Rock bottom

The secretary was again snapped from her reverie by the warble of the telephone. This time she recognized the voice on the other end. She switched lines. Erin, her former secretary whose salary was now triple hers, had disappeared into Brightman’s office almost an hour ago. She hadn’t come out. The blonde secretary wondered what she was interrupting. “Yes, Kitty-Kitty?” came Brightman’s voice. She heard a feminine giggle in the background. “Mr. Moto is on line two,” Kitty-Kitty snarled, then slammed the phone down. It felt good to do that sometimes.

She hated Mr. Moto almost as much as she hated her new boss. He was known as an astute investor looking to put money into high-tech industries in her country. She had gone to him for venture capital last year, when he was visiting from Japan. It took months to set up. She had worked her staff relentlessly to make sure they had a prototype product to show him. She had to sack several designers when they couldn’t make the grade. In the end, after a full day touring the facilities, watching demonstrations and listening to her professional, multi-media presentation, Mr. Moto had smiled indulgently, looked her up and down like he was grading a piece of lean beef, and turned her down.

Everything changed when Brightman took over. Somehow he convinced Mr. Moto to fly back for a second look. He sent him a number of software demos. After a few hours of friendly conversation in Brightman’s office, the demanding financier had not only agreed to underwrite the firm, he had basically written Brightman a blank cheque.

Just to rub her nose in it, Brightman had ordered Kitty-Kitty to bring them tea. She could still remember her mortification as she wiggled about the office, carefully serving tea in silver cups while Mr. Moto’s eyes gobbled up every curve and valley of her superb figure.

She wasn’t even sure if Mr. Moto recognized her. She hadn’t been blonde the first time. The animal-print microdress she was wearing as a secretary was as far from the shapeless pantsuit of their first meeting as her white platform boots were from her previous black flats.

She hadn’t worn glasses before, either. Brightman insisted that she wear glasses. It was part of her sexy-secretary look. He made her throw away her old contacts. She had to buy new glasses constantly so the frames would match whatever she was wearing.

Caitlin’s life hit rock bottom on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday. She had finally arrived at work, mincing and wincing in her super- heeled shoes, to find Brightman in her office, feet up on the desk, talking on the telephone to her biggest client as if he were an old friend.

This had become a common scene lately. Most mornings when Caitlin stumbled into the office, Brightman was already at her desk, finishing up whatever project she had abandoned the day before. He usually returned her telephone messages before she got there. More and more often, employees were reporting directly to Brightman, bypassing Caitlin altogether. They all seemed to accept him as their natural leader.

Caitlin was in a bad mood. She was very late for work. The previous afternoon, too confused and horny to get anything done, she had knocked off early, found a partner at the nearest pub, and spent the evening screwing like a mink. Waking up unaccountably still horny, she had impulsively ridden her new lover to two more wonderful orgasms before breakfast.

Caitlin was cross because the man had to leave while she was still in the mood for another round. The day had just begun but already her feet hurt. Her new shoes were too narrow and the extra-high heels forced her to virtually walk on her toes. The shoes were the same glistening red as her short, sleeveless slip-dress and the sassy underwear beneath it.

Ignoring the sly once-overs from all the men she encountered, Caitlin made careful, tiny steps to her office. She stopped at Erin’s desk, as she did every day now, for a brief assessment of her appearance. Her mid-thigh hemline was in keeping with the leggy fashions that had become popular in the office lately. Caitlin didn’t like the idea of a trendy vapour-brain like Erin telling her how to dress. In fact, she suspected that the girl was deliberately choosing outfits that were uncomfortable and trashy, just to irritate her. But Brightman kept gently insisting that Erin had great fashion sense and she should listen to her. So she always did.

Once Erin had given her approval, and irritated her further by casually suggesting that her new heels would be no problem once she got used to wearing “real” shoes, Caitlin stepped into her office. Brightman hardly looked up from his telephone call. When he did, it was only to blatantly check out Caitlin’s exposed thighs.

He waved her over to the side of the office, where a small table and chair had been set up. There was a laptop computer on the table. Caitlin saw that the laptop was connected to the in-office network that everyone in the place loved except her. Fuming, she sat down in the little chair. She tugged down her slinky red mini, checked her make-up, and waited for her employee to give her desk back.

He took his time. When he finally finished the telephone call, he didn’t bother telling the president what was discussed. He didn’t give her desk back, either. Instead, he calmly put his feet down and set to work like she wasn’t there. Caitlin felt her anger growing. She tried to work at the little desk, but the effort was futile. The computer kept rejecting her commands. She was having trouble thinking. Worst of all, the unsatisfied sexual urges she had felt that morning hadn’t gone away. In fact, they were getting stronger.

She shifted uneasily in her seat. She felt hot. She kept reliving the best moments from the previous night in her mind: the inflamed kisses; the roaming hands; the greedy caresses of her naked curves; and best of all, the delightful way he filled her as she rode on top of him, hair flying, back arched, sweat-damp breasts out- thrusting, plunging down hungrily again and again and again until… Oh god!

Caitlin climbed to her feet, struggling to find her balance in the impossible shoes. She had to get to the washroom. She could feel her hard nipples pressing against her new lace bra.

Brightman looked up from his work. “Hey, Caitlin,” he said casually, “as long as your up, get me a fresh cup of coffee, won’t you.” He held out his empty cup. “Oh, and by the way, you look terrific in that dress.”

Something inside of her boiled over. She turned on him, furious. “Get out!” she screamed.

He dropped the cup. It thudded dully on the carpet. “Caitlin, what –”

“Get out!” she shouted again. “Get out of my office, get out of my company, get out of life! Now! And don’t come back!”

He stared at her, wordless.

Caitlin’s anger poured out like lava. “I’m not going to take this any more, do you hear me. Not from you, not from anybody. I’ve had it with you and your attitude and your horrid, useless fucked- up network and I won’t tolerate this abuse, especially from a two- bit loser like you. I am the president of this company! I started it, I built it, I put my whole damned life into it, and I am not going to stand here and let you screw me out of it or whatever it is that you’re trying to do!

“Why are you still sitting there? Are you deaf? This is my office and as of this moment you are sacked, gone, history, through. Pack up your things and get the hell out of my office before I call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing!” She glared at him, seething. She felt like stamping her foot but she was afraid she would fall over.

Brightman was clearly not expecting Caitlin’s outburst. “Uh, OK, OK, Caitlin, I’m gone,” he said, something of the old timidness in his voice, “but first, I think it’s uhm, really important that you take a look at this.” He was typing furiously on the computer as he spoke.

“Just get out,” Caitlin returned coldly. “I don’t want to see anything that you–” He finished typing and turned the screen around for her to see. He had been working with the local office network of course. There was something…. Caitlin couldn’t remember exactly what Brightman had shown her. When she looked up a few moments later, he was watching her keenly. “Come on, you have to get out,” she said, still angry. “I’m the president; this is my office. You get out. You’re fired.”

“I don’t think I should go, Caitlin,” Brightman returned. “You need me. You need my help to run the office.” He studied her warily, like a paperboy trying to sneak past a vicious dog.

“No! I don’t need your help. I don’t want it either! You have to get out! I’m the president. I can run my own company.” As she glared at him, pouting, Caitlin abruptly realized she sounded more like a petulant teenager throwing a tantrum than a competent adult.

He was still watching her, poker-faced. “Very well, Caitlin, if that’s what you want. First though, pick up that cup and get me a fresh cup of coffee.” “What! I will not! You can’t make me do that. I’m the pres-” “Pick up the cup Caitlin!”

The sleek brunette in the slinky red minidress glared back at him. “No! I won’t.” She folded her arms and lifted her chin, like a three-year-old trying to avoid bedtime.

Brightman looked at her, saying nothing. After a moment Caitlin found her resolve weakening. She looked down at the coffee cup, lying on the carpet where he had dropped it. “Ohhh, but I don’t want to do this,” she whined. “It’s not fair!” She bent over and scooped up the cup, still scowling. “Add a little cream and lots of sugar. Don’t spill any.”

Caitlin was on the verge of tears. “All right,” she said quietly. “When you come back, bring Erin in too. I need to talk to her.” Wordlessly, Caitlin turned on her railway-spike heels and tottered out the door, cup in hand. Her face was flushed crimson with anger and shame. Two minutes later she returned, bearing a cup of steaming coffee, with the bubbly secretary behind her. Erin was wearing a little blue minidress and trendy black sport shoes. She doesn’t have to wear heels at all, Caitlin thought sourly. She set the coffee cup on Brightman’s desk.

Erin was ecstatic. “It worked!” she cried, bouncing into the room. “I told you it would work. I told you told you told you!” “It nearly didn’t,” Brightman replied.

“Ah come on, you worry too much. I told you to have faith in yourself, didn’t I? I knew you could do it.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Erin danced around the big desk and threw herself nimbly into Brightman’s lap. The couple kissed passionately, ignoring Caitlin standing helplessly a few feet away.

“You are such a genius,” Erin whispered, about thirty seconds later. She kissed him again. “So, what do we do now?”

Brightman looked up, considering. He idly stroked one of Erin’s black-stockinged legs. “Caitlin,” he said, “We are going to make a few changes around here.” That had turned out to be a classic understatement.