I was twenty five, and he was twenty nine. We were coworkers, and I guess you could say that he was my superior. Was he married? No. But he had been with the same girlfriend for nearly eight years. I would be hard pressed to put my finger on exactly why I liked him, but I did. No, "liked" is the wrong word. "Wanted to fuck his brains out" would have been much, much more appropriate.
Every time he popped his head in to my office, I swear he was flirting with me too. The smiling eyes, lingering glances across my chest, pointless touches on the shoulders, sliding his arm around my waist when we needed to pass one another in the hallway.
On more than a few afternoons I had ended up closing my door under the pretense of an "important phone call," and would then proceed to spend a good ten minutes fingering myself, imagining that it was his hand drifting under my skirt and stroking my wet pussy.
But nothing happened; until, that is, the annual office Christmas party.
The party took place, as usual, in the bar above our office. What was unusual was that this year, the boss had decided to make it a costume party, which is why I found myself on December 21st, standing next to a Christmas tree, dressed in a short velvet Santa dress and making small talk with some colleagues. That god I also had a sizable glass of wine in hand.
"Wow, Lisbeth, you look great!" Said Shelly, one of the receptionists. She was wearing her normal clothes plus a pair or reindeer antlers, and I had a feeling that her comment was designed to make me feel self conscious rather than flattered. The truth is, I enjoyed dressing up, and it wasn't a bad opportunity to make a little more than my usual impression on the guys around office. Costumes mean you are allowed to look a bit more slutty than usual, which is why I had opted for the short skirt/low top/high heels Santa look. It seemed to be working too; already I had noticed more than one male colleague offer a hug that lingered just a bit too long.
But there was no sign of Him yet. Probably off at some function with his stupid girlfriend. I sighed and took a sip of wine. I loved the way the red velvet felt against my chest whenever I breathed in deeply, and I could definitely feel the gaze of my boss, who had had his eyes practically glued to my cleavage all evening. He was at least twenty years older; tall, but kind of pot-bellied. And way too old, obviously.
"Hi Liz."
I spun around. I had been so lost in my train of through that I hadn't even noticed Him enter. He was decked out in a loose red and white Santa suit, which made him look a little like Billy Bob Thorton in Bad Santa. It didn't hurt that his eyes always had a naughty gleam, and that his hair was messy and he had a day or two of scruff on his face. Yeah, he did the bad boy thing well. I could feel myself getting wet just looking at him, and it seemed a little like he was trying not to stare at the tops of my luscious breasts, practically popping out of their red and white velvet cups.
Hi there," I said. "About time you got here." I gave him a playful slap on the arm, and he responded by pretending to sock me in the shoulder. I noticed that his hand lingered just a second too long on my bare skin.
"I can't believe I wasn't here earlier to protect you from this lot," he said in a low voice, nodding his head toward a group of our coworkers which included our not so subtly leering boss. "That's some outfit you've got on." He pinched the white, feathery rim of my skirt, nearly putting his fingers on my inner thigh in the process. "Fluffy."
"I'm just getting into the holiday spirit," I said. I knew my voice sounded flirtatious, but then again, so did his. We had always had a kind of under-the-current flirtation going on, but never anything this blatant. I couldn't believe that his hand had just been that close to the red, lacy panties I was wearing. (To complete the whole Christmas get-up, of course).
He ran off to get himself a drink before I had time to ask where the stupid girlfriend was on this particular night.
"Ms. Jones! Glad to see you've got yourself into the holiday spirit!"
Ugh. The big man himself. I flashed on a smile. "Hi Mr. Fogston, you too." He was in the traditional Santa garb, beard and all, which fit his portly composition. The boss gave me a sort of pat/rub on the shoulder, that I'm sure was meant to display some friendly affection for his staff, but just came off as kind of sleazy. I did not need my boss's fingers anywhere near my bra straps.
My Bad Santa returned at that very moment, and Mr. Fogston, to my immense pleasure, slunk off immediately. Baddie handed me another drink, and we clinked glasses. Then, he lowered his lips to my ear.
"Want to see something interesting?" He murmured.
No, I thought to myself, what I want is for you to hold your lips exactly where they are.
"Sure," I replied.
"Okay, but we have to go downstairs."
Our company is located on the twelfth floor of a high rise, and for the Christmas party, we had booked out the restaurant/bar on the floor above. Why was he asking me to go downstairs with him, into our dark, empty office? I tried not to think too much about my much re-played fantasies involving him and me alone together after work, fucking wildly on a conference table.
We walked quickly over to the security door and down the stairs. "Wouldn't want anyone to see us," he whispered in my ear. He unlocked the door to our office and ushered me inside, his arm wrapped around my waist a bit more tightly than it needed to be.
Once we were inside, he kept his hand firmly in place, clutching my hip. "This way," he said, leading me down the row of dark offices.
"I'm getting very excited," I murmured. And it was true, in more ways than one. His face was close to mine, and he smelled like juniper and orange peel. The silly, floppy Santa hat on his head did nothing to distract from his eyes, which at the moment were staring down at my long legs, as though trying to jump out of their sockets and take a peek under my already short skirt.
