Miss Anne Thrope

I barely had time to put down my purse before the work started piling up: reports to be typed, travel schedules to be arranged, files to be sorted, and miscellaneous errands to be run for the three junior executives I'd been assigned to work for. The first time one of them summoned me into his office to pick up some files, I banged my knee on a filing cabinet and snagged my pantyhose. By the time I was able to scoot out for a new pair during my lunch break, I had a run going clear up my leg, and after paying for my nylons I barely had enough money to buy some cottage cheese to eat at my desk. I thought I was getting the hang of things until I messed up a phone message and got bawled out like a five year old by the executive on the other end of the line, and when I finally had to use the ladies room, I was openly scorned by every woman who saw me.

The only good thing about being a secretary is when the clock strikes five, you're out of there. More snickers on the ride down in the elevator, a sudden drizzle as I waited for my bus, and wet, aching feet all added to my misery, and by the time I finally dragged my sorry ass back to my little apartment, I had made my decision: tomorrow I would renege on the Consent Decree and take my punishment like a man. One day as a working woman was enough to last me for a lifetime.

By morning, I chickened out, put on a dress and rode the bus to work again. So here I sit, typing this story while the work piles up around me. The only thing they can't do to me is fire me: that would be a breach of the Consent Decree. I suppose if I get too ditzy, Donna will come looking for me with her dart gun. The very idea is enough to start a party in my panties.

By the author of The Jessica Project and Skylord.