A Day at the Office

"DAPHNE!"

Daphne jumped half a foot, straight out of her chair; her heart was pounding. Three months on the job, and she still wasn't used to the boss' foghorn of a voice. Swallowing, she slowly set down her sandwich from the deli downstairs, and swiveled in her chair to find the glowering, fat, balding little bully directly nose-to-nose with her.

"Yes, Mr. Simms?" she squeaked, a timid little mouse to the growling lion next to her.

"Daphne!" he roared again, maybe a decibel lower, as if she were six yards away instead of six inches. "I can't find the Bormeister account! What in blazes did you do with it?"

She thought hard, her green eyes shifting away from his beady little black-and-red ones. Bormeister? Was that? No, that was last week; she had sent that to the ... no, that was the other one. Maybe-

"DAPHNE!", and he was back to jet take-off volume. "Go to the storeroom, and find that account. Now! NOW!" he screamed, as Daphne sprang out of the swivel chair, almost knocking it and herself over in the process, and beat a retreat to the door in the back of the office. Co-workers chortled behind her as they eyed her fanny shimmying past them, watched her sway back and forth as she minced as fast as she could in her heels. She strode grimly and stared straight ahead, ignoring the chuckles until she could open the door with a forearm shiver and slam it shut behind her. Then: "Err-rrr-rrr-RR-RRRR!" Her little fists clenched, her eyes closed, stamping her little feet up and down, click click clicking on the cement floor of the storeroom. Utter frustration.

Sure, the money was good, she thought as she picked her way through the dark, crowded storeroom. "Executive Assistant"-after a year of punching buttons at the superstore checkout, that had sounded like a step up. She found out later from her co-workers that Simms had been going through "Executive Assistants" like shit through a goose; none of them had lasted as long as she had already. "Daphne! DAPHNE!" and another little thing, a thousand little things, that it was going to be her job to solve. Her nerves jangled all day; she had to eat her lunch at the desk-those sandwiches from the deli, with the unfamiliar flavor but her bankbook was looking better and better; a few more months, and that new car might be within reach.

Daphne sighed, tossed her long, blonde hair behind her, and smoothed her skirt. She'd blown her first month's pay on a new wardrobe; nice, crisp blouses, fashionably short skirts, dark blazers. Shoes. Lots of shoes. She'd spent the last year wearing flat loafers at the superstore; even now, she wobbled on the still-newish heels, digging into her feet, pinching her toes.

Petite and shapely, she'd garnered a whistle or two walking from the bus to work. She'd learned quickly, though, that feminine wiles didn't soften Mr. Simms.

"When you meet his wife," said Harriet from Accounts Payable, "you'll understand." Eventually, she did; Mrs. Simms made Mr. Simms look debonair. She growled, and looked, like a bulldog; she glared at Daphne, at Daphne's long hair and short skirt, and snarled at the boss, "Got another one, I see." He cowered until she left, then turned up the volume and the bullying another couple of notches.

Daphne could barely see; maybe half the fluorescent lights worked, and those that did sputtered and sparked. Past metal racks overloaded with boxes full of records; she squinted at the labels. G-M? 1997? Where could it be?

That's funny; she'd never seen that before. A trapdoor in the floor. There was a piece of paper pasted to it: "New Accounts". Aha! She hesitated; then, she sort of sidled down into a crouch, her skirt hiking up high against her thighs, and reached down for the ring handle in the door. She got it on the second try, pulled, and an eerie glow filled the space, much brighter than the flickering fluorescence of the storeroom. How come they could keep the lights working down here, she wondered? She'd been after maintenance over that storeroom since she got here. Steps lay before her, rough, wooden steps. She crept down them, kind of sideways, one shoe clopping on the unpolished slat, then the other coming to rest next to it; another stair, then another. A dozen in all, and she was all the way down.

Daphne looked around, blinking in the soft light. It almost looked hazy. She couldn't see any records or shelves; there were corridors leading in several directions, though. Slowly, inexplicably, she felt a chill trace up her spine. Maybe she ought to go back up and -- "Daphne! DAPHNE!" No, she couldn't do that. Squinting her eyes, gritting her teeth, balling her fists, she picked a direction and trudged forward.

That way led to a fork, then another. Daphne was trying to remember which way she'd come; this was, well, almost like a maze. Had she turned left, or right? Which way were those stairs? Another fork; she paused. And she heard it. Breathing. Labored, slow, harsh. A deep breath, like someone getting ready to blow up a balloon; then a wheeze. Breath, wheeze. Where was it coming from? She looked around; just a little bit of panic, just a little. There was nobody in sight. Which way? She turned left, heading north, or was it south?

There! Ahead, it looked like cabinets of a sort; the New Accounts must be there. She broke into a near trot, entered the little room. What was this? Not a store room. There was a sink, a couple of closets, drawers, a table. The cabinets were full of plates, silverware, linen. A kitchen! Down here? A room, off to the side; she peered in. A large pot. A rope above it, dangling from a pulley overhead. Wood stacked under the pot. Was the office next to a restaurant? She hadn't seen it.

She walked in, her heels clacking on the slate floor, looked curiously around the little room. There was a wheeled gurney there, a server, with a big platter on it. What would you cook in a pot like this; what would you put on a platter like this? She was so enraptured, so fascinated that she didn't hear the breathing, getting louder, and louder or the heavy, plopping footsteps, one, then another, closer, and closer. Well, there was nothing here for her, Daphne decided; certainly no New Accounts.

The creature seemed taken aback, raised its paws and shied back; that left a little bit of daylight between its bulk and the entry to the kitchen, and Daphne grabbed it. She flew past the startled beast, headed back past the table and cabinets. Which way? South, or is it north. Daphne heard behind her, "ArrrrROOOO!" And then plop, plop, plop, plop. It was after her.

Terrified, Daphne spun around the corner and almost fell down. Was this the way back? She glanced over her shoulder; the big dude was lumbering toward her, arms spread, jagged claws at the end of his-fingers? Frantically, she turned down a dark corridor, then flattened against the wall, heart pounding, more than after one of Mr. Simms' tirades. It passed her, arms still flailing. Thank God! She edged away from the opening, slowly down the corridor, and kept sliding along the wall, toward the darkness. What? Her feet wouldn't move; she was stuck in something. She pulled, desperately; some kind of goo, maybe tar. Gasping, her eyes on the opening, she reached down with both hands, tried to get a grip on her leg. But she kept slipping; sheer pantyhose. She grabbed again, pulled her shoe, but it wouldn't come free.

A massive, shaggy form was blocking the light. "Oh!" she gasped. It stepped forward; she stepped out, out of her shoes. Slipping and sliding in the slick, black nylons, trying to get some traction. "ArrrrROOOO!" came the roar, then a yelp. She glanced behind her; the big guy was struggling, trying to step out of the tar. He was caught! Yes!

She slipped and slid some more along the dark corridor, skidded past an equally dark opening. She glanced fearfully over her shoulder-Big Boy had one foot free, up in the air-and darted through the opening. Ouch! The smooth, slate floor had given way to gravel; there was construction materials everywhere. Daphne cried, hopping from one foot to the other on the rocks; her leg brushed a rough, concrete wall; nylons snagged, caught against the craggy surface. She gasped and tore away as the jagged cement scraped her skin, she kept hobbling across the room, the stones bruising her feet unmercifully. A broken board jutting from a pile of wood caught her new skirt, ripped it right across her derriere; she stumbled, finally spied a way out just as a roar heralded the return of her tormentor. As she ducked out of the room and desperately plodded away, her bare feet thump-thump-thumping on the smooth floor, she heard his cries of pain; maybe I can find my way back, Daphne thought in desperation, and turned left-north, or was it south?

She ran straight into Mr. Friendly. He had doubled back around the construction room. Eyes blazing, arms wrapped around her, he bellowed into her face in a way that put Mr. Simms to shame. Daphne was stock still, trembling, eyes wide as saucers; she struggled feebly in his grasp, her nostrils twitched with his smell. Then he grunted, grabbed a pawful of her luxurious hair, and started ambling down the corridor, dragging her behind him. Daphne kicked, lost her balance; her hip and butt scraped against the floor as he trudged along, seemingly crooning to himself. Her scalp hurt like fire; she started to whimper. Were they going to?

Yes; back to the kitchen. Daphne's nose itched again; something was burning. The wood under the pot in the little room was ablaze, filling the room with a dull red, flickering glow. She yelped as the big fellow, with no effort, lifted her straight up in the air by her long mane and she could make out a figure next to the pot.

"Thank you, my sweet," a voice cackled.

"Hello!" Daphne cried. "My God, thank God you're here! This thing..." and then her eyes focused. The figure was an old crone; no, older, older than dirt, her face a mass of warts, her mouth fixed in a wicked grin. She was in black from head to toe, a shawl over her shoulders, a peaked hat slapped over her matted hair. And as she leered at Daphne, her eyes gleamed; spittle ran over her lips.

"Yes, my pet has done well," the ancient woman croaked, in a voice like rusty nails coming out of rotten timber. "We've not seen any surface dwellers in a month of Sabbaths; I feared my little trap had run its course. But now, you're hereand you'll soon be cooking in my pot!"

This is crazy, thought Daphne; the beast, the old crone's "pet," had lifted her off the ground by her hair, while the biddy wound rope around Daphne's slender ankles and calves. The hemp felt rough through her stockings.

"In your pot?" she squeaked, again a little mouse. "Why do you want to put me in...?" her voice went dry.

The hag finished binding Daphne's legs, straightened up and stuck a bony finger under her chin, lifted it up. Daphne could see the yellow, dull evil in her eyes. "Why, to make a profit, my dear," she wheezed. "For each surface dweller to boil alive in my pot, we sell a hundred sandwiches! We've made a very nice living here. Although living is not something you'll be doing, for much longer!" As the crone screamed with laughter, Gruesome took over, winding endless lengths of cord around Daphne's torso, around and around her arms, above and below her breasts.

Daphne finally had the presence of mind to start fighting; she gritted her teeth as she helplessly shuffled her bare feet, twisted against the cocoon of rope. "They'll look for me!" she said in desperation. "They'll wonder where I went"

"No, they won't," cooed the old wench; she had returned to her pot, stirring vegetables and seasonings into the bubbling brew, as the monster finished wrapping Daphne up and turned to a crank mounted to the wall. "You work for that awful Simms man, I'm sure. I've gotten four of his other 'Executive Assistants,' too. They'll assume you've had enough of him, and just walked out." Suddenly, Daphne was flopping like a fish; as the big guy turned the crank, the rope lifted her straight off the ground. "But it'll be him who'll get enough of you-at $3.95 a slice! Hee, hee!"

As she chortled at her own horrid joke, the old bag and her hairy pal guided their trussed, terrified catch toward the pot. Daphne tried frantically to lift her bound feet, just inches from the steaming tureen; she jerked around in the grip of the strange pair. "Please-no!" she cried out, and felt the rope give; the beast was slowly lowering her into the stew. The first lick of the broth against her toes made her flinch in agony; she had wondered if the panty hose would protect her. A few more turns, and her legs were steeped in the brew; at first, just like a very hot bath -- then, she felt her flesh cooking away. She was up to her navel now; she had always thought her butt was a little too well padded, but it too felt the blistering heat.

"Please" she whispered again.

The crone was doing some calculating. "If I slice her thin," she was saying, "I believe I could make her last for two weeks. By then, old Simms will have hired another one"

Daphne was seeing her tormentors in a blur, her eyes nearly closed; the foaming soup was lapping at her breasts, licking them through her once-crisp blouse. Her brand new, smart, sexy outfit, soaked and smelling of pepper and parsley; she bucked once more, feebly, and then..

Mr. Simms took a bite out of his deli sandwich, glowered and yelled, "Daphne! DAPHNE!"

"No, sir, Daphne quit. I'm Missy."

"MISSY!" He took another bite, gestured to the door in the back of the room. "New Accounts, pronto!"