Entertaining at Large Ch. 05

[Many of the characters here first appeared in Entertaining at Home. Seems a long time ago. Many thanks for the comments, support and suggestions. More are always welcome.]

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Fitting work into a hectic schedule of exhibitionism and sexual experimentation can be a challenge. The week before Xmas is usually a fraught time for everyone: work and home. I sailed through it. I was getting up earlier to beat the traffic. It wasn't that it presented many problems for cycling in terms of time; work was thirty minutes away, door-to-door, come rain, shine, road works, acts of god or drivers with the collective IQ of a hamster. No, I just liked easy, hassle-free rides when I wanted to think.

The extra hour was well worth it. I sorted out my attitude to domination and submission. I was in favour. The memory of Tracy's face as she made me cry with pain as she pressured my nipples kept coming back to me. My shorts were not just damp from sweat when I dismounted. The exchange between Mr J and I when I needed to control him when we fucked was more intriguing. I hadn't tried to manipulate him like I had with Matt, he had just done as he was told. I speculated on my ability to do it cold as it were.

Perhaps Matt would be a good candidate for an experiment, I thought. When he wasn't making me think naughty thoughts with his voice, he was a bit of a weed. I had got him to orgasm with sexy Suzette. Could Miss Powderpuff do the same?

I was more of a "don't know" when it came to sex with women. I was definitely in favour of more sex with Tracy. She had turned me on like no one else. It was a definite damp-shorts situation just thinking about her and she was vying with George Clooney when my vibrator and I snuggled down of a night. Was it just her, or women in general though? I just didn't know. I had never thought about my own sex like that before. I liked her as a mate and sex was so much part of her personality that it seemed like a natural extension of any relationship anyone would have with her.

On golden showers I was probably against, I decided. It took two whole rides to sort it out though. I was intrigued that people liked watching me pee, I ought to talk to Luke about it if the opportunity arose. I didn't mind the taste of my own urine either. I had taken to dipping my finger into it when I relieved myself to check. Perhaps more often than I'd care to admit. But Mr J was right, there was a large degree of humiliation about it. I didn't think it was me. I could not imagine sitting under a stream of a bloke's hot piss and liking it.

So I was getting to my desk each morning, freshly showered and ready for the day ahead. I think my team would have drugs-tested the coffee which was ready for them when they arrived if they had had the equipment. A few quids worth of breakfast pastries from the Italian bakery on the corner soon got them up to my level of jocularity, however. More than one of them commented that they couldn't believe they were looking forwards to coming in each day.

They were a good bunch, and at this time of year we were popular with the whole company. More by accident than design I had recruited a number of Muslims and a couple of Jews. After tentative requests from them I had taken the suggestion to the bosses that we come in over the holiday period in exchange for flexibility around Ramadan, Passover and the like. It worked perfectly. We all took the bank holiday days. I mean everyone celebrates a bit at this time of year, Christianity has virtually been stripped from the commercial festival. The rest of the time we came in.

There were times when we were running the place. Knowing we were there meant other teams passed urgent work over to us. Members of my team who were up for it could therefore take on more responsibility and use their initiative. That was good for their promotion prospects, bonuses and the like so muttering about the lazy bastards we worked with was kept to a minimum.

I liked the environment we worked in. Where the rest of the firm was decked with cheap paper decorations purchased within a carefully-calculated departmental budget, our floor was more like an art gallery. I asked them all to bring their kids' pictures in along with anything else they thought might be relevant. The Buddha in a Santa hat was a bit incongruous, but as our only Buddhist had brought it to us, no one minded.

The only break in routine came when Steve called to ask me out to lunch. We took one of Adriano's small tables for our sandwiches. Turned out he was applying for a more senior job in the firm and wanted to use me as a personal reference. I was suitably touched.

'Surely they know you're useless already. Why do you need me to tell them?'

He was only vaguely amused. He was clearly taking the application seriously and we went through his draft together. I told him that it looked strong to me -- I regularly sat on job panels at work and was used to the process. I made one or two suggestions of places it could be tightened up and asked him what he thought his chances were.

'Dave's applying. He'll probably get it, but I thought I'd give it a shot. You know, for next time.'

'Don't do yourself down. Dave's probably spending all his time creeping to the bosses, but you're much better with people and one the whole that's what the panel should be looking for.'

The interview was scheduled for the last week of the year. Steve said they would probably make a decision the same day. We parted with a formal handshake and I went back to the office to write my warm appraisal of him. I emailed him a copy with a stiff warning that if a copy ever fell into the hands of the lads I would have his balls.

Wednesday was a red-letter day in so many ways. The evening before Mr J came over with a number of parcels. Two of them were anonymised packages from LuckyStroke my sex shop. I laid out the skirt, stockings and blouse an sent a photo to Matt. The third was from Amazon. I noticed Mr J was looking smug as I tugged the perforated strip to open it. I gave him a big hug when the collected works of PG Wodehouse fell out.

'Just a pre-Xmas thank you.'

I dipped into the first story. It wasn't as funny as I expected or the blurb promised. I did notice, however, that the next morning I had started greeting everyone with a happy "what ho" so it can't have been that bad.

That evening the lads and I almost fell in to he Crown and Anchor. Their rousing chorus of three-nil, three-nil, three-nil -- the rest of the lyrics followed a similar, predictable pattern let the rest of the punters know the reason. We had won for the first time ever. Admittedly the other side did seem either drunk or very hung over. I am sure I saw one of them vomiting at half-time. But we played outside ourselves and I pulled off some blinding saves, much to my own surprise. I was looking forward to reliving my genius over a pint, but the rest of the bar was given a pretty clear picture of my skill by the fact that periodically one or other of my team mates would raise my arm high and shout it to them.

George watched the scene from behind the bar on which he rested both hands and at least one of the rolls of fat surrounding his stomach. He was standing beneath the biggest bunch of mistletoe I had seen so far. Lest anyone missed that fact he kept nodding up at it when any woman glanced his way. When I waved at him he pointed to it directly.

Our,frankly under-appreciated, lap of honour completed we approached the fat barman. Steve spoke first.

'Five pints of bitter George, tonight we're drinking what she's drinking. She was fantastic.'

'Told you. Best tits I've seen in a long while. Just can't understand why it took her so long to show 'em off.'

Steve noticed the mistletoe and hoisted himself onto the bar and gave him a big, sloppy kiss. Luke and Piotr followed suit. Wot started to but by this time George was swatting at the air like a man surrounded by angry hornets. I blew him a kiss from the safety of the rear of the group.

'Other team didn't show up then?'

'Piss off you old pervert, they even had a substitute. And the ref was a tosser. We were good, but she was brilliant. You should have seen her diving at the feet of their striker when he was clean through.'

George scratched his head.

'I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere but at the moment I'm at a complete loss. Here's your beers lads, glad to see victory has knocked some sense into you. Suzette this is for you.'

He handed over an Xmas-wrapped box and a card. I was puzzled.

'Some punter brought them in. Our Tracy spoke to him. Said he was lovely...'

He lengthened every vowel in the word.

'... Looked like a loser to me.'

Matt I thought. I stuffed the card and present into my bag. I'd deal with them later. Tonight was a night for celebration and we retreated to our usual table. It was one of those great Xmas moments. Good friends, out together, no agenda except belittling our opponents and anyone else who wasn't there.

Piotr and Wot were off to Poland for the holidays and Luke was heading north in a few days. They were excited and me and Steve we're glad for them. He was spending the holidays with a woman he'd been dating for a few months. It took some crafty deception to get out of an invitation to dinner. After the second pint I rapped on the table to get their attention.

'Boys. It's time for me to play Santa. I bought you each a gift I thought you deserved, though I have to say after tonight's showing I may have underestimated you. I'd ask each of you to sit on my knee to receive them but frankly you're all too fat.'

I walked round the table handing each of them their small wrapped parcel. I kissed each of them full on the mouth, it was the season of goodwill to all men after all. Only Luke grabbed my bottom; he got stern frowns from the others. I wasn't wholly surprised to find George overflowing an empty chair when I finished snogging Wot. He looked up expectantly.

'Nothing for me?'

'I was going to give you a kick up the arse but I was worried I'd lose a shoe. Sorry George.'

'I only brought these over for you anyway.'

He nodded at a tray full of pints. He nodded at a group of the engineers in the far corner.

'Lads over there bought them for you. They're a thank you for last Friday. Wanted to know when you were on again.'

I pecked him on the cheek and went back to my seat. We picked up our drinks and I went over to our benefactors to say thanks. They were genial and effusive I promised they'd see me again as soon as George sorted out the wage structure. That'd teach the old devil.

Back at the table the boys were squeezing, sniffing and tapping their gifts against the table. I nodded that it was OK for them to open them straight away and the paper was off in seconds. They all loved their "Wanker" socks. Luke put his on and tucked his jeans into the tops so everyone could see the logo. Piotr and Wot loved their bottles of vodka, a Polish guy at work had picked them out on a trip to London for me. Wot had a query.

'No "Hand Job".'

The joke never got old for him and we practically had to prop him up in his chair. When the general hilarity and blizzard of thanks died down they all looked at Steve. They always did when excuses or apologies were required. He looked sheepish like he always did.

'It's OK. I didn't expect you to get me anything, you're blokes after all.'

They all started looking super-smug which was unusual, unique actually, and a bit concerning. Steve put his bag on the table and pulled out a large parcel which he handed to me. I knew he had wrapped it because the tape at one corner started coming off straight away. I was surrounded by four eager pairs of eyes. Now I was definitely worried.

I tore at the paper; the rest of the package had enough tape on it to cover an art installation. Inside was a neatly folded, bright green goalkeeper's jersey. I held it up and admired the slightly padded chest panel. I held it to my body to see if it would fit, they were blokes after all. On the back, in the place where the player's name is usually displayed white letters announced "only woman in the league". I started to cry.

'Don't worry. If it's the wrong size we kept the receipt. We only put the slogan on to piss off the committee. Sorry.'

They all looked worried at my reaction. I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand.

'Don't be stupid. It's wonderful. Best present I've ever had.'

I turned my back to them and stripped off my sweat shirt. That got the predictable chorus of whistles from the engineers, and George. I was wearing a bra, and everyone in there had seen my tits anyway so I saw no reason to be shy. The jersey fitted perfectly. I smoothed it down over my breasts and turned so they all could see it. Everyone in the pub stood up and applauded. So there were only about twenty of them, but it was the only standing ovation I was ever likely to receive. I started crying again.

It took another round of hugs and kisses for me to calm down. This time no one grabbed my arse. I even kissed George who had reappeared with more beers. It was predictably disgusting. I retreated to the Ladies to wash my face and blow my nose on some toilet paper. The Crown doesn't run to tissues of any description. There were more cheers when I reappeared so I sashayed over to the boys Suzette-style and did a little twirl before sitting down.

The rest of the evening was a blur of more beer, dirty jokes, several rousing choruses of our victory anthem and quite a lot more snogging. I kept looking down at my present and beaming. I worked out that the last time I had been so delighted with an item of clothing was the Little Princess outfit Santa shelled out for when I was eight.

It was eventually time to go and George called us taxis. Not to put too fine a point on it I was feeling randy as hell. I asked the boys whether they wanted to come home with me and was more than surprised when they refused. They were all going in one taxi, me in the other. I tried to change their minds with a last round of snogging; it was me who was grabbing ass that time. Only a grinning George looked in any way amenable and even I was not that drunk.

I got home and staggered a bit as I stumbled out of the cab into the cold air. I fumbled in my bag for my door keys as I stood by my garden gate and was more than a little relieved when I heard a familiar voice.

'Need some help?'

'What ho, Mr J. Nice to see you.'

I started giggling and threw my arms round his neck. I kissed him sloppily, ignoring his reluctance. He took charge of me first firmly holding my arms against my side until I stopped trying to grope him; then he gathered up the contents of my bag as best he could. He took me by the arm and marched me to my door. Well, he marched, I sort of weaved. He ordered me to be quiet when I started up a solo rendition of the three-one song.

Once inside, I found that sitting on the carpet was an overwhelmingly attractive option, so I took it. Mr J made a couple of attempts to get me up and then went through to the kitchen. I heard him putting on coffee. I rolled over on my side and with an effort started to crawl after him. It took a while.

'What ho again Mr J.'

I made it just inside the kitchen door and was looking around trying to work out what to do next and how to do it. Mr J came over and this time I was able to be more cooperative as he yanked me to my feet. Between us we made it to the table and I just made it to a chair when my legs gave way. I drank the glass of water he put in front of me in one gulp. He replaced it and I examined it critically.

'I thought you were making coffee?'

'I am. But you need to dilute the alcohol in your blood. It'll help with tomorrow's hangover.'

He busied himself with cups and the like. It was difficult to follow exactly what he was up to as every time I moved my head my vision swam. I decided instead to keep my head still and concentrate on focussing. There was my bag, there were the cups, there was my glass of water -- I reached for it and managed to grasp it without knocking it over -- there was a small cardboard box.

'What's that?'

'I didn't say anything.'

I sighed and concentrated on constructing a sentence.

'That box on the table.'

I sat back satisfied with my efforts and fairly pleased that my vision became only slightly blurred.

'It came today. That's why I was waiting for you to come home.'

I made a concerted effort to reach for it. Mr J charitably pushed it towards me.

'I love you Mr J.'

'I know.'

'You're my best friend.'

'The last person who said that to me was the first mate on one of the ships I served on. And he was a gay weightlifter.'

I managed to laugh, but only after a few minutes processing the words he had spoken and sifting them for meaning. I pawed at the box until Mr J took it from me and slit it open with a kitchen knife. I searched through the padding of screwed up brown paper and pulled out a couple of plastic encased sheets of cardboard. They both had something attached to them but despite a supreme effort of will I could not work out what they were. The words on the cardboard were outside my ocular control.

'What're these?'

Mr J took them from me and stepped back under the main light to read.

'Nipple clamps.'

He tossed them back towards me and picked up the percolator to pour drinks.

'You want sugar or milk? Black coffee is, I think, traditional in these circumstances.'

I grinned and nodded. Too many words; I had no idea what he was saying. I picked up the packages and stared at them again.

'They're nipple clamps.'

'Yes.'

'I ordered them after your little party.'

I giggled and rubbed my boobs unconsciously. I started to pull and bite at the packaging trying to get it open. Mr J watched me with an amused smile and finally prised them from my fingers and took a pair of scissors from the rack under the cupboards. I watched him expertly snip of the tops off and tug out the contents with some difficulty. There was the tinny clatter as the contents hit the table. I reached for them and forced my eyes into focus.

They were funny looking things, so I laughed. Mr J looked over and pushed my coffee towards me. For the sake of politeness I took a sip and grimaced at the heat and the bitterness. He grinned and pushed over a sugar bowl I had forgotten I owned and a plastic bottle of milk. I took another sip of the coffee out of dutifulness. It was not as bad as the first time, so I ventured a gulp. Mr J laughed at my expression.

'Baby steps sweetie. Don't run before you can walk.'

This time I followed the entire meaning of his words and dutifully took another sip of the coffee. I was beginning to get my world back into focus. I took an inventory. My head was still fuzzy but clearer, my coordination seemed to be working -- I held the chained clamps against my chest to check, my legs seemed to have found their bones again. All in all, I thought, I'm getting it together. I applied myself to the coffee with a vengeance; Mr J smiled down at me indulgently and poured me a second cup. I started to feel a bit ashamed.

'Sorry about this, Mr J. We won tonight. I got a bit carried away.'

'First time I think?'

'Yes.'

'Well done. I love the new jumper.'

'Present from the lads. Sweet of them.'

He started tidying the table and tried to keep topping up my coffee without me noticing. I let him get away with it. I started toying with the clamps, more for something to do with my hands than anything else. The adjustable ones looks like a pair of tongues with some kind of slide; I presumed to increase the pressure.

The chained pair were rather smaller. I held one and swung the chain like a pendulum. I squeezed the clamp open with some difficulty and tried it against my boob. Even with a sports bra and padded jersey below it, it clamped hard and I could feel it pressuring my skin. It was uncomfortable rather than painful, but my speculations about how it would feel against my bare nipple worried me more than a little. I quickly pulled it off.