The voice on my office speakerphone is harsh, too raspy to be shrill, but the shrill is implied, just over the edge of hysteria, berating, demanding, the voices of the guys she's haranguing not quite at the edge of quaking as they agree that their performance is unacceptable that they will have to work harder, work smarter, work longer, give up their nights and their weekends and every shred of personal dignity that they might have left after who knows how many days and weeks of this every morning for an hour.

I have her picture from her intranet employee profile up on the browser on my desk as she shouts, staring at her thin hawk-like face, her shoulder length dark auburn hair, and her dark eyes penetrating even from a picture, glad that I am not assigned to this silly disaster of a project, that she does not yell at me like that, would never think of raising her voice to me, that i am only listening to this call at the ungodly hour of 8 am for the perverse pleasure of remembering her standing against her office wall, the same wall she stood against to have that picture taken but in a different blouse and jacket, not nearly so neat and proper, the jacket pushed back and down to her elbows, her blouse undone and her small firm breasts free, the nipples hard, aching and ignored, one leg completely out of her jeans, my left arm supporting me as I lean against the wall, my right hand between her legs, thumb on her clit, fingers inside her, hand sopping wet after orgasm after orgasm listening to her whisper plaintively, pleadingly, "I am. I'm your little bitch. Fuck me. Please fuck me."

Because that's what the theatrics are all about, a plea to be fucked, and she's right, unlike me those poor guys being screamed at this morning don't listen very good.