Posted by PK on October 08, 2001 at 16:38:30:
"Let's see if I've got this straight," the senior exec said. "You want to roast one of the
secretaries?" She took a sip from her glass and raised an eyebrow. "Might I ask why?
Catering not up to your standard? I thought you programmers survived on pizza and coke."
"Common misconcesh.... misconception," Ian replied, "We're good wholesh..." He paused for
a second. Owlishly he reviewed his argument. Possibly starting the office party with an
extended lunch break at the pub had not been a great idea. Normally he could drink all night
given sufficient reason - "What's yours?" was usually sufficient - but starting at lunchtime
meant he had to get through the initial phase of incoherence before he switched into full
combat mode. Start again. "We endure, we persist, we survive as you so wisely said..." he
failed to suppress a burp..."On cheese salad sarnies, coffee 'n' fish 'n' chips. 'Cept for those
heretics who drink tea. He pointed theatrically at Paul who had a hand rolled cigarette in one
hand and a pint in the other. He was losing it. "Just though it might spice the party up a bit."
This had seemed like a good idea after the first couple of pints. "Beats the shit outa sausage
rolls and cold quiche."
"Anyone particular in mind?" Her mouth quirked and her smile was dangerous. Ian looked
down at the lithe legs visible below the midthigh of her business suit's skirt. The look was
noticed.
"Nobody in p'tic'lar. Doesn't have to be a secretary," he said, trying for nonchalance, his airy
arm movement almost knocking the glass out of her hand. "Anybody wants t'be a sport ..."
He actually met her eyes. "How about it?" There goes my job, he thought. I'm really going to
regret this in the morning.
"Well, let's see," Katrina said, pulling on her lower lip as if pondering a weighty problem.
"How about this? If you can talk somebody into it, we'll do it. If not, I get your balls for supper.
Assuming you've got any. How were you planning to cook the lucky winner?"
"Big roaster oven in the cafeteria next door. Got a bigger capacity than it's ever used for."
This bit had been discussed in the pub. It would take a woman and cook her up nicely in less
than an hour. Who exactly? Brenda from shipping came to mind along with several others.
Andrea from reception. Oh god, Andrea. He'd had fantasies about her since he saw her
scantily dressed during the heatwave. She had walked around the offices barefoot. He'd
wanted to lick the sweat off her...
Melanie finally managed to kick her shoes off. She didn't mind being fucked under a desk by
one of the engineering staff (though she's have preferred someone in management) but she
hated being fucked with her shoes on. A girl has to have some personal standards. It wasn't
really nice having her head this close to the waste paper bin either..
"You said what?" Paul stared at him.
"I didn't say anything. She can't hold me to it." Ian gazed around the room. "All the same, it
would be nice if you gave me a little help here..." Not real. Really not. Delete the last hour
and reformat.
"Let's see if I've got this straight," Paul said. Ian got a sense of deja vu. "You persuade one of
the women to let us cook her..." he glanced at the buffet. Not impressed. "Or she gets your
balls. Look, let me explain something to you. It's very simple, try to concentrate. Party: Lots
of beer. Food:irrelevant frippery. Fucking about with the execs: not a good idea. You: stupid
git. Got all that?"
"Whatever. Come on, help me out here. Let's get the guys in on it."
"And we do what? Ask all the tastiest looking wenches in the building if they'd mind ever so
much if we just had them for party snacks? Brilliant idea. Did somebody spike the water
tank? Have you stopped taking your medication?"
"Just ask Rog and Pete, okay? I'll take the others."
"Never fancied either of them."
Ian ignored this. "You could start with Mel. She's game for anything and I think she likes you."
"Yes, like you'd know. Last I saw she was talking to Neil. I'll just go and find her, she's
probably screwing somebody under the desk in reception. She does it every party, it's just a
matter of time. Four o' clock's a bit early but what the hell, I'll just ask her if she'd mind doing
an encore on a serving platter while she's got her knickers off. Think that'll do?"
You never know what people will do at office Christmas parties, Ian started to say. No, trying
to argue with Paul was futile when he was in sarky mode. He stared around. "Look at that
fucking hat." he expostulated triumpantly. They both looked. One of the temps actually had a
paper Santa Claus hat on from a Christmas cracker. "See? Any time now she'll be up on a
desk singing the Birdie song with her blouse undone."
As a logical proposition it lacked something, but his colleague just shook his head and
shrugged. "I'll give it some thought," he said wryly. He gestured at one of the other
programmers who raised an eyebrow and came over, attracted by the scent of intrigue.
Others soon followed.
Rog thought it was a great idea. "Who do you fancy, then?" he wondered. The whole group
had somehow coalesced into one of those knots of intense philosophical discussion that form
at affairs like this. "I'd plump for Kirsty."
"Plump?" Steve gibed, "That's you, fatarse. Kirsty? There wouldn't be enough to go round.
What do the rest of us get while you're snacking on her?"
"Melanie?" Ian offered. "She's prob'ly the best bet." Other suggestions came thick and fast.
Nobody female and remotely attractive was overlooked. Certainly not....
"Andrea." It was in chorus, more like a prayer than a proposal. Nobody knew which of them
said it first.
"Fat chance. Might as well ask Katrina. Anybody got the balls to try that?" They all glanced
surreptitiously at the severely suited executive, elegantly sipping from a glass of white wine
as she chatted to one of the other suits in management. Somehow the sharp tailoring just
made her more infuriatingly attractive. The Gillian Anderson effect.
"I did," Ian admitted. I didn't sign anything, he reminded himself. Balls still safe. Note to self,
don't sign anything. Don't write at all. Preferably, go home now, do not pass Go or come back
for your severance pay. Apply immediately for a job as a toilet cleaner in Uzbekhistan. How
do you spell that? Grow a beard. Damn, already got one...
"All right then," said Paul breaking into the incredulous gibes and ripostes than followed Ian's
remark. "Write all the names down on paper slips and put them in a hat. Anybody got a hat?
A pen? Paper? Anybody else know how to write without a keyboard?" The 'else' was his
undoing. Somebody handed him a biro and a pad of post-it notes.
It took some time but it was done. They all took turns pulling names out of the waste paper
bin and trying to decipher Paul's handwriting. ("Aspirin? Astrid?", "What's a Meloric? Oh!")
When each of them had read the names he was assigned, there were a few frantic attempts
to trade them off.
"Oh God, I can't ask HER. Anybody swap me for Katrina? I'll take any three...."
"You're kidding. I've been trying to get up the nerve to ask her out for a drink, I can't just..."
"This isn't going to work, Ian," Paul said. "These sad geeks are probably going straight back
to the computer room to play RPGs on the Net with the Californians."
"Who are you calling geeks?"
"Give it time," Ian offered. "They're just not drunk enough yet. Anyway, they can't. I took the
LAN down and changed the password, and the game software is on the server. They're not
sober enough to sort it out before they're drunk enough to...well, wait and see."
"You did WHAT?" The Dungeons and Dragons crowd advanced menacingly on Ian.
"You're all mad," was Steve's opinion. "Still, it's a good game if you've got the nerve. I bet a
tenner we get at least one of them to get her tits out before closing time. Anybody?"
Everybody brightened at the prospect, but nobody took the bet.
Paul stalked his prey carefully. What was she drinking? It looked like the standard issue
cheap white wine they usually served in bulk at these affairs. He cast an appraising eye over
her. Young, just out of some business college or secretarial school. Low budget, on what little
they paid her in this sweatshop, lower self-esteem. Dressed in cheap but clean standard
office gear. Pale, timid and mousy, she was really quite pretty behind the wire-rimmed
spectacles. Nice legs, slender and pale but good skin. Okay Kirsty, he thought, what would
work with you? I could just walk up and explain the proposition. You're too junior and too shy
to smack me and not big enough for it to matter if you did. (This was good, because he didn't
hit women so he'd have to let her get away with it and risk looking like a prat.) I could just pull
off your specs, loosen your hair and say 'Why, Miss Davies...you're beautiful!'
He grabbed a bottle of wine, waited until she was obviously at a loose end and sauntered
over. "Hello Kirsty," he said. "Bloody awful, these dos, aren't they? Need a refill?"
She gave him the startled look a rabbit probably gives a visiting stoat, but she held out her
glass automatically. "Ah...thank you," she said.
This was going to be hard work, but he had his foot in the door.
A few drinks later, the party had started to relax and enjoy itself. Late enquiries from
Tasmania and somewhere in Outer Mongolia coming in to the sales department were met
with responses that may have cost them clients or possibly started another urban myth or an
international incident. Arguments about politics, religion, and more importantly the choice of
music being played had broken out.
Ian had got the bit between his teeth. Neil, looking like the cat that ate Tweetie Pie, helped
him work out how to use the roaster oven, while Steve watched sceptically. Neil didn't even
bother to ask why.
"You're fucking mad," was all Steve offered, drink in hand. "You can't seriously expect
anybody to do this. Next stop, funny farm."
"Five quid says you won't be the one to get one of them to get her tits out," Ian shot back.
Offering Steve a bet was a sure fire way to get him going. Steve knew he was having his
button pressed but he couldn't resist it. "You're on," he said.
"But it has to be one of the chicks on your list, and you have to work in the bit about getting
her cooked."
Steve frowned, trying to work out the odds through the alcoholic haze. "On the list? What
about..."
"Okay, any of them on the list. Anybody's. But the other thing is non-negotiable. Honour of
the team, dib dib, all that shit. Bet you can't. Nyah nyah."
"What list?" Neil finally wondered aloud.
"Deal," said Steve and headed back to the main party room. He didn't stop to see if Ian would
explain it to Neil. There he met Rog, looking red in the face.
"She hit me," he said.
Steve wondered who, he'd forgotten who Rog had pulled. "What did you say?"
"Oh something like, I'd like to get your tits on a plate."
"Subtle stuff. Any more to go?"
Rog sighed. "Yeah, but I don't think I'll try it again. Want to go get the network back up?"
"Sorry, things to do."
The small talk had been painful but a couple more drinks had loosened Kirsty up nicely. It
was obvious she viewed the programmers with awe undisguised by the mock disdain most of
the non-technical staff affected to cover their inferiority complex about their ignorance. Once
she discovered that Paul could actually converse in English rather than Klingon or
Technospeak, she found herself enjoying his company. A discussion about the pre-
Raphaelites and the Simpsons that led both of them onto shaky ground was interrupted by a
roar from the crowd that cut through the agonising rendition of "Viva Espana" by one of the
technical staff.
Melanie was up on a table, flashing her tits. Both of them stared.
"Not bloody fair," Ian told Steve. "I should have said anybody but her. She'd probably have
done it anyway."
"But you didn't and she's on the list. Five quid, please."
"If you tell me what you said."
That wan't part of the bargain, but Steve was feeling generous. "I said 'this is getting boring,
why don't you show us all your tits'."
Ian stared at him. "That's it? Mr. Silver Tongue strikes again. Jesus wept."
"I was going to throw in 'bet you daren't' but I didn't need it."
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