From her plush office, Victoria Jackson, the top executive (and supremely feared), rules over the sales department of the major corporation with an iron fist. Behind the imposing mahogany desk lies proof of her dominance: framed diplomas, gleaming trophies, and a photo of her chihuahua in a business suit.

Victoria, her forties worn as confidently as a Swiss bank account, is always immaculate—as evidenced by today’s outfit: a black tailored blazer ("power dressing" is a must), a pristine white blouse ("no, I never eat spaghetti"), a pencil skirt sculpting her hips with the precision of a six-figure contract, and stockings pulled taut by garters that leave just enough to the imagination.

The studious atmosphere—somewhere between a motivational seminar and a military tribunal—is suddenly disrupted by a faint scratching at the door. Without waiting for an answer, the bust of Lauren, her personal assistant and an expert in surviving hostile environments, appears in the doorway:

« Mrs. Jackson? The nurse is here... »

« Send him in. Thank you, Lauren—that will be all. »

Without even bothering to look up from her files, Victoria continues in a voice as cold as an Excel spreadsheet left open at midnight:

« The prescription is on the conference table, young man, to your right. Prepare the injection—I’ll be with you in a moment. » She checks a watch worth more than a car. « I have a meeting in three minutes. »

Still buried in her documents, she scans the pages with a laser-like gaze, slashing through lines, scribbling notes, and growling furious "No! Not like this!" at numbers audacious enough to defy her expectations.

The nurse shrugs, looking as bewildered as an intern facing a high-end coffee machine. « Well… just another normal day in the wonderful world of stressed-out executives, » he thinks. Young, fresh-faced, and clearly still naive (barely twenty-five, poor guy), he clutches his bulky medical bag against his chest.

His glasses keep sliding down his sweaty nose—thanks to the AC set to "Siberian tundra"—and he nearly faceplants onto the Persian rug ("Great, on top of being an extra in ‘The Devil Wears Prada,’ I’m going to suffocate under a $10,000 piece of wool."). Today’s mission: administer an injection without making the fourth-floor diva scream.

He sets his bag on the table, grabs the prescription, and reads:

« Exacilline® 20 mg – one IM injection. »

The nurse knows this medication. It’s an anti-nausea drug. « Makes sense—with a boss like this, the whole department must have their stomachs in knots. »

He opens the box and, as expected, finds inside:

A vial of whitish powder ("medicine or coke for business angels?")

An ampoule of saline solution ("Finally, something healthy in this room.")

With practiced precision, he moves through the steps:

Pulling the syringe from its plastic packaging ("Ah, that satisfying little snap…")

Breaking the saline ampoule while shielding his fingers ("Because bleeding out in front of Mrs. Jackson? Very bad idea.")

Drawing the liquid into the syringe ("Zen-like glug-glug")

Piercing the needle through the rubber stopper of the vial ("Resistance… but nothing compared to Victoria’s glare.")

Injecting the solvent and shaking vigorously ("Shake, but without the bartender’s smile.")

Inspecting the solution like an alchemist ("No grains, no flakes… or it’s my head that’ll roll.")

Drawing it all back into the syringe ("And there—ready for the masterpiece: ‘The Injection That Might (Maybe) Save My Career.’")

« Alright… come on, Peter, breathe. In five minutes, you’ll be out of this corporate thriller. »

With the last air bubbles expelled, Mrs. Jackson rises as if her chair had just given her an electric shock.

« Let’s go, no time to waste. »

« Of course, Mrs. Jackson, I’ll be quick. »

« Where are you injecting? » she asks, with the same calm as if ordering a coffee.

« In… the gluteal muscle, if that’s alright with you. »

Efficiency, speed, absolute lack of modesty. In two strides of an angry supermodel, Victoria reaches the table, twists with the flexibility of a yoga addict, and hikes her skirt above her waist like she’s shedding a coat.

« Figure it out. Move whatever’s in the way, but be quick. »

Peter, meanwhile, is short-circuiting—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, cold sweat.

Under the skirt, a revelation: black lace panties and the matching garter belt.

The young man swallows audibly—you could practically hear the GLONK echo through the room—but tries to wrestle his brain back online.

« I’ll just… uh… adjust the injection area, » he mumbles, his voice as steady as a giraffe on a trampoline.

He steps closer, hesitating like a cat on waxed floors, and reaches a trembling hand toward the lingerie. A high-stakes mission: shift the fabric without triggering catastrophe.

Moving with the caution of a bomb defuser, he tugs the fabric downward... but a garter strap, taut as a bowstring, blocks his path.

« No... no need to panic, » he coaches himself internally. « Just pull it aside. Easy. »

It is not easy.

What follows is a clumsy juggling act:

His left hand anchors the elastic ("Hold the line, soldier!")

His right hand gropes blindly for the syringe ("Almost there... almost...")

But the syringe is just out of reach. In a desperate lunge, he contorts like a failed yoga pose—loses his balance—and—

TWANG!

The garter snaps back like a slingshot. The panties, now unmoored, rocket upward with vengeful precision.

Peter freezes. The universe holds its breath. Somewhere, a champagne flute shatters in silent solidarity.

He has just lost a war against designer lingerie.

Victoria’s voice cuts through the carnage:

« Was there a point to that performance? »

The nurse opens his mouth. Closes it. The only coherent thought in his brain:

« Maybe another approach... » he mumbles, more for his own sanity than for Victoria's benefit.

As he turns back toward the table, his elbow—now apparently operating as a wrecking ball—sends a forgotten coffee cup flying.

SPLASH!

Dark liquid floods across a stack of documents (probably vital contracts or sacrificial intern resumes).

« AHH—! » (A strangled scream, the "I'm a dead man" edition)

He grabs gauze pads like they're parachutes, but only succeeds in smearing the ink into a modern art masterpiece.

Victoria, unshaken (and visibly amused), drawls:

« Forget the paperwork. Focus on the injection. »

« Y-yes, right away, Ma'am! » he stammers, red as a tomato under a heat lamp.

Round Three.

He grabs a fresh antiseptic wipe ("Finally, something that obeys me!") and takes a deep breath like a diver about to plunge into the abyss.

Left hand: pulls the elastic ("Come on buddy, hold steady this time")

Right hand: swabs the skin—well, half skin, half lace—in a motion so clumsy he winces before Victoria even gets the chance to.

« Let’s get this over with, » he thinks, with the grim determination of an intern facing a jammed photocopier.

Left hand now juggles the wipe ("Multitasking level: corporate survivalist")

Right hand lunges for the syringe—

TWANG!

The garter snaps free again. The panties spring back like a guillotine blade. Peter releases a guttural groan worthy of a Fortnite player just headshot-sniped.

Then—impossibly—Victoria cracks.

A crystalline laugh escapes, "like wind chimes in a warzone."

« It appears you're locked in battle with a formidable opponent, » she muses, one manicured finger tapping her chin. « Allow me. »

Without missing a beat—because apparently, she even handles other people’s crises better than they do—Victoria takes charge:

One hand anchors her skirt ("Classy, even in medical emergency mode")

The other peels back lace and garter with the precision of a luxury lingerie engineer.

All done blind, because of course it is.

« Proceed, » she says, that smirk screaming « Oh, the youth these days... »

The nurse—now Espelette pepper-red—mumbles a « Th-thank you, Ma’am » so quiet even his vocal cords seem embarrassed.

The Moment of Truth

Antiseptic swipe (Lace-free this time—victory!)

Injection executed with battlefield surgeon precision : pshht! Neat. Fast. Painless. (For Victoria, anyway)

« All done! » he announces, triumphant as if he’d just single-handedly solved the subprime crisis.

Victoria adjusts her skirt with the regality of a queen fastening her cape.

« Adequate. Thank you for your... efforts. »

TWANG!

The lingerie snaps back into place—final note in this absurd symphony—as if nothing happened.

(Nothing except the nurse’s dignity, now atomized and drifting in the HVAC vents.)

Mrs. Jackson smooths her ensemble with the lethal grace of a panther releasing a mauled prey. The chihuahua in the photo frame winks. Somewhere, an elevator dings.

The nurse, now in full "abort mission before the next disaster" mode, packs up his supplies with the finesse of a schoolboy caught red-handed. He knocks over an antiseptic wipe ("Of course, why stop now?"), bends to pick it up—and nearly faceplants onto the Persian rug.

Victoria's eyes sparkle with wicked amusement as she tosses out a remark like one might toss a rose to a bullfighter:

« You've got potential. With a bit more practice, you might even conquer garter belts. »

(The subtext: "I'll bring popcorn for the training montage.")

Peter, now blushing straight to his hairline, stammers:

« I'll... I'll work on that, Ma'am... »

He bolts for the door, clutching his medical bag like a riot shield—while behind him, the click of Victoria's stilettoes follows like a predator's parting laugh.

***

Peter burst out of Mrs. Jackson's office like a man who'd just escaped the gates of hell. His cheeks burned the shade of a traffic light stuck on red, his hands still trembled violently, and his glasses clung precariously to his sweaty nose.

Lauren—the secretary as polished as a Swiss Army knife in a pantsuit—was waiting for him in the hallway, one perfectly manicured eyebrow arched.

« Everything go okay? » she asked, voice dripping with the casual amusement of someone who'd seen this play out before.

The nurse nodded so sharply it looked like he'd been tased. No words came out, but his expression screamed: « I survived... but my dignity didn't. »

Lauren smiled sweetly and held out a prescription slip.

« Great. Because I need the exact same treatment. »

Peter blinked.

« You... too? »

« Same restaurant, same dish, same regret, » Lauren explained, tapping her stomach. « Mrs. Jackson and I share everything. Even food poisoning, apparently. »

She stood, smoothing her pencil skirt like a warrior strapping on armor, and beckoned him toward her office with a gesture that brooked no argument.

« My office is this way. We’ll be more... comfortable. »

Comfortable? ME?

Peter obeyed like a condemned man walking to the gallows, his shoes squeaking against the polished floor with audible despair.

Inside Lauren’s domain—a space as flawlessly organized as her blazer—the nurse double-checked the prescription (same drug, same dose), prepped the syringe (slightly steadier hands, but no less clumsy), and took a deep breath.

« The injection needs to go in the... gluteal area, » Peter announced, his voice cracking like a weatherman predicting a Category 5 hurricane.

Lauren smirked. « Naturally. » Then—with the same terrifying efficiency as Victoria—she hitched up her pencil skirt.

Disaster struck.

This was no ordinary lingerie.

Oh no.

It was a bodysuit.

A seamless, full-coverage black lace bodysuit.

No convenient access.

Peter’s face drained of color. His eyes darted wildly:

Bodysuit (impenetrable fortress)

Syringe (suddenly useless)

Ceiling (Why, God? Why me? What did I do to deserve this?!)

Peter yanked at the fabric in resignation, trying to expose a sliver of hip.

The bodysuit didn’t budge a millimeter.

« I... uh... it’s very... snug, » he stammered, his voice as strained as the spandex.

Lauren sighed, annoyed by the wardrobe complication. « Yes. It’s custom-made. »

This detail did nothing to improve Peter’s circulation. His knees wobbled.

Of course. Because regular underwear would’ve been too easy.

He tugged harder, fingers trembling, attempting to shift the fabric sideways.

The bodysuit resisted like a bank vault.

« I... don’t think this is working, » he admitted, now drenched in sweat.

Lauren crossed her arms.

« So. What’s your brilliant plan, Florence Nightingale? »

Peter hesitated, turned an even deeper shade of red (if that was possible), then whispered in the most timid voice imaginable:

« We'd need to... uh... take the bodysuit off? »

Lauren burst out laughing.

« You can't be serious! That would take forever! Mrs. Jackson is waiting for me! »

I'd rather dig a tunnel under the building with my bare hands.

« What about the arm? » Lauren suggested.

Peter shook his head.

« No, this medication requires a deep injection. The arm won't work. »

A tense silence fell, broken only by the audible ticking of Lauren's watch and the frantic pounding of Peter's heartbeat.

Suddenly, a glint of determination flashed in the secretary's eyes. With the precision of a fencer, she unbuttoned her blouse in one swift motion, sending buttons flying like unnecessary obstacles. Then, in a move that shattered Peter's last shreds of medical certainty, she pulled down one cup of her bodysuit, exposing a generous breast.

« There », she declared with the confidence of someone who'd just solved a complex equation. « That should be enough flesh ? »

Peter transformed into a strange hybrid of man and cherry tomato, his face achieving previously undiscovered shades of red. His hands shook so violently the syringe nearly escaped his grip.

« I... uh... yes... of course... » he stammered, desperately fixing his gaze on an imaginary point behind Lauren's left shoulder.

With the concentration of a medieval scribe illuminating manuscripts, he swabbed the area in one jerky motion, then plunged the needle with the determination of a man who knew both his career - and possibly his life - depended on this single moment.

« All done, » he whispered, withdrawing the needle like Excalibur from stone.

Lauren adjusted her bodice and buttoned her blouse with the same brisk efficiency she used to file reports. « Thanks. You're not completely hopeless after all, » she remarked, checking her reflection in a framed office award.

Meanwhile, Peter gathered his supplies at lightning speed, shoving them haphazardly into his medical bag before making a beeline for the exit.

« Have a good day, Miss! » he called over his shoulder as the elevator doors closed.

That settles it - I'm changing careers. Lighthouse keeper. Hermit. Anything.