British English spelling and grammar.
***
The musketeers
The Rifleman
The four guys meet in The Rifleman every Friday after work. It's a post mortem of the week, and an opportunity to sort out the world's problems. That's what pubs are for after all. Their names are Alex, Paddy, Anthony, and Damian. It was a year before they realised they had the same initials as Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan. Inevitably, given the name of their local pub, they call themselves the four musketeers. That seems easier than finding out why Dumas' characters were referred to as the three musketeers plus one.
After a couple of pints, the discussion gets round to Cynthia. She has some kind of gofer office job where they work, and she clearly has a much higher opinion of her status than her payscale would suggest. She has to come down to the factory floor several times a day. And always behaves like she's some sort of manager, though it's all an act. About a hundred and fifty men take her to bed every night, and fuck her senseless. It's just a pity she's never actually with them to enjoy it.
Cynthia flirts, flounces, wears short skirts, and flashes her stocking tops. And she slaps the face of any lower status male who tries to touch her. One has already been verbally warned, and one other is on his written warning. She almost seems to seek out sexual harrassment. So that's Cynthia ... admired, lusted after, but not really liked very much. The four musketeers are sharing their recollections, mostly exaggerated, of gusset glimpses and nipple slips. Damian is sitting back in his chair, sipping his beer and grinning at them in a superior manner.
"You've nothing to say?"
"I've plenty to say. I'm just waiting for you guys to finish your fantasising."
This sounds interesting. Paddy goes to the bar and brings back another round. They take the tops off their pints and look at him expectantly. Damian begins.
"Are you ready class?" Last Saturday I went to a Halloween party at Nakamoto Enterprises. They've got their own function room and bar, like we have here, but much classier of course. Japanese companies are rolling in money. I wouldn't normally get invited to an event like that."
"Why; Coz you'se black?"
"No. Coz I don't work there you dipstick; the party was only for their staff and partners. But a mate whose wife works there, got this fortyeight hour flu thing, and he asked me to take her."
There were no jokey comments allowed now. Mates' wives were untouchable.
"So the place was full of the usual dressed-up yuppies; all drinking; though they call it networking of course. And then there was an incident at one of the tables. Not everyone noticed it, but I was passing, on my way to the toilets."
*** *** ***
Spencer and Cynthia Norton were drinking at his office Halloween party, with their friends Margaret and Larry. Margaret was dressed as a sexy witch; short black dress with stocking tops on show. Spencer was feeling uncomfortable, regretting dressing as Quasimodo. His hump was making him sweat. He managed to smile though: this was Nakamoto's Halloween party and he was determined to enjoy it.
Beside him, his wife Cynthia was decked out as a devil, all in red. She was actually wearing a minimal one-piece swimsuit, cut high over the hips, with barely half an inch of material between her legs. Barely being the operative word. Her modesty was preserved, though only slightly, by red fishnet tights under the swimwear, really they were just a series of squares. Her ensemble was completed with a short red jacket, which concealed the shape of her nipples when it hung in the right position. And she had horns; the kind that flash. Like she and Margaret were doing.
Margaret's husband Larry was returning from the toilets and, for a laugh, stealthily approached Cynthia from behind. Being tall, he made a good Count Dracula. He swept up behind her, exposing his fake fangs, cloak billowing. Margaret grinned at what was about to happen, but Spencer did not. He started to intervene when he realised what Larry was doing, but was a second too late.
Larry put his hands around Cynthia's throat and made as if to bite her; his fake fangs descended to their target. But before he made contact, Cynthia's eyes rolled up; she shoved her chair backwards and it fell over. As she hit the floor, her stiffened legs flew ceilingwards and she kicked the table. It wobbled and brought a glass of white wine spritzer directly onto her crotch.
She made no sound. Just lay there frozen in place, as the drink soaked through her costume. It revealed her darkening cameltoe, getting soaked. Individual pubic hairs pushed their tips through the wet material. Tiny white bubbles of soda water popped around them. Cynthia looked as if she was pissing herself, and didn't appear to be breathing. Larry, shocked, reached to her shoulders to help her up. But Spencer stopped him. He got his hands under her armpits, from the front, and hauled her gently to her feet. Then he passed her to Margaret.
"Please take her to the Ladies' would you?"
"Jesus, I'm so sorry! What happened?" wailed Larry.
"Sit down mate, no harm done."
The barman came, righted the table, and wiped it, the chair and the floor. Larry went and got another round of drinks. When he returned, Spencer explained this was always Cynthia's reaction to having her neck touched, even gently. He imagined it probably stemmed from some childhood incident, but had never pushed her on the subject, as she preferred not to talk about it.
"We don't broadcast this for obvious reasons; there'll always be some idiot who'll do it as a joke. But we really should have told you guys, so it's entirely my fault Larry. I shouldn't even have let her sit with her back to the room; especially with all these vampires about!"
"Christ, she scared me! Does it happen often?"
"No, most of our long-term friends are in the know. The last episode was over two years ago."
"Has she seen a doctor, a hypnotist?"
"Not really. Just forget it, and don't discuss it when she comes back. Cynthia won't either. Just try not to stare at her soaked private parts if you can!"
"Well I can try, I suppose!"
Nobody noticed a large hooded hangman watching.
*** *** ***
"She didn't recognise you?" asked Anthony. "I mean, you are a bit on the black side!"
"I take that as a compliment," Damian replied smoothly. "But she was otherwise occupied. And I was a hangman that night anyway. Fake leather waistcoat and face mask down to my shoulders."
"And she really freaked out?"
"Damn right she did. One touch on her neck, and she stiffened up."
"I'd stiffen up too; especially if I saw that wet cameltoe!" said Paddy.
"You certainly would have. I could practically make out her clit once she was good and drenched. And I can assure she's trimmed."
"Lucky bastard!"
"Don't you get it lads? We can use this against her."
"How?"
"Think it through; she goes helpless and silent if her throat is touched. And our Christmas party is in six weeks."
"But her husband will be there." noted Anthony.
