I program computers for a living, probably one of the least exciting jobs in the universe, but more pleasant than a lot of others. I have a small office in a building that specializes in letting out space to small businesses. The only reason I have the office is for meeting clients. Oh yeah, and the T1 Internet connection, that helps a lot too.
Across the hall from my office is another run by two young women who represent a cable TV company. Cable in the UK has not taken off quite the same way that it did in the US. I, for example, do not have a cable or satellite system, just standard terrestrial TV. My parents have, but that's mostly a sports thing. I do not go in for watching sport, so I've never seen a need for cable.
The two girls have been trying to persuade me that one of their channels would be perfect for my needs. I have to admit that, with a couple of ladies like these trying to sell you something face-to-face, you think real hard about it. So far I have swept aside their charms and kept to my BBC-or-die attitude. They sell individual channels and packages available over our existing satellite and cable companies, so they've offered me channels devoted to natural history, history, financial planning, even shopping. No luck to date, though I came damn close last week.
Now, in return for them trying to sell me TV channels, and me not letting them, they let me fix problems they have with their computers. I have to admit that I have never been quite clear on what I get out of this, but they are very pretty girls. Christine popped her head around the door at around nine-thirty that morning with a 'please help this poor, dumb blonde' look on her face. I was twiddling my thumbs waiting for a client to get back to me with a test document, so I said, "Hi Chris, what's the problem this time?"
She grinned. "My computer won't boot. Are you busy?"
I glanced at the screen where the Literotica New Stories page was on display, clicked close, locked the terminal, and stood up. "I guess I can spare you the odd hour," I replied and followed her across the hall to the Revolutionary TV (North) office. "No July about today?" I asked seeing that the other girl was not seated in her usual spot beside the window.
"She'll be in later." Christine seated herself on a chair generally reserved for the few clients they had that visited their office. Most of their work was done on the phone, but they had a demo suite set up in the client area with a large-screen TV where you could watch the channels they had to offer.
I walked around behind Christine's desk and prodded the power button. There was a whir from the cooling fan and the power light went on. The screen clicked to announce that a signal had arrived at its VGA port and a green light flicked on. Then nothing. No memory diagnostics, no BIOS message. "Oh I hate it when they do this," I said and turned the machine off at the plug.
"Is it going to take a long time?" Christine wined.
"Maybe. When they misbehave like this it could be any number of things. You might even need new hardware."
"Oh," she grunted and picked up the remote for the TV set.
Five minutes later I had checked all the cables connecting the computer to its peripherals and found nothing. I had just returned with my toolkit and a spare video card I had lying around the office, and Christine's machine was awaiting surgery. I set to work while Christine lounged nearby, flicking through channels on the big TV.
I glanced up at her as I opened the computer. She had a pleasantly bored expression on her face. Her thumb stabbed at the channel selector and David Attenborough's voice was replaced by Simon Schama's. Christine had chosen her wardrobe this morning, it seemed to me, from her clubbing selection. Maybe she was going out straight after work; she had done before. She was wearing a scarlet, lightly embroidered bodice that pushed her amble breasts up to display a very pleasing amount of cleavage. The bottom of the bodice came down to a point over her stomach. The matching skirt was short to the point that, sprawled on the seat as she was, it barely covered her panties. Her longs legs were thrust out in front of her; spread apart a foot or so at the ankles. Her ankles themselves were highlighted by the three-inch stiletto heeled sandals she was wearing with their narrow ankles straps. Her blonde hair had the carefully tousled look she liked; a bit like she had only just got out of bed, but neater. She was not the kind of girl that could have taken up modeling for a living, but she was very attractive nonetheless.
I dragged my attention back to the computer and unscrewed its casing. Christine stabbed the channel button. Simon Schama's voice was replaced by a groan of pleasure followed by a voice saying "Yeah, fuck me, baby."
My head ratcheted around toward the TV to see a ten year old cookery program with Delia Smith. I blinked a couple of times. The channel changed to one of the shopping channels. I was being offered a gold bracelet with not-quite-real diamonds at a knock-down price.
