<span style="font-weight: bold">Samantha Belweather</span><br/><br/>"'Ms', Belweather, Jules," I corrected him. "Miss," is for little girls, who are still your superiors and whom you call that to remind you to keep your hands to yourself if they should choose to devour you." I said, "and your problems run much deeper than that. "'But?' 'If there's an issue', 'I'll try my best', ''the ones on the other side of the phone feel less annoyed about', 'I am doing my best', 'don't want to cause you any trouble'." I rested my head in my hands. He was looking tastier by the moment: "'Ms Belweather, I'm sorry there's an issue with how I speak on the phone. I will change the way I talk so that it's not annoying any more. I'm unworthy of the time and attention you're devoting to improve my performance, and I thank you must humbly,'" I paused, "and do you imagine I wouldn't digest you in the most painful way possible without a heartbeat's hesitation if I thought you meant to cause me trouble?"<br/><br/>For a moment, the threat of anal vore hangs over the office like a pall.<br/><br/>"Now, there are several ways we could proceed," I continue. "I can send you on sensitivity training. They guarantee a hundred-percent success rate amongst their graduates. It's expensive, but its cost doesn't quite exceed my assessment of your ongoing value. Similarly, I could set aside some time to instruct you personally." I paused. "In either case, it'd be a significant investment. I'd have to eat you if you tried to leave the company. At least I could recoup the cost of lunch," I laugh, "and more seriously I won't have you at a competitor - or<span style="font-style: italic">starting</span>one. Alternatively," I paused, "you<span style="font-style: italic">could</span>get a girlfriend - a serious, vorish one," I specified.