A few years ago, I was a senior manager for a company with retail branches in major North American cities. Since Christmas was a very slow time for us, and we wanted to build a sense of comradery among the far-flung employees--most of whom had never met each other in person--I proposed to my boss, the CEO, that we bring everyone into our headquarters city Dallas for a big Christmas party.
He thought it was a great idea, and allocated me quite a hefty budget to plan and implement the party.
"Spare no expense. Let's do this thing right," he said.
Having had our most profitable year by far, it was really a celebration of success with a Christmas theme.
Well, the party date arrived, and what a party it was. At a fine restaurant near the Galleria, I arranged for a kick-ass live band, 6-course steak and lobster dinner, and an open bar.
For legal liability reasons, I had warned my boss against an open bar, but he was insistent, thinking that employees would perceive us as cheap if we limited them to two drink tickets and then leaving them on their own to drink or not, as I had recommended. I finally backed down when he agreed to furnish a shuttle bus to take anyone home.
OK, so we've got a bunch of people from out of town at Christmas time celebrating our biggest year ever, and they can drink all they want. Do you think people got pooty-faced? Ahhh, yeah.
The evening started with the sales department making a presentation and giving out all kinds of awards. They took triple the time allotted, so we did not eat dinner until after 9:00 PM. With everyone seated ten to a table during the marathon presentation, what do you think we did? Drink. Alcohol. A lot.
I intentionally assigned seating and mixed people together from different functional areas and from different parts of the country, as the whole intent was to build teamwork.
At my table was the newly promoted Denver Branch Manager I had talked to on the phone several times before, but was just meeting in person for the first time that evening. Sylvia was in her late 20s, medium height, with light brown shoulder-length hair framing a very smiley, cheeky face with a few freckles. Very cute.
She had a really sexy body, too. The short black leather dress she wore was skin-tight and certainly displayed the lovely contours of her ass effectively. I knew she was a runner, and her smooth, muscular legs, accentuated by the black high heels, left no doubt that she had killer gams.
She was wearing a bright yellow satin blouse, unbuttoned one more button than professional, revealing the cleavage of freckled D-cup bosoms supported by a matching yellow bra. Every time she would move, those boobs would jiggle. While satin material certainly accentuates the jiggle on any woman, her tits had the maximum jiggle factor. Jiggle is good!
Her whole demeanor that evening telegraphed, "I am available," though the large diamond ring on her left ring finger clearly indicated that she was married.
One of my employees, who had been with the company for many years, told me that evening, "Better keep an eye on that Sylvia."
My eyes were already on her.
Though we were all having a large time, Sylvia appeared to be having the best time of anyone there. Dancing, talking, laughing, drinking, flirting.
Another blouse button became undone, and I could then easily see that the bra was a lacy, semi-transparent one that cut diagonally across her boobs, exposing just the edge of her areola. When she was in the right position, I could see her scrumptious nipples. Tasty!
I noticed that she would be dancing with someone, then disappear for a while. She seemed to be a bit more disheveled each time she'd return, you know, hair mussed, make-up not quite perfect, a few more wrinkles in the blouse that began the evening immaculately pressed. Just what was Sylvia up to, anyway?
I was drinking quite a bit myself, gulping Jack Daniels and soda. Knowing that I was the guy who would sign the voucher for his tip check, our personal bartender I think was making sure my drinks were extra strong.
I needed some fresh air, so I stepped out front with the CEO where we smoked cigars. We, of course, carried our drinks with us. Even he commented that Sylvia looked particularly good that night.
When we came back up the elevator together back into the restaurant, he went one way and I the other. I needed to piss like a muthah, but there was a long line to the men's room, mostly our employees, so I began to hunt around for another. I couldn't find one, couldn't wait, and considered but quickly dismissed the notion of using the lady's. So, I wandered back through the kitchen, grabbed a tall iced tea glass, and decided to duck into somewhere private and pee in it. A bunch of whiskey will do such things to one's usual inhibitions.
I exited the kitchen from another door on the far side and found myself in a hallway, quiet and empty. I tried a utility closet door, but it was locked, so, with the coast clear, I just whipped it out, filled up the glass to the very top, and carefully set it down on the floor. Some employee would surely pick it up and take it back to the kitchen and hopefully think it was just diluted tea and not strong pee.
Though relieved, I suddenly felt bad--that I've-had-too-much-to-drink-and-just-smoked-a-Cohiba-too-fast feeling. I realized that I did not want to go back to the party, that I didn't want to see anyone else that evening, that I was done partying for the night. I just wanted to get out of there in a hurry.
I sat down right on the hall floor in my suit and collected my wits. It was a long way to where I parked my car, but if I went back the way I came in, I would run into many employees, and it would be forever before I got out of there. There must be a way outside from where I was.
I took a deep breath, gathered myself, and stood up. "Exit" with an arrow pointing left read an overhead sign down at the far end of the hall. I walked down that way and made the turn--another long hallway. There was an "exit" sign at the end of it, and a crash door below the sign. The fire exit. Good, my escape route. I'm outta here.
I quickly made my way to the door. When I got there, I very slowly pushed it open, afraid it might sound an alarm, and ready to sprint out if it did. But what I heard was no alarm. I was in a stairwell, and it sounded like some people were below. I carefully let the spring-loaded door ease back shut with only a little click. I listened intently. Hmmmm.
"Suck that cock. Suck it real good, now," I heard a male voice say, followed by noisy slurping sounds.
"The better I suck, the better you fuck, right?" I heard from a female voice.
These voices were coming from the landing just below me. I had to get a look, so I tip-toed down a few more steps, squatted down, and craned my neck around under the hand rail for the visual ID.
Well, well, well. It was none other than Sylvia and our West Coast Sales Director! I had a nearly perfect view, only ten or so feet away. With her blouse down around her waist and her front-snap bra still on but open, I could see those perfect, nippley freckled boobs just a jiggling. Good!
