pink tip of your tongue as you think about saying something, and I cut you off before you can even begin. "If you were even halfway decent at your job, we'd hire twenty of you little monkeys and save a ton of money, 'cause you work for nothing. Why do you think you haven't gotten a bonus in six years? Nobody cares if you quit, we'll just find some other little yellow twat to take your place."

You lips is quivering and your eyes are glistening, you look beyond speaking now, too furious to say anything, and I smile and grab the folders off the desk and move to the door. "Let's go. When we get in there, keep your stupid mouth shut and try not to fuck this up any more than you already have."

I walk quickly to the conference room, leaving you and your short legs far behind. By the time you get there, I've already closed the door behind me and greeted the assembled senior execs, and you're forced to open the door once again and find a seat in a corner. There aren't any left around the big wooden table. No one bothers to greet you. I get the meeting started, lay out the report that you've been slaving over. Any question that's asked is directed at me, and when you try to speak up at one point, the CFO shoots you a nasty look and interrupts you. You try again about ten minutes later, and this time the CFO, a white guy in his 60s named Van Martin III, gives you an even sterner look and actually tells you that it's rude to talk without being first addressed. A couple of the other execs snicker out loud. Van, or Trip, as he's called by everyone but you (you still call him Mr. Martin), laughs as well at their reaction. It's almost as if he can't believe everyone else laughed at his abuse of you, and finds it hilarious.

I continue with the presentation; never referencing you except to blame a typo of mine on you. Near the end, I stumble over some numbers, mixing them up as I speak, even though they're correct on the presentation, and Trent Sanders from Sales laughs and calls out, "Sounds like Lisa screwed up the numbers again!" Everyone laughs. Nobody cares that I misspoke. You're a running joke. Blame it on the office Asian cunt. I look over and see you slumped in your chair in the corner, your normally light brown face pale and flushed, like you're going to be sick. I smile and finish up the presentation.

When I'm done, the CFO and the other execs congratulate me, shaking my hand, slapping my back. Jim Marold from Accounts reminds me that he and I are playing golf this weekend, and Drew Parker invites me to head out with him and the guys for drinks after work. No one says a word to you, except Clark Berenger, the new guy who came over from MM&P a month ago. He asks you to grab him a bottled water. You leave and come back with the water a minute later and the conference room is empty.

Later that day, after everyone's gone home and we're the only two people left in the building, I'm back in my office packing up when you come to the door. You stop at the doorway and knock, and I can see that you're about to explode. I make you wait the normal half minute before acknowledging you're there, and of course you stand there and take it. And then I decide to add an extra twenty or so seconds, just for fun. You still stand there and take it. Finally I look up and act shocked that you're standing there, like I had no idea, and beckon you in with a nod of my head. I don't offer you a chair.

You stand in front of my desk, between the two chairs, and I can see the fury and embarrassment in your eyes, your little body is actually shaking, your fists are clenched so tight that your knuckles are white. I sigh. "What do you want, Lisa?"

"Brad, y-you... you have no right to treat me like this." Your normally high-pitched voice is even higher, cracking with your anger. It's hilarious. "The way you speak to me, the things you said to me, it's really inappropriate!" I try to keep from laughing in your face. "I work harder than anyone around here, and you just took credit for all my work. You know very well I did that entire report." I can hear your voice trembling. You've obviously been planning this little speech the whole time we were in the meeting. High comedy.

"The things you said to me were really hurtful, and your behavior towards me is really disrespectful and rude and m-mean." Your voice cracks again on the last word, and I can tell you're about to cry. It's great stuff.

I wait a moment, not speaking, just staring at you, watching the tears well up in your big dark eyes, seeing your lips quivering uncontrollably.

Finally, I speak. "Are you finished?" You can only nod and I can tell that if you opened your mouth you'd burst into tears. So fucking pathetic.

"Here's the thing, Lisa. I don't give two shits whether you're offended or pissed or feel disrespected. That's not my job, to care about your feelings. Start doing your fucking job and maybe you won't get offended so fucking easily when I call you a mean name. Fuck, you'd think no one had ever called you a name before!" I stand up as I speak and walk slowly around my desk, back around behind you, closing the door to my office. "I honestly have a hard time believing that you've gone through your entire life without being called a 'gook.' " From behind you, I can see your body stiffen beneath the thin white fabric. "Or that no one's ever called you a 'slant'." Your head drops just a bit. I move slowly back around to where I can see your face. There are tears streaming silently down your cheeks. "Or that no one's ever called you a 'chink' or a 'rice-eater'."

Your small shoulders are visibly shaking now as you sob, your chin resting on your chest. "I find that hard to believe, Lisa, that no one has ever said those things to you. You're a big girl, Lisa, you should be able to take that kind of thing without it bothering you."

I hear you mutter something through your sobs, but I can't hear you, and I move closer, leaning in, "What was that? Did you say something, gook?"

You manage to whimper, "S-s-stop!"

I laugh. "What, you think any of those guys are thinking anything different? You think Parker or Sanders thinks you're any different than a peasant girl in a rice paddy with a little straw hat? You think Marold or Trip care if you're a Jap or a chink or a fucking gook?"

You're sobbing uncontrollably now, tears streaming down your face, your tiny body wracked, shuddering, your shoulders heaving. I move to stand directly behind you, feeling the heat from your trembling body through the thin material of your blouse, radiating off your soft brown skin. I smell the gentle scent of whatever shampoo you've been using, something flowery, young, fresh, and I bask in your innocence for a moment, savoring it while it lasts. Your skin is clear and healthy, and as I examine you from behind, I think that were things different, I could actually find myself attracted to you beyond what I'm intending.

But the thought quickly passes, and almost makes me laugh aloud. The idea of actually dating an Asian bitch like you, of bringing you home to family holidays or to school reunions, showing up with some little yellow girl, is laughable. My family would wonder what the hell was wrong with me, my friends would mock me unceasingly. It would be akin to dating the maid or something, or marrying the nanny. People like you can be used as help around the house or to take care of the kids, and you can certainly be fucked, but to go beyond that is ludicrous. And it's high time you understood your place in this world... in my world.

You're still sobbing, quieter now, the tears seemingly drained from your slim body, your head hanging on your chest, hands wiping at your eyes. I step up against you from behind, softly, moving my hands around your small hips, gently pulling your body back against mine, holding you, my lips moving to your ear, whispering softly to you, "It's okay. Lisa, I want you to know that even if it doesn't seem like it, I'm trying to help you." I feel your body tense in my arms, stiffen, shuddering noticeably, and I can feel the fear radiating off you, the uncertainty, and I plunge ahead.

"I know it's not easy to understand, but everything I've done for you has been for your own good." My lips brush gently against your earlobe, and you don't recoil. "I'm doing this to help you. You've been wasting your life. I know it, and I think you know it too." My hands move slowly up over your sides, feeling your slim, warm body through your blouse, your tight stomach, the soft curves of your almost childlike body. "How much time have you spent in your life, working your ass off, struggling to do the best you can, fighting to do better than the men like me, staying up all night studying, writing, reading, doing whatever it takes to be the best, to overcome all the disadvantages nature has handed you?" I kiss your ear gently, my lips tracing slowly down your neck, pulling your body against mine, feeling your small ass nestling comfortably in the curve of my hips, letting you feel me pressing against you.

"You've wasted so much time, so much of your life, trying to deny who you are, trying to be something -- someone -- that you're not, that you can never be. You've been slaving away your whole life, trying to be me, trying to be us. But you can't be. You never will be. All I'm doing is trying to keep you from wasting any more of your life striving for a goal which you can never, ever reach."

My hands move up your body, finding the buttons of your blouse, gently twisting them open, casually, my lips pressing gently against the soft skin of your neck. I can hear you've stopped sobbing, and you seem to be just standing, unsure, scared and hesitant, but I can hear that your breathing has quickened, your body is noticeably warmer, a flush is creeping up the light brown skin of your neck, and you seem to almost be pressing your small soft bottom back against my hips, almost by instinct.

"Those names I called you earlier? Those things I said to you and those horrible words I used? I'm just trying to prepare you for what's to come. Those words are words you should embrace, names you should welcome. That's who you are, who you were meant to be."

Three buttons are open on your blouse now, and my hands slip inside, feeling the almost hot skin on your flat stomach, and I hear you gasp softly as my bare skin touches yours. My fingers move slowly up your body, up to find the thin fabric of your bra, moving up inside it, finding your small breasts and squeezing gently, feeling your tiny nipples harden under my touch. The faintest of moans escapes your lips, and your knees seem to buckle just a bit, your delicious bottom sinking back into my hips. "You'll be so much happier, so much more satisfied and comfortable when you embrace who you are instead of trying to deny it."

With my other hand, I've quietly unzipped my suit pants, my lips still moving gently over your skin, down over your left shoulder, caressing your skin with the very tip of my tongue, tasting the lightly-scented soap you use, tasting the faint hint of sweat on your body, knowing that you've probably been frightened and embarrassed all morning, knowing that throughout the entire presentation you were probably perspiring from shame and anger, amazed that you've managed to control yourself this long. You won't need to control yourself much longer.

"I'm going to set you free, Lisa. I'm going to allow you to stop hiding behind this façade, stop acting, stop playing this part. This isn't who you are. This..." I grasp at the thin material of your blouse and gently pull it off your right shoulder, opening it. "...is not who you are." You shiver as your bare shoulder is exposed to the air conditioned office. My hand has reached inside my suit pants, worked inside my boxer briefs and pulled my throbbing cock from within my clothes. It hangs now, just behind your bottom, heavy and hard and hot in my hand. I breathe softly in your ear, caressing your small round breasts through your bra, feeling your little body responding to my touch, moaning softly as my fingers move over your tiny hard nipples.

I move my hand from my cock, letting it gently fall a bit to rest between my legs, half-hard and rubbery and thick, move my hand up the small of your back, feeling your warm skin under my fingertips, the gently curve of your body, up to find the clasp of your bra and I undo it with a twist of my fingers, my other hand catching and pulling it slowly down off your arms, off your body, and as I step back a bit your blouse comes with it. You're standing in front of me, your back to me, naked from the waist up, your smooth brown skin rippled with small goose bumps in the cold office air, your short-cut hair just above the nape of your neck, your arms instinctively crossing over your chest, not looking back at me. You're shuddering slightly. Your blouse and bra fall to the floor, soundlessly. The only noise is the soft hum of the air conditioning, the low buzz of white noise from the rest of the office through the closed door, and my breathing growing steadily heavier as I examine you critically from behind.

I let my gaze move over the gently curve of your lower back as it slopes slightly inward just above the waist of your black skirt, the small dimples cute and feminine, almost no body fat on your hips, your bottom petite and tight under your clothes, your shoulder blades and the small bumps of your spine barely visible under your skin.

I sense that you're waiting, indecisive, unsure and confused, and so I move back against you, feeling your naked back against my chest, and then I slowly turn you around to face me, your slim body tight against mine, your arms still over your chest, hiding your small brown nipples. I see the fear and uncertainty in your eyes. You feel my cock pressing against your hips, you must react but you don't. You're too lost, your mind obviously racing to comprehend all that I've said, all that's happening, struggling to rationalize what I've told you with what you think you know, trying to make sense of the contradiction between what you think is right and what your body is telling you. You know that what I'm telling you sounds wrong, flies in the face of everything you've been raised to believe, but at the same time you can't ignore what your body is telling you, the signals that it's giving you that translate into thoughts, thoughts that surge into your mind, telling you I'm right, that your body wants to believe me so your mind does too.

You suddenly lean forward, perhaps trying to kiss me, thinking that's what I want, thinking that makes sense given my actions, that the correct next step is to kiss me, but I just smirk as your eyes close and your lips purse, and instead of leaning in to meet your lips, I simply put my hand on your small shoulder and gently push downwards. To me it's gentle, anyway. To you, your tiny body, it feels as if I've shoved you as hard as I can, and you can't help but fall to your knees on the thick carpet of my office. You suddenly realize that my cock is hanging out of my pants, directly in front of your face, engorged and thick and veiny and white, and you look up at me, more confused than ever. "But, I thought..."