"We're fucked," I said.
We really were. Math never lies.
"Jesus Christ," said the old cougar I worked for, leaning over my shoulder in her office, "I'd fucking say so."
All the lines of the budgetary spreadsheet that should have been green were red. Most of the important numbers ran in the negatives. The proof was right there, in rows and rows of uncaring data. There would be no recovering from this. The pivot tables said so, clear as day.
It was past midnight by then, and I was exhausted. I'd been trying to force things to make sense, to command some order over this disaster for hours. There was nothing for it; come Monday morning, our Q3 financial report would go public, and the real shit show would begin. I pushed my glasses to my forehead and buried my face in my hands, afraid to let Michelle see me cry. I heard her step around me, to her own side of the desk. A drawer opened. Glass hit the table.
"How did this happen?" I wondered aloud into my palms, too tired to consider the possibilities again.
"Well frankly," she began as I heard a bottle uncork with a cracking POP, "as my little bean counter extraordinaire, I had hoped you might tell me." Something smoky and distilled filled one glass, and then another. "Come on kid, drink up."
I uncovered my face, peering down at the heavy rocks glass full of dark brown liquor she'd shoved in front of me. Hers was almost empty already, and she drained it in one long gulp while staring forlornly out the window.
"You're drinking? Now?!" I asked incredulously, "at a time like this? Hang on, you can't smoke in here!"
My protest went unheeded as she sparked the cigarette anyway, blowing a long stream of thin blue smoke into the air.
"Listen," she said in her dry rasp, "you said it yourself, we're fucked. What are they gonna do, fire us?" She barked a harsh laugh and pulled another long drag. She had a point; getting fired was the least of our worries. As a publicly traded company, we'd be lucky to avoid prison for more than a dozen of the sums on this balance sheet alone.
"Shit," I muttered, snatching up the offered glass and choking down the tepid whiskey. Michelle watched me pull a face with bemused seriousness, filling her glass anew and sliding the bottle over to me.
"I'll pour your first but you'll have to be a big boy past that," she said, tearing the lanyard with her ID over her head and shaking her mane of greying brown hair out. She'd let it grow out after overhearing the receptionists affectionately calling her Ms. Clairol last year. I couldn't believe the old girl hadn't just fired them right then and there. She'd canned a dozen of my peers for less. Her alternate nickname, The Maneater, was well-earned, if painfully unoriginal. She'd never taken a bite out of me though, much to my relief; I think she had a soft spot for me.
"Am I going to jail for this?" I asked timidly.
"What?" She said, snapping back from some dejected reverie, "Oh fuck, no, probably not. You'll be fine."
"Really?" I asked, "because this is really bad."
"Oh it's worse than that," she offered as she leaned back in the heavy leather executive chair, doing little for my confidence, "but little guys like you always make out alright in these things." She kicked off her heels and swung her feet up on the desktop.
"How do you know?"
"Well," she said, staring at the lit smoke burning down between her forefingers, "I was a clerk at Enron once upon a time, and things turned out alright for me, eh?"
I neglected to point out that things were not turning out alright. I hammered another finger of the harsh whiskey down my throat, managing a poorer show of keeping a straight face as I did so.
"Jesus kid," she said, again reminding me of the twenty or more years between us, "you're terrible at this." She reached over for the bottle, skipping the glass this time to take a hearty swig.
"Drinking and balance sheets, two things to avoid in the future," I offered miserably, wiping my chin with the back of my hand. She barked a blunt, hacking cough of laughter.
"Was that a joke? That's pretty good," she chuckled, ashing her spent cigarette in a well of paperclips on the desktop.
"Yeah well, I'm glad there's hope for me yet, even if I'm destined for the circus with all my hilarious jokes after this." She chuckled again. It wasn't unflattering to hear her laugh.
"Well then," she said, slapping her thigh through the stretched black fabric of her pencil skirt, "what do you say, huh?"
"Sorry?"
"Are we fuckin' or not?" Not evidently in the mood to wait for a reply, she swung her legs off the desk and rose to her feet, working at the buttons of her already low-cut blouse as she towered over me. I was more than a little lost.
"But, aren't you...wait, what? Aren't you married?" I stammered, watching her implacable progress as she continued to disrobe, untucking the shimmery top from the hem of her skirt and dropping it to the floor. She stood, hands on her hips, expensive looking black bra working to contain her heavy freckled tits. In a word, she was 'sturdy'. In two words, she was 'very fuckable'.
"Oh who gives a fuck about that sad sack of shit," she insisted, waving a hand to blow the notion of committed decency away like it was a pesky mosquito, "if he's allowed the fuck his secretary then I'm gonna get mine." She regarded me as though I was a gas station sandwich; not great, but it'll do when you're hungry. "Well," she insisted, "are we doing this or not? I don't mind pouring you a drink but I'm not taking your pants off for you. This isn't fucking prom night."
Not willing, and less likely able, to deny her, I scrambled into action, trying to fumbled at my belt buckle while still seated in the chair. Satisfied that her meal wasn't going to run out on her, or go cold, she treated me to a wry grin and tugged at the side zipper of her skirt while I piteously scrambled at my fly.
I stood, at last, and let my slacks drop to my ankles along with my briefs, letting the cool office air tickle my bare ass as I stood bottomless before her, unsure what to do with my hands. She wriggled her wide hips and exceptionally ample ass out of the skirt, kicking free of it too.
"Lose the shirt buckwheat, let me see what we're working with here," she demanded. Wanting to impress, I tried and failed to tear the button-up open, succeeding only in popping the top three buttons and otherwise ruining a good shirt. She laughed at the wimpy display while I scrambled to undo the rest more traditionally. The flaps of the long shirt opened as I shrugged it off, letting her feast her eyes on her midnight snack.
"Okay!" she announced, "not half fucking bad, kid! We can work with that!" The look of appreciation seemed genuine enough, and my heart and cock swelled at the compliment. "I hope to god you know what to do with that thing." She said, unceremoniously unhooking her bra and rolling her shoulders forward to let the straps fall away from her as she peeled it off. God, but they looked heavy. And soft. She tucked her chin to her chest as she looked down at them with me, swiping away some unseen crumb or hair as she regarded them.
"Well, you like 'em?" she asked.
"Hell yes," I said breathily, drawing another short laugh from her.
"Come and give them a squeeze then, huh?"
