Pulling A Late One

A short erotic office-based story. If that's not your thing, don't read on.

Yeah, I thought you would.

-

Oh, you've been bad. You shouldn't have done that. Not on a weeknight. Especially not when you've got a meeting the next day.

But, fuck, it's tempting. A whole bar. Mostly students. The manager and the DJ know exactly what they're doing. Cheap alcopops. The birds love 'em, and after the first few bottles they'll do anything to get more for free.

Anything.

Or, at least, you like to think. They're easy, but you still didn't get anywhere for some reason (possibly because you drank a few alcopops yourself bringing out the leering pervert in you), and you woke up alone five hours later, to both radio and phone alarms blaring. You're now sat in this mind-numbing meeting trying to prop your eyes open, oozing last night's excesses.

Focus. Look at your manager. Oh God, why does she have to be fit too?

“Just a few jobs to dish out today,” she says, sifting through stapled sheets. She says something about a park and a poster.

Wait. No, don't look at her. That blouse is making you think things again.

You take an assignment sheet, making your contribution now, to show people you're with it. Don't let your eyes drop. Loosen your collar and cool off. Straighten your tie to hide it. Listen to the conversation; don't think about those girls. Don't picture them on the podium, in their little denim skirts, bending over and-

A handful of paper passes in front of your eyes and you try not to flinch. You look up at your manager from across the table. Strike one. She's noticed you're half asleep, but she's pretending she hasn't.

Fuck, you think. You wouldn't be in this shit now if it wasn't for that DJ. You'd have just gone home if he hadn't have made them do it, made them kiss and touch each other, made them glance out to the audience where you were standing.

They even looked right at you. Like your manager is doing right now, only without the scorn. Strike two.

Your colleague is speaking, the middle-class marketing bloke with a long commute every day and a fiance waiting for him at home in the evenings. You glance at him, like you've been paying attention all along.

“We're still waiting to hear back from them on that,” he says. You hear him say “leaflets”.

Stay tuned for now. When you get home, you can think about this all you want and you can crack one out, get it of the system and catch up on sleep. You can imagine you're the DJ. Oh. You want this champagne? You're going to have to show me a little more.

The girls lift up each other's tiny denim skirts, looking at you, and French kiss. They spank each other, hard, a smack that you can hear the over your music, piercing the fast-paced, tuneless track. They show off their thongs, grope each other's breasts, push their cleavages against each other.

Please, Mr. DJ. Give us your sweet champagne.

You show them the bottle as one girl buries her face in between the other girl's breasts.

Keep trying, you think.

But something isn't right: the bass has dropped out on your sound system. You don't understand the audio deck, which isn't actually there- all you can see is three squat coffee tables pushed together. All you can hear is the snare of- of-

Of fabric being stretched.

Your trousers. Your hand in your pocket. Your own tugging. You stop, and start to shrink, in more ways than one.

Your colleagues- your married manager, the recently-graduated pretty assistant with the meathead boyfriend you hear of- the pregnant girl who has to slouch a little- they are all silent, looking at the floor, scarlet faced.

Strike three. Oh, you've been bad.