Entertaining at Large Ch. 10

'Lets contact James now. We'll get started straight away. I was looking for a new hobby for the new year.'

'I think James might be a little preoccupied this afternoon.'

I winked at him in what I hoped was a knowing way. He looked blank. I told him about the meeting I had had at the sports store and Scarlett's reaction to James's arrival.

'Ah.'

He said, a light going on in his eyes before he furrowed his brow. He spoke tentatively.

'Could we call him?'

'Hardly appropriate. How would you feel if I interrupted you in flagrante as it were?'

I smiled indulgently at him. I was thinking about the afternoon we had spent together after a previous pub meal. I rested my hand on his and grinned wondering whether he was sharing the memory. His eyes lit up and I felt a slight tingling in my pussy, my body remembering the lessons I had given him on cunnilingus and the pleasure his long, thin cock had given me.

'I could text him. The kids bought me a mobile for Xmas. I've wanted to try it out.'

I couldn't help but laugh at my crossed wires which confused him. I squeezed my thighs together to try and send a message to my libido that afternoon delight was off the agenda. It didn't work, but Mr J's boyish enthusiasm about learning a new technological trick gave its own reward. We finished our meal and left. Mr J clutched the ledgers under one arm and held his phone in the other. He almost walked into the door as we left so intent was he on the small screen in his hand.

After I parked my car outside my house he kissed me perfunctorily on the cheek. He was out of the car and crossing the road to his own house before I stepped out of the driver's-side door. I watched him into his house before repairing to a badly-needed session with my vibrator.

I made the decision to go into work on the first Monday of the year half-way through my early morning ride. Frankly, I was bored. It was a Bank Holiday so no one was expected to go in. On the other hand, I had nothing better to do. The prospect of another day spent catching up with friends via text and Facebook did not appeal – there are only so many mistruths about how enjoyable the holiday had been you can either tell or listen to. My house was clean, my cupboards and refrigerator stocked. It was either work or keep riding and when it started to drizzle again I decided a few hours in the office might be the easier option.

The place was deserted when I arrived; the car park looked almost bleak. I let myself in and took longer than usual over my shower. I had to hunt around in my locker for clothes. I had taken almost all my office wear home during the holidays. I had no knickers and my only skirt had a faulty zip. Given that I was alone I felt no compunction about leaving the locker room and setting off down the corridor with my blouse flapping open over my sports bra as I struggled to pull up the offending fastner. I was fiddling with the buttons on the blouse as I elbowed the door to my department open backing into the big open-plan room.

'Morning boss.'

I screamed and clutched the blouse across my breasts. My colleague Muhammad was almost as shocked as I was. He stared at me with a horrified expression from behind his computer screen in the corner of the room.

'I'm really sorry Susan. I don't know what to say.'

'My fault entirely.'

I could feel my cheeks burning and, of course, the button I was fumbling with chose that moment to pop off in my hand. It skittered across the floor sounding like a cymbal in the otherwise silent room.

'Back in a minute.'

I fled to my cubby-hole office in the corner of the room and leaned against the door breathing deeply. In moments of embarrassment my dad always used to say "you'll look back and laugh". I managed a preliminary nervous giggle and gave myself a mental talking to. For someone who regularly paraded around a pub stark naked, I said, you really should not be bothered about a colleague and friend getting a brief glimpse of your bra. I gave a firm confirmatory nod as I secured the final button and eased my body off the door to tuck my blouse into my skirt.

I was perhaps a little too vigorous. Suffice it to say the button on the skirt came loose, the ailing zip slid down and I was left butt-naked with the offending garment around my ankles. I almost stumbled and fell, my feet snagged in folds of material, as I tried to make it to the safety of my desk chair to repair the damage. That turned out to be a fairly substantial engineering job requiring me to staple the sides of the skirt together. I gave silent thanks to whoever ordered the industrial-strength staples for an office which was, to all intents and purposes, paperless.

I stole occasional glances at Muhammad through the glass wall. Whenever I did he was staring intently at his keyboard as he pecked away. Poor man seemed even more embarrassed than I was. When I was eventually confident that my repairs were sufficiently robust to protect the world from the sight of my bare arse, I tiptoed out of my haven and made coffee for both of us.

'Apologies Muhammad. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you.'

'Don't worry about it. I'm sure it happens all the time.'

I avoided the opportunity to regale him with stories of when I had found myself less than fully dressed in public recently and we got down to work. I logged on to a computer at the next desk. It seemed unnecessarily formal for us to be working in separate rooms. I became absorbed in reading the reports I had asked my staff to prepare on their roles as stand-in managers over the holidays. Most required little work. I had always made it a point that reports should always be succinct. All I did with most of them was check that each comprehensively covered the activities they had overseen and concluded with a clear pending and to-do list for the returning staff.

I was halfway through butchering the work of my most over-zealous staffer when Muhammad interrupted me. Damien, the staffer, has an honours degree in creative writing from one of our more pompous educational establishments. He brought his training to everything he did. There were even footnotes. I was sighing deeply as I identified the relevant points and deleted screeds of padding. Part of me admired the style and dedication Damien had put into his work; I made a mental note-to-self to advise him to write his novels in his own time.

'Yup.'

I was still distracted by a flowery description of the packing department's stock room.

'I wonder whether you would mind glancing at this before I formally submit it.'

I took the five stapled pages he was holding out to me. I was curious and glanced up at him as he looked expectantly down at me. I had anticipated two pages at the most, Muhammad was a reliable colleague and generally scrupulous in following my style requirements. I speed-read the first two pages – a precise report and exactly what I expected from him. I smiled up at him encouragingly and flicked to the next section.

I was at the bottom of the third page before I fully realised that what I was reading was a careful proposal for the reorganisation of the dispatch department. He had identified the structural problems which had almost lead to a costly and embarrassing cock-up with a major order; there were clear proposals for a stage-by-stage overhaul of the operation and he had concluded with a cost-benefIt analysis which demonstrated the possibility of substantial financial advantage. I whistled between my teeth as I finished reading.

'This is brilliant.'

I watched as he almost unfolded as the tension he had been feeling left him and a beam slowly peeked out from under the hair of his full beard. I stood and almost embraced him before holding out my hand for a more formal expression of congratulations. We both started laughing.

'There's just the one thing...'

We were interrupted by the door banging open.

'What the bloody hell are you two doing here?'

Muhammad dropped my hand and took a step backwards. I twisted round to see who was interrupting us. It was my department and I was ready to tear them off a strip. That is until I felt one of the staples give with the rapid movement and I felt my skirt begin to slide on my hips. I quickly slipped a hand behind me to the small of my back to grip it in place.

The intruder was a large man. He was wearing an expensive cashmere overcoat in stylish beige topped with a silk scarf folded carelessly sound his neck. The head which protruded from the expensive tailoring was well tanned with that slight shade of orange which seems to be the product of Caribbean sun. You see the same shade on Tony Blair when he returns from his latest freeby in the holiday home of one of his billionaire chums.

'Good morning, sir. Have a pleasant break?'

It was the chief executive, no doubt intent on getting a jump on his staff before the formal start of the working week. He looked us up and down with a mixture of amusement and irritation. He ignored my polite question.

'So?'

'I was just finalising the reports on the various departments before tomorrow, sir. Muhammad was helping me.'

I waved my free hand in his direction. He took another nervous step backwards and stared down at his feet.

'You're idiots. The pair of you. You've already given up most of your holidays to the firm, there was absolutely no need for you to be here today.'

He looked stern but I thought I detected something of a twinkle in his eye.

'Tomorrow by ten would have done just fine.'

He let his little joke sink in before bursting out laughing. I politely joined in; Muhammad coloured with confusion. He was way out of his depth.

'I've forwarded the reports to your in-box, sir. Copies have been sent to the heads of departments. All except this one.'

I held up Muhammad's document. The boss reached out and snatched it from my hand. He eyed it suspiciously.

'It is more or less finished. The content is fine, it's just that the language is perhaps a little more direct than I would normally countenance.'

I was saying this for Muhammad's benefit. There was absolutely nothing wrong with what he had written. It was just that it was completely bereft of office politics. As it stood the head of the department he had temporarily been running had been left no hiding place. His laziness and incompetence were completely exposed. My job would be to add copious amounts of amelioration before formally submitting it. I knew that the man in question regularly played golf with the CEO and that their wives were shopping buddies from way back.

Our boss glanced at the papers to check which department it covered. He frowned slightly, confirming my worries. It was too late to get it back from him, however.

'I'd be grateful if you would treat it as confidential for now, sir. It will only take an hour or so to formally complete.'

'Fine. I'll read this. You start piling on the bullshit.'

He swept from the room laughing softly to himself. He left behind the powerful scent of expensive cologne and two confused underlings. There was an air of desperation in Muhammad's voice.

'Did I do something wrong?'

'No, nothing.'

'But you said you needed to change things.'

I touched his arm again trying to calm his worry. I was very conscious of my ever-loosening skirt waist.

'I'll be back in a mo. You e-mail me the draft and we'll go through the changes together.'

I rushed to my room in a camp waddle, my hand glued to the small of my back. Once there I grabbed the stapler to undertake more emergency repairs. I tried a few practice sits and walks before I was satisfied my work would hold. I pasted a beaming smile to my face and took a deep breath before stepping out of the room. It reminded me of the entrances I tried to make when starting a strip.

Muhammad's concern changed to confusion as I tried to explain the principles of dissembling for reasons of office politics. We eventually decided that "principles" was perhaps the wrong word and he soon settled as I started changing his terminology. Practical illustrations are always better than theoretical discussions.

'You see. You wrote "ill-considered systems". Can you see how the person in charge might prefer "alternative approaches possibly overlooked because of pressure of work"?'

He nodded and after a few more examples was making suggestions of his own. We were giggling like school kids by the time we reached the end. Each of us was tying to outdo the other in drawing the thinnest of possible veils over the clear inadequacy of the department's management. We were interrupted by the door slamming open again.

'Fantastic work, Sue. I'll come down to the department tomorrow to congratulate everyone – I particularly liked this.'

He waved Muhammad's draft about like Chamberlain getting off the plane after his meeting with Hitler.

'I can see why you wanted to temper the language, but I'm almost tempted to circulate it as is. The fact that you made us money as well as covering a possible embarrassment deserves recognition. I'm taking you out to lunch so we can discuss this further.'

He mentioned the name of the town's most exclusive restaurant. I had only eaten there once. Dave had taken me for an anniversary dinner in the days before the collapse of our marriage. It was an offer almost too good to be refused. Almost, but not quite.

'Muhammad is the author of the paper you've read, sir. It would be more appropriate for you to take him. He has all of the details at his finger tips.'

I smiled sweetly noticing Muhammad's shock as the boss turned to examine him as if he had not noticed his presence in the room before now.

'Certainly he – Muhammad is it? – can come too. Come on grab your coats.'

'This really is very kind of you sir.'

'Charles, please. At least whilst we're in an informal setting like this.'

'Thank you Charles.'

The name didn't fall easily from my lips. I'd always admired the CEO's abilities in business, but he was one of those hail-fellow-well-met kinds of chaps who always seemed more comfortable in all-male environments. I had never been invited on the occasional social events the firm held for senior managers even though I was higher in the hierarchy than some of those who were.

'It's just that I'm not sure the Pump House would be entirely appropriate.'

Charles looked confused; Muhammad terrified.

'You see I've given up alcohol for January and Muhammad is of course Muslim.'

A light went on in Charles's head.

'Of course, of course. My apologies. Don't worry I wasn't planning on drinking anyway. I seem to have been living on rum punch for the past week. I would welcome a change.'

'There's also the matter of halal.'

I had a feeling Charles had no idea what I was talking about. But hats off to him he didn't miss a beat.

'I can see how that might be a problem. Don't worry, why don't you choose a place?'

Charles grinned; Muhammad blanched. I tried to sound upbeat.

'We have a choice then: fantastic food in a transport caff-type environment, or less good food but with tablecloths and cutlery?'

Muhammad looked aghast. He knew the places I was referring to. The Kashmir did indeed serve the best food. But the prospect of eating with his hands from chipped bowls on Formica-topped tables with a man he could barely speak to obviously terrified him. Fortunately Charles was in no mood for adventure.

'I think the latter, don't you? Come on, I'll drive.'

He led us out to a sparkling silver Mercedes in weather which optimistic tourism-promoters would describe as "bracing". I shivered inside my thin office clothes and could feel my nipples puckering up against my bra. I did have a winter cycling jacket in my locker, but as it was adorned with a portrait of Minnie the Minx I deemed it inappropriate. Muhammad held open the car door for me. In my rush to get out of the cold wind I jumped in only remembering I was going commando when an icy blast hit my bare pussy. I suppressed a squeal as I clamped my knees together. Both men glanced at me but, if they had seen anything at all, were too gentlemanly to mention it. Or, I thought as I felt Charles's stare take in my stiff nipples, too unsure of Muhammad's precise status to make a boys-only comment. I spent the rest of the drive in a state of paranoia at possible damage a stray staple might do to the expensive leather upholstery.

When our double-quick drive to the High Street came to a screeching halt outside the restaurant I excused myself and dodged into the mid-market chain store next door. After a knickerless morning, I felt transformed to respectability by the simple act of pulling on a cheap pair of cotton briefs hastily grabbed from a shelf on my rush to the changing rooms. The nondescript slacks I had also tugged from a rail as I passed were a perfect fit. I was in the restaurant before the menus had been delivered to our table.

Muhammad stood and pulled back my seat for me. I smiled up at him as I sat, partly in thanks, mostly in amusement at the mini-drama taking place in front of us. The owner was dancing attendance on Charles almost as if he was a minor member of the royal family. He was a plump middle aged man who, whenever I had visited in the past, had been assiduous almost to the point of unctuousness. Today, whatever the drawing power of my nicely turned boobs – or perhaps indeed my winning personality – had been well and truly trumped by Charles. The owner was obviously a man who knew the price of a sparkly Rolex original when he saw one.

I glanced at Muhammad trying to assess whether he was finding this as funny as I was. He was stony-faced and unreadable. The owner was surreptitiously feeling the quality of the material of Charles's coat as he eased it from his shoulders. Fortunately, Charles brought the theatre to an end at the point when our host began a flowery description of the menu hastily delivered by a terrified-looking minion. He thanked him formally for his attention and said that Muhammad would be making the orders for all of us. The owner reluctantly left us.

After the nerve-wracking start the meal was surprisingly pleasant. Charles responded with a patrician's ease to Muhammad's tentative questions about his tolerance for spices and chillies. We each managed the food with ease despite the fact that this was the first time I, and I suspect Muhammad too, had tried eating a samosa with a knife and fork. Charles made easy conversation about family and social interests. Muhammad was able to relax as he talked with obvious pride about the accomplishments of his wife and the achievements, academic and sporting, of his two daughters. Charles chuckled.

'You just wait 'til they're older. I've just spent a week with my eighteen-year-old who insisted on going topless throughout the entire holiday. Whenever I tried to get her to cover up she just pointed to her mother. Dashed embarrassing. The woman was no help at all.'

Charles missed Muhammad's blushes as he was looking to me for a reaction. Either that or he was speculating as to how I would look in a similar state of undress. His stare was so pointed I was almost tempted to tell him that it would only cost him a couple of pints down at the Crown to find out.

Over the rather insipid coffee Charles became all business. I was impressed that he had grasped all the salient points in the reports I had submitted despite only getting them that morning. He questioned me carefully about one or two issues in other departments before moving on to Muhammad's. He was making notes in a slim, leather-bound diary with an expensive-looking propelling pencil; gold, of course.

'Muhammad. I must congratulate you. That was the most forensic piece of analysis I have seen since I took over the company from my father.'