Oh what a week it’s been for Gregory Smith. He normally had awful luck with his boss, but this took the cake. First, he got yelled at by his boss for coming in late because of an emergency he had no control over. Next, his computer crashed and he got yelled at again for not responding to an email in time. Then there was the moment he got tripped by some jackass sticking his foot out of the cubicle, causing him to spill his coffee on his boss who was not very understanding at all.
Gregory came to heavily dislike his supervisor Walter Hollandaise. When he wasn’t shouting at people for things that they couldn’t control, he was getting up to relatively sketchy business practices. He was known to use company time to golf and such, foist his own work on interns, and favor nepotism over promoting qualified candidates. He was the definition of a shitheel, and one of these days Gregory was gonna make sure he got what he deserved.
Come that Friday when he was called into Mr. Hollandaise’s office, Gregory was already in a sour mood. The man had called him in just to shout some more at him about the coffee he spilled on the goddamned suit.
“That suit cost me more than your entire monthly salary, Smith!” he bellowed, “The dry cleaning bill’s coming out of that by the way! Maybe that’ll learn you to not to splash your supervisor with hot liquids! And that’s another thing! Your blunder almost scalded all of my skin off, you dimwit!”
“Sir, as I have explained before,” Gregory calmly stated, “I was tripped by another coworker. It was an accident.”
“BAH! That excuse again!” Mr. Hollandaise scoffed, “Well maybe let’s watch where we’re going, idiot! I have the authority to fire you, you know!”
“I’m sorry sir,” Gregory soberly answered, “It won’t happen again.”
“It had better not, or else...” Mr. Hollandaise suddenly went pale and clammy. He gripped the edge of his desk tightly.
“Uhh... sir? Are you okay?”
“What... does... it... look... like... dimwit...” the supervisor struggled, “I’m... not... ... ...” he passed out suddenly, shocking Gregory a bit. The humble office worker was stunned for a minute before a slender, feminine hand reached up from the floor and pulled its extremely female owner into a standing position.
She looked like what Mr. Hollandaise would look like if he was an exaggeratedly proportioned hourglass bimbo. She had the impossibily tiny waist, disproportionately large hips, ass, and thighs, and utterly absurd torpedo tits that flopped over her thighs. Gregory could see that his shitheel boss was turning into a Dumbfuck before his very eyes.
How could anyone in his position pass up the perfect opportunity for revenge? Gregory immediately shouted out the door for someone to contact the CDC, and then promptly locked him and the Dumbfuck Hollandaise inside. It was time for the party to begin.
“Smith, what do you think you’re doing?” the Dumbfuck inquired.
“What do you think >you’re< doing,” Gregory turned on his former boss, “dressed like a sexy maid at the office? For shame, my dear.”
“What are you taking about?” the Dumbfuck asked, “I’m... not... uhh... not sure what the issue is? Am I not the maid here?” As suddenly as her mind changed she was dressed in a skimpy maid outfit that bore her midriff and showed of her voluptuous creamy legs. She even wore stiletto heels and that iconic headpiece.
“And showing up to work without a bra or panties?” Gregory added, “My, my, whatever shall I tell your family back in France?” The Dumbfuck’s undergarments vanished as he said these things.
“Oh, non Monsieur,” she said in a sexy French accent, “I ‘ave never once worn ze underpanties in my entire life! Zey simply do not suit a Mademoiselle such as me.”
“Is that so?” Gregory continued, “Well I suppose it’s no surprise since you were bred to be prepared for fucking at a moment’s notice. Besides that, I’m sure that a bra would keep you from letting your boobs flop and wobble around freely the way you seem to enjoy.”
“Oui oui, Monsieur,” the Dumbfuck agreed, jiggling her huge tits around, “A bra would simply get in ze way of my gigantic girls! Zey love ze flopping and ze wobbling as you say!” She was starting to break into a wide, vacant grin.
“They most certainly do, Miss Hollandaise,” Gregory agreed. She looked at him with confusion.
“My name is Feather Dust-Tits, Monsieur,” the Dumbfuck corrected as her long, slobbery tongue flopped out over her chest, cementing her status as a Dumbfuck.
“Of course it is, Miss Dust-Tits,” Gregory grinned, “Of course it is.”