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.


She ignored him.


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

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