Losing her business

Like everything else in her new office, the chair was too small. It wasn’t even a proper office chair either, but a stenographer’s chair on wheels, a little thing fashioned in crimson plastic. The chair was deliberately set too low. It kept her hips lower than her knees, making it all the more difficult to retain modesty in her tiny stretch miniskirt.

The desk she was sitting behind was too small as well. It matched the chair in colour and size. There was no modesty board on the front, and so no chance to hide the delights that the chair and her skirt conspired to display. There wasn’t room for much on top, just her word processor, her purse, her pink telephone, and several framed pictures of kittens.

And the nameplate of course. She hated the nameplate more than anything else in this humiliating parody of a secretary’s station. The cramped, candy-coloured furnishings and feminine decorations were both symbols to remind her of her status in the company: the bottom of the totem pole, junior to absolutely everybody; the least important accessory; a mere decoration. For a brief moment she struggled with the impossible task of convincing her miniskirt to cover the tops of her stockings. The effort was futile. Pantyhose was not permitted.

She pressed her legs together. She was very aware of how foolish and vulnerable she looked, sitting behind her little desk in her little chair with her curvaceous body so invitingly displayed. At times the humiliation and frustration of her job were almost enough to make her cry. Almost. If she did cry it would ruin her mascara and she would have to fix it again right away. Couldn’t let the boss see her not looking her best.

Impulsively, she grabbed a compact out of her desk drawer. She checked her face and hair for the third time that hour. A petulant frown marred otherwise attractive features. Her make-up was elaborate and perfect. She snapped the mirror closed and threw it back into the drawer. Her black thoughts turned to the man in the executive office behind her. That beast! That fowl, loathsome, inhuman lump of clay. How dare he treat her this way! How dare anyone! When she got out of this, she would make him pay. Very soon. As soon as she got her old job back.

Unfortunately, she had no idea how to go about doing that. How could this have happened? How could her perfect life have turned so terribly wrong? A few months ago she had been a phenomenon, a rising tide in the business world, president and founder of one of the hottest software companies on the market. She had been feared by competitors and employees alike. She had been known for her cool demeanour, her aggressive style, her ruthless determination to succeed.

Sure, staff turnover had been a problem. She accepted that as a cost of doing business. She hired the best and the brightest and worked them hard. She paid them “probationary” salaries with a promise of rich rewards if they proved themselves. When they complained too much or had outlived their usefulness she sacked them and hired somebody else. She tolerated no insubordinance. There were plenty of other hackers out there looking for a real job.

Then one day Oscar Brightman, a nondescript designer of communications interfaces whom she had summarily sacked in the latest purge, walked into her office without an appointment. He had a laptop under one arm. She expected him to wail about being fired, but he didn’t. “Caitlin, I have something important to show you,” he said. Shortly thereafter, her life had gone to hell.

To this day she could not remember what Brightman had shown her, no matter how hard she tried. All she knew was that when he left her office an hour or so later he had his job back. Caitlin felt strange. She went home early, just after seven o’clock.

He came back to her office a few days later, again saying he needed to “show her something”. He stayed for more than an hour. Caitlin had felt out of sorts for the rest of the day.

The secretary sighed, all the anger drained out of her as abruptly as it had come. She turned back to her word processor. Even that had been adapted to her new situation.

Her word processor was fire-engine red, with a built-in screen that displayed text in big gold letters. It looked like an electronic toy designed for a child. The keyboard was colour-coded in black, red and yellow. It wasn’t even a real computer; it would only run one program. The screen-saver depicted a frolicking kitten.

The new secretary returned to her typing. Her scarlet nails danced on the multicolored keyboard. Since she had started growing her fingernails long she had had to re-learn how to type. The trick was to let just the ends of the nails tap the keys. It slowed her down, and she made a lot of mistakes. The boss was not tolerant of mistakes. Her behind still stung from the last spanking.

She heard a giggle from down the hall. A young woman sauntered by, looking more festive than businesslike in a backless sundress and heels. She could have been on her way to a party but for the stack of computer papers in her hands. She grinned as she passed. “Hi Kitty-Kitty!” she greeted her, smirking. “How’s the typing going?” She laughed out loud and continued on her way.

Kitty-Kitty just glared helplessly. That was Annabel, a programmer, or rather a “software engineer” as she insisted on being called. Smug little bitch. She should have ditched her when she had the chance. She sighed. It was too late now.

She looked over at the frosted glass door to the inner office. The door used to have her name displayed on it, in prominent gold letters just below the word “President”. There was another name there now.

Her name was on the nameplate on the front of her desk. Oversized, so no-one could miss it. It bore her new name: Kitty-Kitty. She loathed that name. It was made to sound like someone was calling a kitten in for a nice plate of cream. It was the most frivolous, girlish, foolish name anybody in the office could think of. She knew that because there had been a contest.

Murray, that nerdy little squint who debugged applications, had been the contest winner. Kitty-Kitty had been the prize. She shuddered, remembering the weekend of servitude. Murray had smiled non-stop for three days afterward.

Was it just last year, barely six months ago, that she had summoned Murray into her office and he had quavered visibly while she reamed him out for some trivial offense? She had done that more or less regularly then. You had to ride these people hard if you expected them to do their best.

She never expected Murray could harbour such a grudge; nor that he could entertain such a variety of sexual appetites. For two days and three nights she barely had a chance to get dressed.

Kitty-Kitty was her name now. That was the name on her driver’s licence, on her overdrawn credit cards, and on the lease for the new apartment she had moved into. Few people could even say it with a straight face. The boss insisted that she change her name legally. What the boss insisted, like it or not, she always did.

The boss. The little twerp sitting in her office. She hated that man for what he had done to her. Just turning the tables, he called it. Giving her a taste of her own bad medicine. Well, she would have her revenge. As soon as she figured out the key to his little manipulation, she would be free again.

As she had many times before, she tried to fight back. She decided to begin resisting, right there and then. Instead, she took out her compact and checked her make-up again. She pouted in frustration. That happened every time.