Corporate Life

Tom took one look at the chair and nearly creamed his pants.

A big, black, sexy thing wearing leather and smelling so good it made
you want to go over and sexually harass it. Sitting there behind the
huge mahogany desk, teasingly showing a little leg below the modesty
panel. Modesty panel, go figure!

The whole room oozed sex, power, money, influence. In this room he was
GOD.

Lesser mortals will queue at the door, the big, heavy, mahogany door.
The same door that proudly displays the name "Thomas C. Lewis IV" in
bold black lettering engraved on highly polished brass plate. But it is
what's written under the name that will mean everything to those daring
to cross the threshold, "Executive Vice President". They will get
plenty of time to understand the full meaning of those words while they
are grilled by Gloria followed by the compulsory 10 minute wait while
he 'finishes the conference call with New York'.

He stood in the doorway, checked the view into his office and a broad
grin spread across his face. It was perfect, makes Citizen Kane look
like some kind of second rate loser.

The long walk to the desk was like walking on air, the carpet was so
thick if you dropped your palmtop it could be gone for months.

He ran his hand across the desktop, feeling the ripples of the engraved
leather top and picking up the wax from the newly polished timber. By
the time he had carefully arranged the executive accessories this
desktop will be as impressive as the art collection hanging on the
walls. The desk was, of course, huge. Had some fancy bullshit French
name but who cares about that, it looked the part and it made the kind
of statement he was looking for, "I'm GOD, Screw you".

He could resist no longer, still with one hand on the desktop he slid
around and parked his godlike arse on the chair. "Better than sex" he
thought, as the air slowly escaped and the soft leather held his soft
cheeks in a warm embrace. He tried a few dramatic turns, he would use
these for emphasis at key moments of the VERY important meetings he
would hold in this room. Perfect.

The view from behind the desk was even more impressive than the view
from the door. To the right a vast expanse of uninterrupted glazing
with a fantastic view of the bay. Straight ahead across the vast
expanse of carpet was the informal meeting area with casual chairs,
sofa and coffee table. To the left, wall. Not just any wall though, on
this wall would hang the trophies of an Executive Vice President. The
certificates, the corporate awards, the photo's of Tom with people
almost as important as himself, the invitations to all the key social
events in the Miami calendar. This wall said, "Read 'em and weep,
sucker".

Yep, there was no escaping the fact that anyone entering this 500 sq ft
of prime Miami real estate would know who they were dealing with. They
would know he was GOD, they are scum. If there was one arse in Miami
that required a lot of kissing, sucking and stroking, there was
absolutely no mistaking that this was where that arse was parked.

What they would not know is that on the route from insurance salesman's
son to Executive Vice President Tom had sold his soul to a devil in a
pinstripe. They would not know that if you shouted "Is there anybody
there" into Toms ear the echo would bounce around inside the empty
vessel until it gave up and died. That his heart had been ripped out
and replaced with a calculator. That he had traded all that was
valuable to him for a handful of promises. That without this office, he
was nothing.

But then they didn't need to know that. Tom didn't even know that. This
knowledge was kept only by the gatekeepers of corporate hell, HR
department, 24th floor. They had their own trophy wall, floor to
ceiling hearts in delicate glass cages.