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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 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.
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?
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."
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.