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Temporarily I


Samantha stared blankly at the trade magazine in her lap, the words swimming
randomly in front of her eyes like drops of rain rolling up a windshield coated
with Rain-X.

She hated these late-night conference calls with the Hong Kong office. They
were so unproductive lately. Everyone was still nervous about the Chinese. Not
that she blamed them. But she really wasn't in the mood to listen to them
blather on about the demise of the Brits, speculating dejectedly about the fate
of their beloved guerilla capitalism.

Besides, her assistant was uncharacteristically late. And that made Samantha
very, very nervous.

She fidgeted in her desk chair, compulsively tugging down the hem of her
miniskirt in an unsuccessful attempt to cover the top of her thighs. Before,
she had barely worn dresses to the office. Now, she was forced to wear
gutterflash that even impressed the hookers she passed by twice a day outside
the Port Authority entrance.

Christ, when was that promotion going to get approved by HR anyway? Stupid tree
huggers. With any luck, they'd all be "we-engineered" out of a job by an
intranet before the end of the year.

The entrance buzzer jolted her out of her stupor.

She's here.

She punched the button under her desk to let Marla into the building, reminded
once again of the strings she had to pull with security to get the fucker
installed in the first place.

But Marla had insisted.

Samantha kicked off her heels, stood up, and unzipped the flimsy strip of
fabric wrapped around her waist (underwear was pretty much a hazy memory at
this point), then started unbuttoning her blouse.

Wait. You don't have to go through with this, she screamed at herself. Call
security. Send a memo to your boss. It can all be explained. Blame it on Marla.

Right.

Some stupid temp. Who just happened to know her personal access code.

"Rule #1: do not share your password with anyone."

Well, how was Marla supposed to assist her without it?

It had never occurred to her that someone would do what the crafty old hag had
done.

That's why they have rules, you idiot.

She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, if that's what you could call
the scrap of lace covering her breasts. Dress for success indeed.

Samantha's eyes wandered up to the oversized hook in the center of the ceiling
of her office where a gigantic plant hung stupidly. Another charming encounter
with the building staff.

"Don't you want this by the window?" the grunt had inquired.

No, no, I want it right here, she had had to insist.

"OK, ma'am, whatever you say," he had replied with the resignation of those who
steeled themselves with self-righteous laughter when they had to endure the
unfathomable lunacies of the executive class.

Another fine mess you've gotten me into.

Well, it wasn't her fucking fault.

It was so hard to find a career assistant these days. All these college kids
who saw the gig as their ticket onward and upward. No wonder it was a running
joke for 10 years on "Murphy Brown." She had finally given up and let HR assign
her a temp. Someone who knew her place. Who didn't dream of CEO perqs. Who was
happy to answer her phone, type her memos, manage her calendar, etc.

Thanks to the breeze from the omnipresent air recirculation system, goosebumps
blossomed across her body like pimples before the prom.

Oh, please, don't let the…

"BRRRRIIINNNNG"

Damn. She picked up the receiver.

"This is the AT&T operator calling to confirm your attendance…"

"Yes, yes, I'm here, Samantha in New York…"

Silence. She punched the mute button, then thought better. Against the rules.
Instead, she pressed "speaker" and moved directly under the plant.

The witch had timed it perfectly.

The door to her office opened and a smallish woman slipped inside. Marla was
dressed in her usual spinster getup…ankle-length dress, sensible shoes, not a
breath of makeup, oversized briefcase in hand, frumpy purse over her shoulder.

Samantha never could figure out how old Marla was, but she was definitely past
her prime. If the jackal had ever enjoyed such a time in her life.

"Hallo, Sam?" the phone crackled. "Yoshi here."

"Hi, Yoshi. What's shaking on the island?"

Marla nodded her assent.

"Oh, the usual. The peasant slants are massing on the border. They seem to
think we have decent scotch here."

"It's your gold they want, Yoshi. And your women."

"The women they can have…we stole them all from the mainland anyway."

Samantha listened quietly as Yoshi ran through a role call, her eyes pinned on
Marla as she took something big out of her briefcase. The arm binder. Marla
twirled a finger, and Samantha turned around as instructed.

Even on her first day, Marla had been ridiculously proficient on the computer.
By lunch, she had mastered the company's new Internet database, and was
producing the most amazing reports Samantha had ever seen.

"But I can't access the information you've requested with my temporary
password," she had lied.

So you gave her yours. Didn't hesitate, did you? Even though sharing "senior
executive" access status that lets you add, edit and delete data is grounds for
immediate dismissal.

While Yoshi and his boys droned on and on about what was going to happen to
their investments once the Chinese started regulating the stock market,
Samantha felt her hands being led behind her back. The smell of leather filled
her nose as the binder's thick restraining strap passed over her head and
settled on top of her breasts.

Finally, the meeting started.

"Not that I really want to know, but what numbers did sales hit on the
dartboard for this quarter's projections?"

She began reciting a litany of figures from memory. Thankfully, the goals were
fairly realistic, so discussion was minimal.

"Can you handle that, Yoshi?"

The Hong Kong team started arguing about the need for double shifts while Marla
continued lacing the flaps around her arms.

"Tell us about the new product you've got cooking in R&D, Sam. My spies tell me
it's a killer."

Samantha gave him the standard rap…next generation, smaller, faster, cheaper, a
bitch to manufacture…as she felt her shoulders groan from the pressure as her
elbows were drawn closer and closer together.

Oh, god, now they want to talk specs. Samantha did her best to maintain a calm,
steady stream of babble about silicon thickness and circuit geometry while
Marla knotted off the laces and buckled the strap around her biceps.

"You sound stressed, Sam. Everything alright?"

"Just a tight schedule tonight, Yoshi."

Marla shot her a venomous glare. That was a mistake, Samantha realized too
late.

"OK, let's move on. Did you get corporate's projections for next month?"

She did. But they were on her desk. In her in-box. In a yet-to-be-opened
interoffice envelope.

Samantha turned and gave Marla an anxious glance. Not good. She was supposed to
be ready for every possible question.

"Uh, just a sec, Yoshi, they just came in."

Marla pawed through the memos and magazines until she found the beige package
from the boys upstairs. She untwisted the string, pulled out the spreadsheets
and stuck them under Samantha's nose.

"Here they are. Fifty thousand units for…"

Samantha spat out the numbers in a flat monotone, her blood curdling as Marla
reached behind her and started stroking her ass with a delicate touch that felt
gruesomely obscene.

"Great, those sound do-able. Can you fax me a hard copy so I can distribute
them on the floor?"

"Sure thing, Yoshi. Back in a minute."

Marla headed for the machine at her desk outside Samantha's office. Good. Make
the bitch earn her keep.

While the Panafax beeped and screeched, Samantha's eyes shifted to Marla's
dreaded briefcase. What other horrors did it hold for her tonight?

Before meeting Marla, her only bondage experience had been a semi-boyfriend who
had once lashed her to his bed with a bunch of old ties. But now she knew
better. Much better.

Marla had been working for her maybe three months when Samantha first started
getting suspicious. She seemed to work a ton of overtime, but she never marked
it on her timesheet. So one night, Samantha came back to the office after
dinner, and caught Marla at her computer. Logged in as her. Transferring photos
into the main corporate database.

To call them pornographic was an understatement.

She had quite naturally freaked. Screamed, even. But Marla had remained calm
and collected. And Samantha would never forget the awful way the bile from her
stomach ascended like an erupting volcano when she heard Marla's explanation.

Marla never went to college, so most of her jobs had been secretarial. But over
the years, she had learned a lot, much more than the silly young MBAs she
seemed to find herself working for. So she was constantly helping them out,
covering up their mistakes, showing them how to make the computer work its
magic, doing their jobs for them, hoping one of them would some day recognize
her abilities and promote her out of the clerical pool.

But they never did. In fact, many of them got rid of her when they realized how
smart she really was.

She found an outlet for her frustrations through bondage. At night, she would
sell her services as a professional dominatrix, getting paid handsomely to
beat, torture and humiliate the pathetic executives who did the same to her all
day.

Then she thought up a plan. And Samantha just happened to be her next
assignment.

The company's Internet tied together a gigantic global network of offices,
factories, suppliers, distributors, partners and customers. It was so big,
nobody was really quite sure how it worked or what was stored in its thousands
of servers.

So it had been easy for Marla to set up a secret web site loaded with photos of
her various customers. Only she did it logged on as her boss. Not that Samantha
would know HTML from Homer Simpson. But Marla even used "www.samantha.com" as
the URL.

She said she hadn't bothered to promote the site, but people had found it
anyway, and it was starting to become a very popular destination on the net. At
some point, someone in MIS was going to notice the traffic and investigate.

Go ahead, call security, Marla had dared.

"Look at me. I'm just a lowly career assistant. They might believe your story,
but I'll wail and cry and make you look like a monster trying to pin your
perversions on me."

Then Marla told her what she wanted. A promotion. Nothing more, nothing less.
And as soon as possible.

Samantha said she wasn't sure she could pull it off.

"Oh, I think I can help you find a way. Strip."

Samantha remembered laughing, until Marla logged off the computer and
immediately logged back on under her own name. She quickly typed up something
and beckoned Samantha to take a look. It was an email to the CIO. Alerting him
to the web site.

"I know I'm just a temp, but I feel it is my duty to point out such a blatant,
and possibly criminal, misuse of corporate computing resources," it had
concluded.

Either Samantha took off all her clothes right now, she had hissed, or she
pressed send.

One of us is crazy, Samantha remembered thinking as she unsnapped her slacks,
eyes glued on Marla's finger twitching on the mouse.

Marla came back into the office scowling. She flung the papers onto the couch
and stalked past Samantha to stand by the phone.

"Did you get the fax, Yoshi?"

"In my hand. Thanks, Sam. Anything else on your plate?"

She shivered and twisted against the leather.

"Nothing you can help me with."

"OK. Get some rest, girl."

"Have a good day, Yoshi. Same time next week?"

"Sure, sure, we're at your disposal, boss."

"Goodbye."

"Bye."

Marla stabbed the flash button on the speakerphone to terminate the call, then
went straight to her briefcase and dumped its contents unceremoniously on the
floor. She got on her knees and pawed through the jumble of rope, plastic,
chrome and leather until she found a harness with two horrible plugs that
looked like they were modeled after a horse. A metal hook jutted out from the
other side of the one Samantha presumed was for her ass.

They had long stopped speaking to each other during these sessions. Marla had
told her the only thing she wanted to hear Samantha say was "your promotion has
been approved." Otherwise, they had nothing to discuss.

That had been a month ago.

Since then, Samantha had spent most of her nights and weekends at the office
with Marla, while her lunches were dedicated to buying her slutty new wardrobe
per Marla's instructions.

Had to look the part. Just in case Marla decided to press "send."

Two weeks ago, Marla decided she needed a little encouragement, so Samantha
became the new star attraction on the web site.

And word was spreading fast on the net. Hundreds of photos, all free. This
amazing chick. Totally over-the-top positions. Even Mr. T added a link.

After much frantic searching, begging and string-pulling, Samantha had finally
found a division that was willing to take a chance on Marla, but HR was taking
its usual sweet time with the paperwork.

Unlike her always-efficient temp. In minutes, Samantha was gagged, clamped and
squirming as Marla applied generous quantities of lubricant to her crotch.

Samantha heard something behind her that sounded like an old refrigerator
motor. Those aren't plugs, she realized with a shudder. They're vibrators.

When Marla finally padlocked the belt around her waist, Samantha felt like her
groin was trapped in a blender set on "liquefy."

Cuffs for her thighs, knees and ankles came next. Then she found herself bowing
awkwardly as Marla knotted a piece of rope to the center of the chain between
the clamps, then stretched it down to the binder just over her knees.

Samantha felt something tugging near her ass. It didn't take long to realize
that Marla was tying something to the hook back there.

Out of the corner of her eye, Samantha watched Marla climb on top of the desk
with a long piece of rope in her hand. The plant hanging from the hook in the
ceiling was soon resting by her in-box.

Marla stepped down and shot Samantha a wicked grin that made the saliva in her
packed mouth turn distastefully metallic.

Then she grabbed a handful of Samantha's hair, pulled it back hard, and tied
the end of the rope around it like a scrunchy from hell.

Samantha's nipples ignited as she tried to raise her head to relieve the awful
wrenching sensation. Bending over wasn't much of an option either, given what
that did to the plug in her ass, not to mention her hair. She squirmed and
struggled in a futile attempt to find a compromise that didn't result in a
maelstrom of disquietude. But nothing worked.

Not even screaming.

"Next time, make sure you're better prepared," she seethed as she dug into her
purse and pulled out the fancy digital camera Samantha knew all too well.

"And watch your smart mouth. After all, there's a good chance they might
promote me just for blowing the whistle on a corporate criminal like you."

Marla's open hand smacked against Samantha's ass like a rifle shot and knocked
her off balance, causing hair and nipples and rope to jerk like a yo-yo in the
hands of a beginner.

After she finally recovered, Samantha couldn't see where Marla was in the room,
but she certainly saw the flash again and again and again.

When Marla was finished taking what must have been dozens of shots, she sat
down at Samantha's desk and began downloading the files into the network.

It might be hours before she finished.

Samantha didn't even have to wonder whether the batteries in the vibrators
grinding her insides into mulch were new.

While Marla's fingers clattered on the keyboard, Samantha started thinking
about the pond-scum supervisors in HR, especially those who would most
appreciate a new Porsche in their parking slot.

(continued)

End of Story