Chapter 1
There were good reasons why the people at Cunningham Manufacturing Co. hated Norma Peterson, the new female marketing analyst. Immediately after the tall, aristocratic-looking brunette had assumed her post she began to make life unbearable for her underlings. Her first victim was the marketing department's head secretary, twenty year old Flo Jones, a buxom, shapely young blonde who had been working for Cunningham since graduating from high school.
Early one morning the newly installed female executive had called Flo into her office and abruptly informed her that her desk was about to be relocated.
"There's been far too much chatting between you and the other secretaries, Miss Jones. As of tomorrow morning your desk will be moved closer to my office so I can keep an eye on you."
Flo could hardly believe her ears. Here was this newcomer — a woman at that! — talking to her as though she were some sort of misbehaving school child. Flo, who never let herself be pushed around by anyone, nearly blew a gasket.
"Miss Peterson, you may be my boss, but you're certainly not going to tell me where I can sit and where I can't sit," she retorted angrily, her fair cheeks flushing bright red.
But the new executive merely peered through her black-frame glasses and said in a cool commanding tone of voice: "Miss Jones, you'll do exactly what I say without asking any questions."
And that was the end of the incident. Flo, boiling with rage, retreated to her desk and began pulling drawers open and banging them closed, slamming her stapler on the desk top and shuffling papers with a seething helpless fury. From that moment on, the volatile young blonde vowed she was going to get back at Norma Peterson no matter what happened.
Feelings of vengeful hatred spread throughout the entire office when, during the second week of Miss Peterson's high-handed rule, a yellow form was distributed to all secretaries and clerical workers in the department. This form required that each worker fill in what he had done during the day and how much time he had spent doing it. There was no disguising who was behind all this, and the reaction among the office underlings was so violent that half of them threatened to quit on the spot.
Miss Peterson's antics didn't stop there, though. She also managed to alienate some of the other executives and even Cunningham's two top industrial salesmen, Don Richardson and Benny Smith. She did this by firing off memos criticizing their sales performance based on their weekly and supposedly confidential reports to the president, Arthur Cunningham.
In short, Norma Peterson, the high-powered business executive with a master's degree from a prestigious Eastern university, had managed to turn the whole office against her in a matter of weeks.
But while everyone had his pet gripe against the tactless career girl, the person most directly affected by her presence was Nick Saxby, the other analyst in the department and the person who nominally shared power with her.
Saxby, a handsome thirty year old bachelor, had a carefree easy way of handling things. He got along well with all the salesmen and the Cunningham clients he came in contact with, but as far as paper work and organization were concerned, he just didn't give a damn. He knew customers were often more satisfied with cheerful explanations of what went wrong than with long wordy letters they wouldn't read anyway.
Under the surface, though, Saxby was more than a free and easy playboy. For more than a year his eye had been on the post of marketing vice-president, which had been left vacant, and up to now the field had been clear. To his dismay, Saxby was beginning to realize that his only competition was going to come from a woman — a tough, icy career girl who already was giving him a run for his money. Norma Peterson, in fact, was threatening to grind him under her high-heeled shoes, figuratively speaking. She put in long grueling hours of work, made detailed marketing reports on new products, and prodded everyone under her to push themselves to the limit of their endurance. She was one hard-ass bitch, all right, Saxby thought to himself, but the funny thing was he could sense something intense and physical beneath that career girl act of hers.
It just didn't add up that a woman as attractive as Norma Peterson could be such a grind. Hell, she had the lushly curvaceous body of a movie star, the haughty polished manners of a European princess — and here she was burying her nose in papers for long hours every day when she could be out having a good time.
The clothes she wore didn't make sense either. As far as colors went they were usually conservative — something dark or tweedy that matched up with the way she wore her hair — tied back in an austere chestnut bun that went with her dark-frame glasses. But the conservatism stopped there, for the hem length of her dresses reached no lower than six inches above the knee. It was as though she purposely wore them this short to tease the hell out of the men in the office in some sort of perverse way. Sure she acted cold and stiff, but every time she bent down to pick something up and her dress flared out she became the center of attention. The men would stop what they were doing and crane their necks to get an eyeful of her lacy garter straps and the trim of her white nylon panties.
Nick could swear she did it on purpose, though the other guys thought he was crazy. His intuition told him that beneath her frigid manners was a real woman, a real sex siren just waiting to be let out. If only he could crack through the surface he was sure he could get the upper hand on her and put her in her place. But how? That was the problem . . . though not an unsolvable one for just by chance, Saxby's stronger ally in the office struggle had come across a rather unusual incident involving Norma Peterson.
It was the thought of this incident which caused the smile on Flo Jones's face as she traipsed up the stairs to the second floor of the Cunningham building early one Friday morning in the fall. What she had seen was nearly making her burst inside with glee. She had to tell someone, and that someone, of course, would be Nick Saxby. He would be dying to hear the news about the high and mighty Miss Peterson, the same Miss Peterson who was always so prim and proper in the office, but who had a secret life that up until now no one had known about.
Unfortunately, the young secretary was forced to contain her glee, for when she arrived at ten minutes to nine, Saxby was not yet in his office, and from past experience she knew he wouldn't show up for another half hour. Norma Peterson, on the other hand, was already hard at work, sitting at her desk and scribbling away on the rough draft report she was supposed to present to Cunningham later on that day.
Flo purposely avoided saying hello to her and headed toward the coat rack by the coffee machine where the other secretaries and the office boy had gathered. Sliding her bulky fur coat down off her shoulders she could see Davey Wilson ogling her breasts the same way he did every morning. God, he was a horny little bastard, she thought.
"What are you lookin' at, carrot face?" she sneered playfully.
"That's a nice coat you got, Flo," he snickered. "Does it shrink in the wash?"
The other girls giggled as the voluptuous blonde elbowed the slim redheaded teenager out of the way to hang her coat up and then bent down to insert her plastic cup below the spout of the coffee machine. She had more important things on her mind than Davey Wilson this morning, though Davey didn't bother to take his eyes off her.
He was accustomed to the rough-and-tumble way she talked, and in spite of it the youth could feel himself getting turned on every time she came within three feet of him.
Like now, for example, he had the distinct impression she was bending over the coffee machine an extra long time just to drive him crazy. His eyes wandered down to the hem of her tantalizingly short skirt beneath which he could see her black garter straps and the dark tight-clinging stockings which sheathed her fully contoured thighs.
Damn, he wanted to fuck her, he thought to himself. Half the guys in the office had done it already, but not him. She treated him like he was in the second grade, even though he was nineteen years old. He didn't know who was worse — Miss Peterson or her. One of these days, though, he was going to get inside her panties even it if killed him.
The object of the young office boy's lewd daydream, however, was suddenly summoned by Miss Peterson.
"Miss Jones, would you please come here," Norma called out from her desk. It wasn't a question, it was an order — it was always an order with this dame, the head secretary mused in disgust.
Flo stirred the sugar in her coffee, sighed deeply, and strutted slowly and defiantly toward her female boss, who was waiting impatiently.
"Please type this before ten, Miss Jones. I have a meeting with Mr. Cunningham and I need a final draft of my report, and try not to have any mistakes in it."
"Yes, Miss Peterson," Flo answered with polite sarcasm. She glanced at the clock on the wall and noted it was not even nine yet. Slavedriver, she thought to herself. But she wasn't going to last long . . . not when her secret was let out of the bag.
More than anything Flo wanted to confront this snotty bitch with a certain little piece of private information just to see how she would react, but she knew it wasn't time yet. No, she would just have to wait and act humble in front of Miss Peterson for the time being.
Obediently she settled into her typing chair and began to hammer out the report. But Miss Peterson wasn't satisfied to have just one person working before nine in the morning. Instead, she immediately called Davey Wilson into her office. Poor Davey, Flo thought to herself, he's going to get chewed out again. And she was right.
"Y—yes, Miss Peterson," the freckle faced redhead stammered.
"Davey, I received a call from Mr. Beeler, the purchasing agent at Stern Chemical Company. He said that he hasn't received the marketing analysis on the new Cunningham valve yet. Is that correct?"
"G—gee, I don't know, Miss Peterson. I mean he should have."
"Should isn't good enough, Davey," Norma scolded him. "I thought I requested that you deliver it to him by hand on Wednesday. Now suppose you tell me what happened."
The carrot-faced teenager blushed in embarrassment. His job, which was the lowest and least remunerative in the company involved not only carrying messages to executives in different parts of the office building, but driving all over Philadelphia in his own car to drop off reports and other documents that couldn't be sent through the mail for various reasons.
Generally he did his job without question, but the delivery to Stern Chemical had taken over three hours and involved fighting the worst traffic jam he had ever seen. Miss Peterson had handed him the envelope at four in the afternoon and by seven he was still stuck in traffic. In the end he had decided to turn around and go home and just drop the envelope off in the mail, hoping it would get to Mr. Beeler this morning.
He should have known better, though, than try to put one over on this snooty bitch. Miss Peterson was the type who kept an eagle eye out on everything, and now she had the goods on him.
"Well?" she demanded.
"L—look, Miss Peterson, I was on the road till past seven o'clock. There wasn't nothin' I could do, so I just put it in the mail," he explained to her.
"Davey, I'm disappointed in you, I really am. With that kind of attitude you're going to be a messenger boy the rest of your life. The next time something like this happens, I'm going straight to Mr. Cunningham. Do you understand?"
"Y-yes," the office boy stammered hopelessly. His embarrassment was compounded by the fact that Miss Peterson had chewed him out loudly enough for everyone in the office to hear. He retreated from her cubicle like a dog with his tail between his legs.
Flo glanced quickly over at Nick Saxby, who had just staggered into the neighboring office, to see if the good-looking marketing analyst had taken in the latest example of Norma Peterson's high-handed behavior, but Nick was in a world of his own, being afflicted by his usual Friday morning hangover. His eyes were puffy and red, the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, his tie yanked down and his suitcoat slung over his shoulder. Wearily he flopped down on the chair behind his desk, lit a cigarette and shook his head to revive himself. Flo defiantly stopped typing and entered his office.
"You better sober up quick," she warned him. "That bitch already has me typing up a long report for Cunningham."
"Thanks, Flo," Nick mumbled. "You're a good kid."
"Well?" Flo said. "Well what?"
"Well, don't you have something you want me to type?"
Nick glanced up at her absently and smiled in a crazy way. Flo was always looking out for his best interests, and that was a good thing. Without a guardian like her he stood the chance of being eaten alive by that high-powered brain, Norma Peterson, who was struggling to take his promotion away from him.
Think, think, Nick chided himself. He knew he had to make a good impression with Cunningham this morning, even though his brain was barely functioning.
"You're right, Flo," he said finally. "I've got to get that report done, don't I? Come in here and take some dictation."
Flo gave him a quick conspiratorial smile, retrieved her steno pad from her desk and re-entered his office. Nick leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and began tapping a pencil against his teeth. Flo was dying to tell him the good news, but checked herself, knowing that Nick had to concentrate on business at the moment.
"How's this?" Nick said. "The new Cunningham valve is a triumph of modern technology. It combines the best features of modern science with the reliability of old-fashioned craftsmanship."
He closed his eyes, straining to think, but the only images that came to his mind were those of the previous night - lewd visions of Tanya, the tall, oriental-looking ad agency model he had seduced, her lithe firm thighs scissoring open in sensual invitation on his big circular bed, the animal agility of her athletic body beneath his as he rode her up and down in the wild untamed rhythm of their fucking.
"Yes?" Flo interrupted. "What else?" Nick's mind drifted farther off into outer space, still reeling with the liquor he had consumed the night before. God, he thought, how could he possibly concentrate on an industrial valve at a time like this? He began tapping the pencil furiously against his teeth, only to be interrupted by a voice from the neighboring office.
"Miss Jones," Norma Peterson called. "I would appreciate that report by ten, thank you."
Flo turned to Nick, waiting for him to say something. She wanted him to tell Norma Peterson to drop dead, but instead he closed his eyes and squeezed his forehead.
"It's no use, Flo baby," he admitted. "She's one up on me again. I can't think of a damn thing. You better go type her report."
"You better come up with something, Nick," Flo warned him. "Cunningham's going to blow his top."
"Don't worry about it. I'll dig up some kind of bullshit." He gave her a confident wink, leaned back in his swivel chair and propped his feet up on the desk.
"Miss Jones?" Norma Peterson called out again.
"Yes, Miss Peterson," Flo said curtly. "I'll type that report right away." And with that, she headed back to her desk, her secret still bursting to be let out.
At two minutes to ten Norma Peterson was hovering over the young secretary waiting for her to finish the last page and making her so nervous that she made three mistakes in the final paragraph.
"That will do,' Miss Jones," the new marketing analyst said with crisp efficiency. Not bothering to reply, Flo removed the last page from her typewriter, placed it on the pile with the others and watched her female boss neatly joggling the stack on the desk top and carefully inserting it into a file folder.
Nick Saxby by now had dosed himself with coffee and peeled his eyelids open. He winked at Flo behind Norma's back as he headed toward the door of Arthur Cunningham's office.
"Well, I see you're all prepared as usual," he said to Norma as she drew up alongside him. His female rival smiled half-heartedly and gave him a cold gaze from behind her dark spectacles.
"I'm always well prepared Mr. Saxby," she said calmly, eyeing him with distaste. "So I've noticed."
Saxby opened the door chivalrously and allowed her to enter first, giving her a quick once over as she did so.
She was one hell of a tough customer, he thought to himself. As smart as a whip with a master's degree in business administration, but as cold as an ice cube. And yet, as he'd noted many times before, she was a damned good-looking chick. She had a trim well-formed body, with long sensual legs, ripely swelling breasts, and a set of hips with a nice sexy wiggle, even though she tried to restrain it. As usual the way she was dressed today reflected the unique combination of conservatism and daring.
Like now, for example, she was wearing a tasteful dark blue dress with a high collar. The hem came down midway to her knees, which wasn't conservative at all because it showed an eyeful of her supple, stocking-sheathed legs and an even bigger eyeful when she took a seat in front of Cunningham's desk. Nick sat down in a chair opposite her and tried to keep his gaze off the tempting sight of her thighs and the lacy little strap of her garter, but it was a hard thing to do. He could almost swear she was practically exposing herself to him and Cunningham too. In fact, he could see Cunningham shoot a quick meaningful look up at her from the letters he was signing. The boss fixed his eyes on her long smooth legs and glimpsed the silken triangle of her white panties glimmering beneath the hem of her dress as she crossed her legs. The old man, as he was affectionately known, cleared his throat to regain his composure and smiled at both of them, though Nick could see he was practically drooling.
"Well, we're right on schedule," the gray-haired boss said, glancing quickly at the digital clock which was one of the two principal objects on his desk.
The other principal object and by far the most dominating was a plastic model of his pride and joy, the new remote-actuated ball valve designed for the chemical process industries. There in full life-size, color-coded polypropylene was the Cunningham brainchild, the new invention that was going to catapult this year's sales figures. Nick could sense that his boss was going to be plenty angry with him unless he came up with some brilliant ideas on how to promote this baby. Jesus, if there was anybody in the world who could get more excited about a plastic valve than Norma Peterson" it was Cunningham himself.
Nick could even sense the excitement in the old man's voice as he tossed him the ball.
"Nick," Cunningham said. "Suppose you kick off. Let's get a good handle on this thing so our advertising agency can pick it up and run with it."
Nick looked up at the ceiling and squinted his eyes, trying to give the impression that he was in deep thought.
"Well?" Cunningham prodded after a long pause.
"Well, I was thinking we could suggest the idea about this thing combining modern technology with an old-fashioned craftsmanship," Nick offered lamely.
"And?"
"Urn, of course, that's just the basic idea. They'd have to develop it on their own."
Cunningham frowned in disappointment at Nick's obvious lack of enthusiasm for the new project and turned to Norma Peterson, who immediately adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose and removed the neatly typed report from her file folder.
"Frankly, Mr. Cunningham," she began, "I think we should take a hard-nosed approach to this product. Since it will be advertised through trade publications I suggest we cite facts and figures illustrating the valve's durability, it's adaptability to automated systems and it's computer interface capability. In my report I have all this data broken down into an easy to read form so that the advertising people will be able to scan it and back up their claims with proven test figures."
Christ, Nick swore angrily to himself, here goes the human computer again, the machine with all the answers and all the big words to impress the old man. It wouldn't be so bad if she were an ugly old witch, but here she was sitting with her legs crossed under that short dress of hers and that lacy little fringe of her garter strap right out in the open for everyone to see. It was enough to drive a man wild with lust. More than anything in the world, Nick wanted to get this cold-hearted bitch down on all fours and shove his cock up inside that tight little cunt of hers.
Unfortunately, at the moment he had to concentrate on business, or at least try to, as Cunningham said: "Very good, Miss Peterson, let's take a look at this report of yours."
Norma handed it to the boss like a proud school girl while Nick winced inwardly. She had really put him down this time. Here it was Friday, the end of the week, and she had a twelve page typewritten report in her hands. Jesus, she was a real killer.
"Very good, very good," Cunningham praised her efficiency as he flipped through the bulky document.
Setting it down on his desk, he turned to Nick.
"Well, Nick, have you got anything to add along these lines?"
Nick looked down at the crumby mess of coffee-stained papers in his hands and desperately tried to think of something intelligent to say. To him a valve was a valve. A hunk of metal or plastic, a piece of plumbing. What the hell could anybody say about a valve?
Finally, he broke out in a broad smile, revealing his even white teeth.
'That's a damn good idea," he said jovially. "That's really an excellent idea." He turned and focused his smile on Norma, who greeted it with cold stony silence. Shit, at least she could let him save face in front of Cunningham.
The boss settled back in his chair.
"Yes, Miss Peterson has been producing a lot of good ideas, hasn't she, Nick?"
"Yes sir," Nick smiled. Cunningham smiled back at him, then abruptly wiped it off his face.
"I like good ideas, Nick. I really do. I like to see people come up with good ideas. In fact, Nick, I wish you would come up with a good idea once in a while."
Nick Saxby's own smile dropped off his face and fell on the floor. Cunningham had never been this blunt before, though he'd been throwing a lot of hints around lately. Nick could feel a cold sweat breaking out on his palms and he laughed nervously.
"All right, that will be all for now," Arthur Cunningham said abruptly. "I'll review your report, Norma, and consult you some time before the meeting with the agency. This looks very well done."
"Thank you, Mr. Cunningham," Norma said stiffly.
After the gray-haired patriarch had dismissed the meeting, Nick headed to the coffee machine and sidled up to Flo Jones, who was stirring the sugar in her second cup of the morning.
"That bitch," he growled. "She really put the knife in me today."
"Cunningham really chewed you out, huh?"
"I think he was ready to fire me on the spot. He just loves Norma Peterson."
"Well, he won't when he finds out her little secret," Flo smiled cryptically.
"What secret?" Nick said, his ears suddenly perking up.
"It's a bombshell. Let's go into your office."
Puzzled, Nick led the way in, drew his desk chair up close to his young ally and listened intently as she related her story in a hushed rapid whisper.
"Tell me again," Nick demanded in disbelief when she had finished. "It can't be true."
"But it is," Flo swore. "Except I've got no proof. When I went back to the playground to get my little brother I actually saw that bitch hiding in a clump of bushes. Her skirt was all bunched up, and I swear she was exposing her panties to those two young kids. Like a couple of idiots Tommy and this friend of his were just staring at her, you know, like she was crazy or something."
Nick let out a low whistle, astounded by the secret Flo had revealed to him, but then he began to fear that perhaps the young secretary was letting her vengeance get the best of her.
"God, I'd love to believe it, but it's too incredible. She couldn't possibly do something like that . . . exposing her panties . . . Jesus!"
"I saw it with my own eyes," Flo huffed. "And I watched her run away to her car. It was a white convertible just like the one she drives to the office."
Although doubt still lingered in Nick Saxby's mind he began to recall the scene in the office earlier in the morning — the way Norma Peterson had crossed her legs, the way he could see her garter belt and even the lacy trim of her panties beneath her skirt.
Hell, he thought finally, it was entirely possible that the hard-nosed new marketing analyst led a double life. It was very likely that she was hiding a secret — a secret which just might prevent her from becoming vice-president of Cunningham Manufacturing if it were ever revealed.
"You know something, Flo," he chuckled. "I might just play private detective tomorrow. I think Norma Peterson really does have a secret. Get me her address from the personnel files, will you?"