3 comments/ 31662 views/ 11 favorites The Glass Ceiling Cracks By: bigdaddyfive Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. If you really want this kind of stuff to happen, you obviously haven't thought the consequences through and need to stop reading these kinds of things. Oh, yeah: Trademark, copyright, and ground-you-walk-on by Big Daddy 5. * Monday was going to be hell. Amanda Wilson knew that. She was going to face at least two snide comments from them. Maybe three. They'd sit in comfortable chairs atop their glass floor and look down at her. She'd look at the glass ceiling above her and fume. "I'm coming, you bastards! You can't stop me!" Peterson would likely be first, since his office was next to hers. "Gonna join us at the club tonight, Wilson?" he'd ask. He never called her Amanda. Only Wilson. "Yes, I will!" she'd snap. She never did anything but snap when talking to Ian Peterson. The man was a complete chauvinist. God, she thought. That's a word I haven't heard since I was a little girl! Whatever happened to words like that? When did it start being wrong to want what the men want? She reasoned that maybe it was what was happening in the world. The only women you heard about in the news anymore were brain-dead bimbos with the hots for politicians. A dozen years ago, Amanda's lawsuit would have been the top story on the national news for months. Now, it was old hat. The final decision made page eight in the local paper. Bread and circuses, she thought. Times had changed of course, but Morley and Associates was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the Twenty-First Century. Amanda was hired when somebody noticed that all of the executives at the firm were men. No one had to go to court that time, but they didn't like it. No sir, not one bit. They made sure that Amanda knew it, too. Her first day there, Amanda walked into an empty office. On the floor was a crate marked "Furniture". Inside was an ironing board and an iron! Amanda always prided herself on her humor, but she was hurt and insulted by the cheap shot. Still, she said nothing and ordered the proper furniture. When she walked out of her office for lunch, that first day, she saw the man in the office next to hers snickering. She just noted the words "Ian Peterson" on his door and ordered a urinal for his office, that afternoon. It was installed after-hours and waiting for Peterson, the next morning! Amanda always gave at least as good as she got. But while Ian Peterson was her greatest tormentor, he was hardly alone. There were also Gregg Hartman and Phillip Wildeman, for starters. Or, as Amanda referred to them, "the Hardly Boys". They looked like a gay couple on steroids, to her eyes. Always together and always rowdy, she took an instant dislike to them. Even old man Morley was a problem. He was always polite and cordial to her, but she knew that he went to the local "gentlemen's club" for lunch most days. And the way he looked at his blond, well-endowed secretary was outrageous! She looked like a wet dream in tweed, which made Amanda cringe. Even her name made Amanda uncomfortable: Candi. It was even spelled like a stripper's name! She looked as if the business clothes she wore were part of her costume and she was going to hop up on her desk and start stripping at any moment. In fact, it struck Amanda for the first time, that Sunday night, that most of the women in the office were young and beautiful and as brain-dead as a cage full of gerbils. You could see it in their vacant eyes. And the smoking! Every one of them was a smoker. You'd see them outside, rain or shine, lighting up. Amanda had given up smoking in college, and even then had smoked Carltons. She shuddered at the thought of ever picking up a cigarette, again. Amanda's last thought, before sleep claimed her, was just how hard it was going to be to face everyone, just two days after the lawsuit-- her lawsuit-- was finally settled. She knew how they all felt, from Morley down to Peterson. She didn't make any friends at the firm with this. She doubted she'd make any more by showing up at the club, either. Monday was a bit cloudy and windy, but still pleasant enough to make Amanda Wilson smile. She got her usual bagel and coffee at the coffee bar in the building lobby before riding the elevator up to the fifteenth floor and her office. She shared a secretary with Peterson. The secretary, whose name was Wendy, was sitting at her desk, doing her nails. "What do you think, Ms. Wilson?" Wendy asked, thrusting her nails into Amanda's face. "Scarlet Jungle Red." Amanda reflexively pulled back to eye the painted nails with veiled disgust. "They're okay, I guess, Wendy." "I hope Mr. Peterson notices them!' she beamed. "He is such a hunk!" Amanda rolled her eyes. Maybe her dislike for Peterson colored her perceptions a bit, but she couldn't leave that comment alone. "Wendy, I would hardly consider Ian Peterson 'hunk' material." "He's like Tom Cruise and Harrison Ford rolled into one!" Wendy gushed. "If you mean he's fat, I agree," Amanda muttered under her breath as she glanced at her stack of morning mail. When she didn't get a response, she looked up to see Wendy walking toward the elevator with a pack of cigarettes. "That girl has the attention span of a fruit fly!" Amanda fumed. She spun around on her heels and almost knocked Ian Peterson down! He staggered a bit, but managed to stay up. "Damn it, Peterson!" she snapped. "Hey, whoa! Sorry, Wilson," he said, reaching around her to grab his own stack of envelopes. "Can I get my mail here? "Hey, what time are you going to the club tonight, Amanda?" The use of her first name threw her. "What?" "I said 'What time are you going to the club, tonight?'" "Don't sweat it, Peterson. I'll come and go from the club as I damn well please!" Ian Peterson laughed. "Hey, sorry. Just asking. My car's in the shop, and I could use a lift there, myself." Amanda blinked. "You're asking me for a lift? Me?" "If that's alright," he said, his tone suggesting sincerity. "I'd really appreciate it." "Uh, yeah. I guess so." Peterson smiled. She hadn't seen him do that since she dropped the paperclips. "Thanks, Amanda. I really... Thanks." He almost ran back to his office, waving at her. "Sure. No problem." Amanda shrugged and walked into her own office. She stopped short when she saw that the room was empty, except for Ralph Gilford and her wastepaper basket. He was picking it from the floor and walking toward the door with it. "Gilford," she snapped, "where the hell is my furniture?" "Um, in the new office, Amanda." He said, innocently. His voice suggested the same patience a parent has when his child asks why the sky is blue. Again, the first name. "New office?" Gilford smiled. "Sure. You know, the corner office." Amanda raised an eyebrow at him. "You mean I'm getting Shumway's old office?" Gilford headed toward her, but stopped when he realized that she wasn't going to step out of his way. "Of course. They just finished putting in the new sprinkler system. I thought you knew, Amanda." "No, I didn't." "Well, I've almost got it organized. Come tell me what you think." Amanda followed the mousy, little Human-Resources Director to the spacious corner office that Andrew Shumway had vacated upon retirement. She had expected Peterson to get the prize office. It was far larger than her old one or Peterson's, and he had seniority. Her feet stuck in place slightly, on the plush carpet. There was a new, large desk there, and all of her things atop it in boxes. Ralph Gilford put down the basket and turned to her. "Is it okay? My wife helped me pick the colors. She's an interior decorator, you know." Amanda nodded, looking at the wet bar in the corner. "Yeah. It's fine. Thanks." The whole thing was surreal, and Amanda Wilson decided to just go with the flow until Rod Serling made an appearance. "If you need anything," Gilford continued, almost running to the door, "let me know." Gilford was always a skittish person, but the way he ran out, he seemed almost afraid of the room. Not Amanda. She sat down in the large, leather chair and spun it around to look at the city below her in the floor-to-ceiling windows. "So, the glass ceiling cracks." An hour later, Phillip Wildeman showed up at her door. She was putting things away and didn't notice him until he rapped, lightly. "Hey, Amanda," he called. "Got a sec?" Amanda nodded, almost dumbfounded at the workout her first name was getting, today. "Why?" Wildeman glanced around to see if anyone was looking. When he was satisfied that no one was, he said "Congrats of the lawsuit!" Amanda Wilson's mouth almost dropped to her desk. "What?" "I, for one, was all in favor of it." Amanda could feel her cheeks flush. "Wildeman, you called me, and I quote, 'that ladder-climbing little pseudo-secretary' in court! Have you forgotten?" "Hey, look, sorry about that," he almost whispered. He actually blushed! "My job was on the line. I couldn't say I thought that you were right with old Mr. Morley right there, now could I?" "You damn well could have!" Before Wildeman could respond, he spun around to see Hartman pass by. "Hey, Gregg!" he called out, taking off after his friend. That night, Amanda took Ian Peterson to the club. He was a perfect gentleman the whole trip, talking about his life and his work. Not one rude comment passed his lips. If she didn't have the memories of all their past difficulties, Amanda might have relaxed and enjoyed the talk. As it was, she simply kept a stoic expression as he rattled on about inoffensive things. The Stalwart Club was one of the most prestigious organizations in the whole town. Lots of charity work was done there, and lots of business deals went down between the brownstone walls of the mansion that served as its headquarters. This was the old boys' network that Amanda had tried so hard to pierce. This was a chance to advance without her gender being an issue. This was what her lawsuit had been about. She pulled up the long driveway and let the attendant open the door for her. Another did the same for Peterson, and the two headed toward the thick, oaken doors that led to the mansion inside. The attendants must have heard about the lawsuit, because they didn't raise an eyebrow as they watched a woman enter the club, breaking a 96-year-old tradition. Ian Peterson waved at a few people who were in the main hallway, before leading Amanda through a door to a study. The plaque beside the door read: The Glass Ceiling Cracks She was sucking and jacking for all she was worth as the room filled with lightning flashes. She heard a mechanical whir which she couldn't place and someone saying something about cheese, which drew a laugh from the men. Amanda laughed too, feeling light and giddy. These are my friends, she thought. Morley was the first to cum. He groaned and bucked as his seamen stained her right hand. Amanda wished that she could lick it from her skin, but she was enjoying Peterson's taste on her tongue far too much to stop. Gilford was next, followed by the Hardly Boys, who came in unison. Finally, Ian Peterson came, his sticky cum soaking her mouth and filling it rapidly. She sucked as much as she could; tried to keep up with the deluge and failed. Droplets ran from the side of her mouth as she gagged on the thick jizz. Finally, he heaved and collapsed almost atop her as she continued to slurp at his dwindling rod with complete abandon. She heard someone say, "How long will she be like that, Broomfield?" "As long as I want her to be," someone replied. "The effects are only temporary, but she's good for at least another three hours." "Good," came a third voice as hands grabbed at Amanda's skirt. "I always wondered what she looks like, nude!" Amanda laughed and laughed, as someone or something ripped the clothes from her frame. A third cigar was put to her lips and she sucked a huge wad of smoke from it before passing out. Amanda lifted another empty box atop her desk and began dumping a drawer into it. Little things missed and hit the floor, but her eyes were too teary to make out what they were. She fumbled with some of the ones that had fallen on her desk and finally threw them angrily at the box. "Damn!" A knock on the door made her turn around. Ian Peterson was standing at the door with a large envelope and a haughty expression in his eyes. She turned back away from him and started closing the now-full box. "Amanda?" She ignored him. "Amanda!" She picked up a box of paper clips and threw them at his feet without looking his way. "Leave me alone, you son of a bitch!" "We need to talk." She spun around and ran up until his face was inches from hers. She almost spat on him. "Talk? Talk!? After what you did to me, last night? "You are SO sued! You know that? All I wanted was acceptance; I didn't even ask for court costs. Well, when I'm through with this company, you'll all be my fucking houseboys!" He shook his head, but the self-satisfied look never left his face. He held up the envelope. "I don't think so." Amanda snatched the envelope and opened it. She didn't know what to expect, but the shock was palpable as she gaped at the photographs inside. Photographs of last night. Of her, in what looked like a mad, twisted orgy on a Tijuana stage. She looked up at him in rage. "When did you... How..." "Does it matter?" Peterson asked, taking the now empty envelope from her. "You're good at your job, Wilson. We'll keep you on -- after all, it looks good -- but this is as high up the ladder as you go." She looked at his smug face and the rage seethed within her. She shook her head, slowly. "Oh, no you don't, you asshole... I don't care what happens to me... I may be going to Hell, but I'm taking all of you bastards with me! By the time I'm finished, Morley and Company won't be able to sell ice in Arizona." Peterson shrugged. "I told Mr. Morley you'd feel that way." He walked to the door, then turned and let out a soft, ironic chuckle. "I'm sorry, Wilson. I really am." He walked out, closing it behind him. "And take your fucking pictures with you!" she screamed at the closed door, throwing the photographs after him. Amanda Wilson stood in the center of her corner office, fighting back the tears. She wouldn't let them come. Time for tears, later. For now, in the building, she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of a full-blown cry. She turned to the desk and slammed her small fist on the heavy top. She stood there for a long time, seething and frustrated and hurt. She didn't notice the passage of time, so she didn't know how long it was before she smelled the smoke. Her first thought was a fire, and she moved quickly to the door. The room was rapidly filling with it as she struggled in vain against the immobile door. It was locked from the outside! Amanda looked up at the sprinklers on the ceiling and was shocked to see that the thick, bluish smoke was coming from there! A steady stream of fumes were billowing forth from them as if that was their function. She held her breath and ran to the window. She slammed her palm against it, looking out at the unaffected hallway beyond. She raced back to the desk, intent upon throwing the heavy office chair against the pane, but her lungs finally demanded air and she exhaled, sucking some of the haze deep inside her. She coughed it out and more rushed in to take its place. It made her head reel as she recognized the taste. It tasted like cigarette smoke... cigarette smoke with a hint of vanilla. "And over here," Peterson said to the new man, "is your office. It's right next to mine, so don't hesitate to knock if you need anything." Art Hammond nodded, making a note in his small notepad. He pushed his glasses back up on his nose for the fiftieth time that day and followed after the rapidly walking Peterson. He noted the name on the door. "Amanda Wilson," he muttered. Ian Peterson spun around. "What was that?" "The name," Art said, sheepishly pointing at the door. "On the door. Amanda Wilson." Peterson smiled. "Oh? Do you know our Miss Wilson?" Art shook his head. "No. I've never met Ms. Wilson. I know of her. The lawsuit..." He stopped short, wondering if it was proper to mention that. Peterson noted his concern and waved it away. "Water under the bridge, Art. May I call you 'Art'? Water under the bridge. Amanda is still happily with the company." "Oh? Moved up, uh, has she?" Peterson smiled a somewhat oily smile. "No, down, actually." "Hiiii, Ian!" a young girl gushed from the doorway. She was carrying a notepad in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. "Would you and your friend like some coffee?" Art Hammond was struck by her appearance. She was a very attractive woman in her mid-twenties. Pretty, if a bit tartish. Her hair was in a beehive, of all things, and her short skirt was a bit tight for an office environment, as was her blouse. She had the empty, vacant look of a gerbil in her eyes. "No, thank you, Mandy. Maybe later." "Okie-dokie," Amanda Wilson said as she spun on her spike heels and walked away, intentionally giving the two men a generous view of her gyrating buttocks. The End © 2000 by Big Daddy Five