Steel World Inc. Chapter One

 

Surprise! A serialised short story that you didn’t expect, which will run alongside Secrets of Gor. Basically, I’m well ahead of the hard working Chloe in the writing vs art stakes (because art always takes much longer to complete than writing – just ask any comic book artist) so I have a bit of time to offer something else between the Secrets of Gor chapters (which, as you know, will be quite a long serial). 

 

Steel World Inc is much shorter – basically a serialised short story/novella, and something of an ‘origin story’ for Simon Rogers. We all know (from Panther Girl of Gor) that Simon was brought to Gor by the Kurii to service the computer systems on their submerged drop ship, but until now the details of how he ended up on Gor have been left vague and undisclosed. So, let’s head back to London in 2015, a good year or so before Emma is abducted by the slaver Udumi Ayeola, where a young ‘feminist’ Simon Rogers, with an iPhone 6 Plus full of Brit Pop Indie tunes, and a sincere love of Game of Thrones, has just graduated from university with a First in computer science, and the world seems, apparently, to be his oyster as he begins his first day at work with Steel World Inc. 

 

I mean, Steel World Inc? That’s obviously the Kurii, right? I mean, obviously…

 

*rolls eyes*

 

Sooo obvious…

 

 

LONDON 2015:

 

The receptionist behind the front desk wore a glossy, laminated, corporate badge that read: “I’m Kissy, how may I make your day better?” It was the sort of phrase I always associated with American companies, with their ‘have a nice day’ mantra and fake sounding customer service, but there was no mistaking the fact that Kissy was a pretty girl, and I could easily imagine her making my day better, though that’s such a sexist thing to think, that I’m going to strike that from the record. I probably looked a bit nervous that first morning on account of the fact it was my first job since graduating from university with a First in Computing. Dad had bought me a dark suit and tie from Marks & Spencer, with two spare pairs of trousers, and a set of five white shirts after he’d driven me into London. 

 

“The Bright Lights, the Big City,” Dad had remarked as he parked the car in an underground parking space close to the block of flats that would be my new home. “You’ve landed well for yourself, Simon,” he said as he lifted both my suitcases from the boot of the car. “Subsidised housing? Nice perk.”

 

“Well, you know London rent, Dad.” It was a nice perk. Half of my rent covered by the company, plus all moving in fees – just part of the graduate recruitment scheme that had attracted me to Steel World Inc. “It’s just one bedroom, combined lounge/kitchen and shower room, but it’s a decent size.”

 

“First step on the corporate ladder, son.” He put the cases down on the ground and slapped my shoulder. “You’ll have your own glass office one day.”

 

One day. One day, Simon Rogers would be someone. 

 

Someone BIG.

 

Kissy had flawless makeup. I mean, really top end makeup – the kind that takes some time to do. I watched as she clicked away on her keyboard with those French nails of hers. How do women do that? Type, I mean? With French nails? It must be difficult.

 

“Miss Madison will be down to see you, Sir. She’s just finishing up a conference call to Tokyo.”

 

Wow. A conference call to Tokyo. I glanced around the wide, spacious, ultra-modern reception area. The place reeked of money. Real money. International money. Steel World Inc had a reputation for recruiting top talent, and it was happy to pay well above the market average if needs be. My salary, at graduate entry level, was £37,000, with an expectation of that rising immediately to £45,000 in year two. Throw in the subsidised rent, generous pension, five times salary life assurance, a private medical plan, five weeks holiday a year, and points based corporate social benefits that included free skiing, air miles, and the use of luxury hotels in capital cities, and you could see why Dad was impressed. 

 

“Miss Madison?”

 

Kissy smiled at my confused expression. “She’s your manager, Sir.”

 

“Of course.” I had read that Steel World Inc prided itself on being a modern ‘progressive’ company, and most of its middle management were women. This was something I very much approved of, as I supported the concept of ‘positive discrimination’ to correct the imbalance of women in senior roles. For far too long, the ‘glass ceiling’ had meant that women had found it difficult to rise above the office floor, where they were little more than glorified secretaries. It was 2015, for God’s sake! There was no place for outdated, sexist attitudes any more. I looked forward, very much, to having a woman as my manager. 

 

“Good morning, Miss Addaway. Good morning, Miss Lappard,” said Kissy, sweetly, as I heard two sets of heels click-clack on the polished floor behind me. I turned and saw two middle managers of Steel World Inc glide past, holding their personal leather folders and corporate phones as they discussed some business matter. Like Kissy, they wore corporate ID badges on a lanyard about their necks, but theirs had white straps, as opposed to Kissy’s red strap. What was striking about them was their old-fashioned style of attire and their - how can I put this - impossibly delightful hourglass figures. 

 

For, both women had tightly cinched in waistlines that could only be the result of strict corseting and girdles, but who on Earth actually wore a boned corset in this day and age? In comparison, their hips and busts were highly accentuated, possibly also by rigid support garments, similar to the ones worn by women in the 1950s. Each of the women wore a uniform look of long, slim, pencil skirts in a ‘hobble’ fashion that draped to just below the knee, and offered a pronounced ‘wiggle walk’ as they strode past with short controlled steps in their glossy high heels. The lower half of their legs that were on show were encased in old-fashioned seamed stockings. Each woman wore a soft nylon blouse with a pussycat bow, that added to the overall slim look established by the nipped in waist and narrow knee length skirt. In addition, they wore understated pearl necklaces, slim watches and subdued rings. While Kissy wore earrings, neither of the managers did. The long hair of Miss Addaway was drawn up into a pony-tail, while the hair of Miss Lappard was worn in a medium length sleek 1950s page boy style with the ends turned under.

 

“Good morning, Kissy,” replied Miss Lappard as she glanced briefly at the receptionist. Her momentary glance took me in, too, but then she bustled quickly by, returning to her conversation about ‘the Paris contract’.   

 

“Managers,” said Kissy with a smile. “Always rushing around. The senior partners keep them all very busy.”

 

“Of course.” There was something shamefully arousing about the sight of these powerful business women in their tightly corseted body forms, click-clacking past me on glossy high heels. Shameful, of course, not for them, but rather for me, for thinking of them sexually, instead of as my equals. It was wrong to think of women as anything but the equal of men, in all things. Essentially, aside from some irrelevant physical differences, we are the same people. The exact same people. During my time at university, I was often applauded by members of the Feminist Society for my support as an ‘ally’.

 

“If you would like to take a seat over there,” said Kissy as she indicated a set of comfortable and very modern looking sofas to the side of the reception desk. I noticed a young woman, dressed in a smart black trouser suit, black pumps with one and a half inch heels, and a soft, high buttoned, cream blouse, sat on one of the sofas, with a glossy black shoulder bag resting on one of the glass tables. She had dark chestnut hair with bangs, that she wore long and loose and, as I watched, she glanced back at me, smiled briefly, and then looked away. 

 

“Do you mind?” I asked, as I indicated I was about to sit on the sofa opposite the young woman.

 

“Oh, please, be my guest.” She looked up and gave me a dazzling smile. She was perhaps five feet three inches tall with a slender frame and possibly d-cup breasts, from the way her jacket was shaped about her body. “I’m Arabella,” she said, in a polite Home Counties voice. “Arabella Whitlock.” She laughed softly. “You’ll have to excuse me; it’s my first day.”

“Same here.” I sat down opposite her, adjusted the fall of my tie, and marvelled at how lovely she seemed to be. 

 

“Oh, I thought as much, but I didn’t want to say.” She smiled again, warm and friendly. “May I ask?”

 

“IT,” I said. “Computing. Data bases. Yourself?”

 

“Oh, I’m part of the graduate management intake. I have a Philosophy degree from Oxford.”

 

“Wow. Nice one.”

 

“It was hard work, I can assure you,” she said, still wistfully smiling. “Can’t believe I landed a job with Steel World. They really are the ideal place for a young woman to begin her career. The opportunities!”

 

“So I’ve heard. It’s really good that companies like this take such a progressive approach towards women. I really approve. The business world needs more women in positions of authority.”

 

“Thank you.” Miss Whitlock’s cheeks flushed a little. “Not everyone would agree with you of course. Some of the men at Oxford…”

 

“Brutes, no doubt,” I said. “Neanderthals in their way of thinking. I’m not like them, Miss Whitlock. I care about women’s issues.”

 

“Thank you.” She smiled again. “I can sense that.”

 

We both laughed softly, and I felt a warmth towards this young woman. She was so lovely, and I knew straight away that she would be a marvellous manager at Steel World. One of the very best.

 

“I think I’m reporting to a female manager, in fact,” I said.

 

“Oh?” Miss Whitlock seemed interested to hear that.

 

“Miss Madison is meeting me. Kissy told me she’s in charge of my department.”

 

“Kissy?” Miss Whitlock seemed unsure of the reference.

 

“The receptionist,” I said. Had she not read her badge?

 

“Oh. Her.’ Miss Whitlock turned her head slightly to gaze at the receptionist with her model like features and perfect makeup. “You’re on a first name basis with that girl? You know her?” Miss Whitlock seemed disappointed.

 

“God, no. I’ve just spoken to her. Her name badge…”

 

“Yes,” Miss Whitlock seemed disappointed. “Her name badge. I see she wears it low, hanging directly between her breasts…” the implication was obvious and I must have looked embarrassed as I realised what that suggested about the prolonged direction of my gaze.

 

“I’m sorry, Miss Whitlock, I didn’t mean to suggest… of course I didn’t look, not like that…”

 

“I thought you said you were different?”

 

“I am! I respect women. I truly do.”

 

“I know her sort,” said Miss Whitlock. “There were girls like her at Oxford. Well, girls who would… dress like her.”

 

Kissy’s blouse had been rather ‘fitted’ in style with a low cut to the neckline.

 

“I prefer the way you dress, Miss Whitlock. If I may be so bold. It’s professional, elegant, tasteful.”

 

She smiled, perhaps a little pleased by the comparison. “She wears too much makeup.”

 

“I think so, too. Your makeup is simpler, more elegant. More refined.” 

 

In contrast to Kissy, Miss Whitlock wore the lightest of foundation, just a little to smooth out colour imperfections, and a very light touch of subtle eyeliner on the lower lash line. There was possibly a nude natural lipstick, but of a tasteful kind. 

 

“I’m not sure you should be discussing my makeup. A woman should not be defined by such things.”

 

“Of course not. I fully agree. Miss Whitlock, I would be the first to say that a woman should be defined by her intelligence and her talent.”

 

“Thank you.” She gazed again at Kissy and looked away, possibly irritated by the way the girl appeared. “It’s not a professional business look, is it?”

 

“No, I don’t think so, either. Perhaps if you were her manager?”

 

“Oh, yes, if I were her manager, I’d have words with her.”

 

“Quite right, Miss Whitlock.” 

 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have criticised you. You are different. And, goodness me, I don’t even know your name?” Miss Whitlock’s warm smile was back. 

 

“Simon Rogers. Please call me Simon.” I couldn’t help adding, “and if you have any IT issues with your computer…”

 

She laughed, softly, “Oh my, can I call you with any problems? I’m such a clutz with computers. All fingers and thumbs!”

 

“Absolutely, Miss Whitlock. Any time. I’d give you my desk number, but I don’t know it yet.”

 

“Of course not. And… golly gosh, I don’t know mine yet. What a pair we are!”

 

Oh, how we laughed together at this.

 

“I… have a mobile phone…” said the lovely Miss Whitlock, with a moment’s hesitation. She sucked at her lower lip, a sign of uncertainty. Had she been a little too bold in saying that? I had to quickly reassure her that my intentions were noble.

 

“As do I, Miss Whitlock.” I produced my phone. “I suppose there’s nothing wrong with two work colleagues swapping numbers? Who knows when you might need some professional IT support?”

 

“If you don’t think I’m being too forward?”

 

“Not at all, Miss Whitlock. You said exactly what I was about to say. Here.” I brought my phone number up on my screen. It was an iPhone, of course. A trendy up to the minute version – the silver iPhone 6 Plus, with its Retina HD display, optical image stabilisation, 1 GB memory and a comforting 8.0 mega pixels. I had read in the pages of GQ magazine that Apple had sold ten million models in the first week of launch in 2014. Impressive. 

 

“Oh, I have an iPhone, too!” said an excited Miss Whitlock as she produced an almost identical model, though I noted hers was only an iPhone 6, whereas mine was the 6 Plus, with a larger screen. “I’m probably going to upgrade when the new 6s Plus comes out in September.”

 

“Very wise, Miss Whitlock. I can’t understand anyone who buys a non-Apple phone.” I watched as she quickly typed my phone number into her directory and showed it to me.

 

“Perhaps you could text me so I then have your number?” I suggested.

 

“Of course. So you know it’s me, if I call.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

She sucked her lower lip in thought as she said, “I’m of course not in the habit of giving my number out to men I meet casually,” she said.  

 

“Of course not. But this is work?”

 

“Yes, I suppose it is.” She smiled again and quickly typed something into her phone. My own phone pinged a text receipt alert. The text read: ‘Is this IT support?’ and it was followed by a goofy smiley face.

 

I quickly typed back: ‘IT support ready and on standby, Miss Whitlock!’ I added my own smiley emoji. 

 

“Simon Rogers, you said?” Miss Whitlock typed my name into her contacts directory as I nodded. I, in turn, typed ‘Miss Whitlock’ next to her number. I then paused, backspaced and retyped ‘Miss Arabella Whitlock’, instead. 

 

“There. Now we both have our first business contacts,” she declared, with satisfaction.

 

“I think I’ve started out with the best one,” I said. Miss Whitlock laughed softly again as I offered the compliment. “Do please remember me when you’re running the company in a year’s time.”

 

“Of course! I’ll make you head of IT!”

 

We both laughed again. She really was lovely. 

 

I would have said something else to keep this wonderful conversation going, but I was suddenly distracted by the click-clack sound of high heels approaching from my left. Turning round, I saw a middle manager with a long glossy pony-tail of hair, gathered high from the back of her head, and the same tightly corseted figure of the middle managers who had passed me by earlier. She wore a similar over the knee pencil skirt, with the same hobbling effect to her walk, and a peach coloured nylon blouse with a high neckline and slightly puffed sleeves, gathered at the wrists. She held a leather folder and a corporate phone as she came to a halt beside the sofas. 

 

“I guess I don’t have to ask which of you is Simon Rogers.” She smiled at me and nodded politely at Miss Whitlock. “I’m Miss Madison, the departmental manager for Enterprise Resource Planning and Modular Design. Welcome to Steel World Inc, Simon.”