I, Sheeple…

It’ll be the Chinese New Year in a few days time, Dear Reader…

*Wrong zodiac, Clicky… May ’67 would make me a ‘Fire Sheep‘…*

I guess this post should start with a Twitter DM convo with Poppy SweetPea, who gave me a story idea for ‘The Underdog Anthology 2: “Rise!” *…/SOBs…*‘…

 

poppy-gives-roob-story-idea-for-easter-underdog-anthology

The Easter edition won’t have a subtitle, that’s just my own fancy. Like I had for the first

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Anyhoo, I hadn’t given any more thought to Poppy’s ‘Killer Sheep’ suggestion until I read a comment by Elena yesterday evening, over in the Red Universe

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So I looked up ‘The Ides of March‘…

The day was enthusiastically celebrated among the common people with picnics, drinking, and revelry. One source from late antiquity also places the Mamuralia on the Ides of March. This observance, which has aspects of scapegoat or ancient Greek pharmakos ritual, involved beating an old man dressed in animal skins and perhaps driving him from the city. The ritual may have been a new year festival representing the expulsion of the old year.

Hmm, I thought, I’ve just seen a chap matching that description

slog-fake-news-trump-barnet-formula

And read elsewhere about his possible scapegoating

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The Deep State’s next move is to pin the coming stock market collapse on Trump. When people think “Greater Depression,” they’ll think “Donald Trump.”

Hang on, I thought, bust

churchill-bust-ready-to-go

Meanwhile Jenny Burger had also replied to Elena…

Fuck me, I thought, shiny Churchill

This morning, Frank Davis of the Blue Universe was ‘reflecting‘ on a smoking and drinking politician, the first from the UK to meet with the Prez (then elect)…

“I was especially pleased at his very positive reaction to the idea that Sir Winston Churchill’s bust should be put back in the Oval Office.”

Then to my surprise, I was advised to ‘Chill Winston’ by one of my favourite trolls in the Yellow Universe today

 

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*Yes, I saw what you posted to Highlander, Clicky… /rolls eyes… ‘sheep’s in wolves clothing’… *

Whilst back on The Underdog’s site

ubu-boy-guides-and-girl-scouts

… Dan had commented on the sexual proclivities of sheep…

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*I think that’s meant to say ‘conspiracy‘, Clicky… /lights up…*

 

I think I’ve may have worked out my Easter Anthology story, now, Dear Reader. So until the next time, have a Song ❤

‘Secret Santa’: 2 Sleeps to Go (Part 2)

And we’re back!

smoking-bender

Sit back and enjoy, Dear Reader, the conclusion to ‘Secret Santa’ 😀

*******

Josie lived in the opposite direction to me, but I didn’t care. As the taxi pulled up outside I could see she lived in a block of flats. I paid the driver, remembering to get a receipt of course, and made my way to the entrance. I pressed the button for her flat.

The intercom burped into life. “Hello?” sputtered a tinny voice.

“Hello, Josie? It’s Harriet from work. I’ve got your Secret Santa gift here. Can I deliver it?”

There was a pause before she replied, “Oh, Okay. I’ll buzz you in.” The intercom gave a mournful wail and the front door clicked. I pushed it open and entered.

Josie lived on the second floor. The building didn’t have a lift, so I was slightly breathless by the time I’d climbed four flights of stairs, carrying a gift that seemed to be getting heavier by the minute. I found her waiting for me, stood in front of her open door. Like a pink Venus she rose in my field of vision: first fluffy socks, rolled to the ankle, followed by shapely naked legs, topped by tight shorts with added camel toe crevice, completed by a cropped tee-shirt that emphasised her toffee smooth midriff and perfectly rounded breasts. The sight took away my remaining breath and left me feeling faint and weak at the knees.

“Oh my god, that’s huge!” Josie cried, making her way forward to help me. “Gosh, are you alright, Harry? You’re white as a sheet. Do you want to come in and have a drink?”

I took a long, deep breath and nodded. The universe seemed to have relented and fortune was now smiling on me. I followed her into her flat, doing my best to hide the grin on my face. “Where do you want me to put it?” I asked her. “The present, I mean…” I added slyly.

Josie giggled at my double entendre. “Oh, anywhere in there will do.” She pointed in the direction of the living room, then closed the front door behind us.

I placed the box on the living room floor and looked around. A half full bottle of wine and empty glass sat on the coffee table. Her TV was mounted on the wall and playing some festive Hollywood crap. The volume was turned down, sparing me from having to listen to its seasonally cheerful inanities.

“We didn’t want you to miss out on your secret Santa gift,” I said shrugging off my coat. Josie took it and my handbag then disappeared back into the hall.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it,” Josie called. “Was it a good night? I got home from work to find the washing machine had flooded. By the time I’d cleared it up I really wasn’t in the mood for socialising.”

“That’s understandable. It was alright. I’ve had better,” I called back getting comfy on the sofa. This one is already starting to get better, I thought picking up the wine bottle and studying the label. Shiraz, my favourite.

Josie returned carrying another wine glass and I filled both from the bottle. “Cheers, Harry! Merry Christmas!” she said chinking my glass.

I took a mouthful of wine and swallowed. “Mmm, nice. Merry Christmas, Josie. Are you going to open your present?”

Josie gave a girlish squeal and sat down cross legged in front of her wrapped box in one graceful, fluid movement. The elasticated fabric of her shorts stretched, barely managing to cover the modesty of her plump but righteous arse cheeks. She pulled her hair back from her face and let it hang over one shoulder.

Just as earlier in the evening, I could feel the blood pump furiously through my veins, only this time it was directed to a completely different area of my body. “Josie, can I use your bathroom,” I asked.

“Sure, it’s the door on the left before the bedroom,” she said as her hands caressed the smooth and shiny wrapping paper.

The bathroom was pink – obviously her favourite colour – and smelt of roses. I peed and washed my hands, then splashed water over my already moist pussy and gave it a rub with a fluffy pink towel hanging next to the sink. No harm freshening it up just in case, I thought. I checked my teeth in the mirror for any untoward particles of Christmas dinner and stuck out my tongue – stained red from wine but not furry. Good.

When I returned, I found wrapping paper and cardboard discarded on the floor, but Josie herself was nowhere to be seen. I retraced my steps and found her in the kitchen, bent over her microwave and displaying even more of those sweet arse cheeks of hers.

“What are you cooking?” I asked once I’d drank my fill.

She rushed over and gave me a hug, encircling me with her slender arms and pressing her breasts against me. I felt hard nipples push into my skin and gave a silent pray to Jesus for the invention of chocolate.

“Harry! Oh my god I can’t believe someone bought me a chocolate fountain. Chocolate is so much fun!”

The contraption I’d bought her sat on the kitchen table, plugged in but empty, its shiny tiers waiting to be filled. I breathed in the vanilla scent of her luxurious hair as I hugged her back, gently rubbing my own throbbing breasts against hers. “Ooh, a chocolate fountain!” I exclaimed. “Lucky you!”

The microwave pinged and Josie turned away, opened the door, and removed a bag of melted chocolate with her fingertips. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she snipped the corner off and poured a stream of warm chocolate into the fountain’s bottom tier.

“I’ve always wanted one of these,” she said as she threw me a smile and switched the machine on. After a few seconds, a flood of chocolate gushed up through the top tier and cascaded down smoothly, enveloping the tiers below.

“Now that is a thing of beauty,” I said admiringly.

“Yes it is,” Josie replied and stuck her finger into the rich stream of chocolate. She pulled it out and put it in her mouth, sucking hard. Her elfin features contorted with pleasure. “Oh my god, Harry, you’ve got to try this!” she said invitingly.

Tentatively, I approached the gently humming machine. Encouraged by her ecstatic gasps of pleasure, I decided to make my move. I poked two fingers into the silky, warm stream, cooing at the sensation. I pulled them out and sucked on my index finger, holding the middle finger out to Josie, my other hand poised beneath to catch the drips. “Mmm… more?”

To my amazement, she took my dribbling middle finger in her mouth and sucked hard. I could feel her tongue lap at the sweet gloop and marvelled at the innocent look of pleasure on her face as she sucked the chocolate off. With our lips just inches apart, I reached up with my free hand and gently stroked the underside of her chin.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?”

Looming in the doorway of the kitchen stood Alfie. Josie and I both jumped. Me guiltily.

“Alfie. I didn’t hear you come in. What you doing home so early?” Josie asked her hulking boyfriend. Up close, the Easter Island resemblance was uncanny: he looked rock hard, menace etched into his face.

“WHO THE FUCK IS THIS BITCH?” he demanded of Josie, who flushed. “WHAT THE FUCK YOU DOING?”

Shit! I thought, I need to get out fast and in one piece.

“I think there’s a misunderstanding. I’m Harriet from work. I’ve just dropped Josie’s Secret…” I started to tell him before he shut me up with a stinging slap with the back of his hand. I felt my incisors rip through my bottom lip as my head rocked back. Blood sprayed out across the pristine white tee-shirt that covered his chiseled pecs.

“YOU TRYING TO GET IN MY GIRLFRIEND’S KNICKERS, YOU DIRTY FUCKING LESBO?” he screamed at me.

I felt warm blood fill my mouth and mingle with the residual taste of chocolate. I held my hand up to my face and cringed. “My mowff…” I spluttered.

“No Alfie!” Josie explained, “Harry’s just a work colleague.”

“THEN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS FOR?” he yelled, pulling my ‘Big Boy’ butt plug Secret Santa gift from behind his back. I’d put it in my handbag, but it must have fallen out. “WERE YOU GONNA RAM IT UP HER ARSE, YOU FILTHY CUNT?”

Josie looked at me aghast. “Harry?”

“No, I can eshplain…” I started to say but didn’t get the chance. Alfie’s meaty hand grabbed the back of my neck and spun me round, pushing me face first into the chocolate fountain. I felt the warm chocolate flood over my eyes and nose.

As my nostrils and mouth filled with molten sweetness, I could hear Josie yell and plead with her boyfriend: “Stop it Alfie! It’s Secret Santa. Stop it, please!”

My final thought before passing out was Jesus! Death by chocolate. This is no fun at all…

*******

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*/sigh… I wrote it for the Christmas Underdog Anthology, Clicky. It’s not supposed to have a happy ending, for goodness sakes… /rolls eyes…*

Well, Dear Reader, I hope you’ve enjoyed my first Christmas tale at the LoL. If you liked this story, I have others in The Underdog Anthology… Although, to be brutally honest, the other authors’ contributions in it are so much better than mine 😉

Merry Christmas to you and have a Song… ❤

 

 

 

‘Secret Santa’: 2 Sleeps to Go (Part 1)

Dear Reader, at last it is Friday and the day the F A Kontrell office Christmas shindig. In this two-post conclusion to my Christmas tale, we’ll find out if Harry’s devious machinations to woo the fragrant Josie actually bear fruit…

*/rolls eyes… Way too much, Clicky… Come on, just relax, put your fins up and let me tell the story…*

So, for your pleasure, the fourth installment of ‘Secret Santa’ in three, two, one

*******

Friday evening seemed to take forever to roll around, but at last I found myself, suitable attired in sartorial elegance, at the pub the Fat Kontroller had selected to host the evening’s events. He’d hired the dining room, but most of us were gathered at the festively decorated bar while we waited for the stragglers to arrive. The pub was called The Exchange, a converted bank, with high vaulted ceiling and polished wooden floors. The Secret Santa gifts had been transferred from the office by Shazza – who else? – and were piled up in the dining room. The heap of presents was dominated by one conspicuously large parcel with a gift tag that read ‘To the gorgeous Josie, with lots of love from your Secret Santa xxx’.

Unfortunately, the object of my affections turned out to be one of the stragglers and was nowhere to be seen. I lounged against the bar with one eye on the door and the other on my watch while I swigged my drink, trusting the alcohol to sedate the butterflies that had congregated in my gut. Around me, my colleagues made small talk about work and gossiped about the latest office romances. The former was tedious beyond belief, so I tuned in on the latter just in case I heard Josie’s name mentioned. Or my own for that matter. Damn! I thought. Where the fuck is she?

A stream of cold wind blew in as the door opened and everyone looked up expectantly. The Fat Kontroller stood in the doorway, beaming and looking natty in DJ and bow tie. The man loved to make an entrance. I caught the barmaid’s eye and ordered a double scotch, his favourite tipple. It arrived just as he reached the bar.

“Harry! Is that for me?” he asked and downed the drink before waiting for an answer. He smiled at the barmaid and indicated for another. “Splendid! Let’s get this party started!”

“Oh, are we all here then?” I said as nonchalantly as I could. We were most definitely not all here; Josie had still not arrived.

He finished the second drink and looked around. Shazza appeared as if by magic and hovered at his elbow.

“HR Josie called, Mr Kontrell,” she said with a glance in my direction. “She can’t make it tonight. Her washing machine has flooded or something.” On hearing the news, the butterflies in my stomach instantly disappeared, leaving a hollow as cavernous as the pub we stood in.

The Fat Kontroller frowned at the news. “Oh, that’s a shame. She’ll miss a cracking evening,” he said, then shrugged his shoulders. “Oh well, can’t be helped I suppose. Come on Sharon, lead the way,” he said as he grabbed her fleshy bare shoulders and steered her toward the dining room.

I followed them through the crowd with leaden legs. When I reached the dining table I discovered that the seating plan had placed Josie in the seat next to mine. It felt as if the universe itself was conspiring to rub salt in my wounds. Shit! Fuck! Bollocks!

The seasonal set meal tasted like ash in my mouth as it progressed through starter, mains and dessert. I tried to look interested as the conversation swirled around me, but all I could think about was the empty seat beside me. Eventually, after coffee and petite fours had been served, the Fat Kontroller stood up and announced the start of the Secret Santa gift-giving ritual. Shazza served as his assistant: she passing him the gifts and him calling out the names. One by one we trooped up to collect them.

Eventually, he got to me. It was inevitable really. “Harry! Where’s my PA? Harriet!”

I scraped my chair back and wandered up to the top table. The Fat Kontroller was holding a gift. Not a voucher-shaped envelope that I was expecting, but a rectangular box wrapped in shiny silver paper and curly blue ribbon.

“Harry,” he beamed, handing it over, “this is for you.”

I was dumbstruck. Somebody had bought me a proper gift. “Thank you,” I said, turning it over in my hands.

“Well open it then,” Shazza urged excitedly. “I love shecret Shanta pressies,” she slurred.

“Quite sure you’ve had enough wine, Shazza?”

“Nearly,” she hiccuped and giggled into her hand. “Go on open it.”

I pulled at the tight ribbon and eased it off. Something inside the box rattled. Fuck! Somebody actually bought me a present, I thought as I started to rip off the paper. And then I saw what it was and my face fell.

“OH MY GOD!” Shazza shrieked with barely contained glee. “SECRET SANTA GAVE HARRY A BUTT PLUG!!!”

The room fell silent for a moment, and then the laughter began, triggered by a booming guffaw from the Fat Kontroller. All the blood in me seemed to leave my limbs, rush to my face, and combust there. I looked up into the Fat Kontroller’s eyes. They twinkled with mirth, unlike Shazza’s which glowed with something else altogether.

Somebody must think you’re a pain in the arse, Harry,” she said coolly before joining in the merriment with exaggerated howls or laughter.

She set me up… the fucking bitch!!!

Slowly, I turned toward the room and held the ‘Big Boy’ butt plug for all to see. “Thank you. Thank you, Secret Santa. If I ever find out who you are, I’ll know exactly where to put this,” I shouted.

I walked back to my seat, still holding it aloft, like a prize fighter displaying a glittering belt. This elicited further laughs and a round of applause, which slightly mitigated the fucking disaster the evening had turned into. I sat down and pointedly read the packaging before putting it in my handbag. I downed my drink and wondered how long I had to stay before getting the fuck out of there.

Not long as it turned out. Once the Secret Santa ritual was out of the way, those with babysitters to relieve began to make their excuses. It was the only perk of having children that I could see, so decided to slip out with them in the rush for the door. I rang for a taxi and started to gather my coat and bag.

“Harry!” the Fat Kontroller called and beckoned me over. Thankfully, Shazza was nowhere to be seen. If there was any justice in the world then I hoped she’d laughed herself sick and was puking her ring up in the toilets. “Leaving already, are we?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m driving up to mum and dad’s tomorrow,” I lied, “early start, you know.”

The Fat Kontroller looked at me kindly. “You handled that very well, Harry. That was very naughty of somebody. Are you getting a taxi?”

“Yeah, it’s on it’s way.”

“Here,” he said pulling fifty pounds from his wallet. “Shazza!” he boomed and mouthed the word ‘receipt’ to me.

Shazza appeared from thin air again, still grinning at her prank. She was obviously not the complete air-head I’d supposed her to be. “Yes Mr Kontrell?”

“You know where Josie lives. What’s the address of our missing HR manager? Harry here is going to drop her secret Santa gift off on the way home, aren’t you Harry?” His eyes twinkled.

“Yes,” I informed Shazza slowly, following his cue. “I’ll take HR Josie’s gift to her and tell her all about it. Let her know exactly what she missed this evening.”

Was that a gulp from Shazza? I hoped so, but I was too excited at the opportunity that had suddenly presented itself. I would get to see Josie and give her my gift. I might even get a cup of coffee for my troubles. I played it cool and strode off to collect Josie’s superbly wrapped gift, whilst the Fat Kontroller handed Shazza his pen and a discarded cracker joke so that she could write the address down.

We bade farewell, wishing each other a happy Christmas, and then I left to wait for my taxi…

*******

Don’t miss the exciting conclusion to ‘Secret Santa’, which follows on in just a bit…

*/lights up fag and waits nervously… You know, Clicky, if this was on telly there’d be adverts now… /drags… Perhaps I should mention The Underdog Anthology and Cultish… /blows smoke… What do you think?*

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Fumer Satire… A Cultish Thing

Er, I sat hear… smoking *…/takes drag* …Thinking about how to start this post, Dear Reader…

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*’Amendment’? Yeah… ‘Morals and manners’? Most Definitely… ‘Accentuation’? …/wipes tear from eye… Doubly definitely, Clicky… ‘The self-satisfied’? I dunno about that, but I laughed like a drain…*

… See, my friend Hugo has written a novel

cultish-hugo-stone-front-cover

… And it’s all about SEX

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… I started reading it back in June when Hugo confessed to me that a short story he’d written for The Underdog Anthology, had grown into something somewhat bigger…

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*/lights another smoke…*

…I jumped at the chance to read it – I was struggling to write my own story contributions (writing horror fiction doesn’t come naturally to me)…

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*/taps off ash…* 

… What I read, blew me away. I mean, I knew he could write, but what he’d written was incredibly sharp

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*/drags some more…*

… Mind you, it needed some copy editing, so I offered to do that for him…

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… For the next month, Hugo sent me his output daily, sometimes twice, three times daily…

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*/stubs out butt… Yes, yes I am Clicky…*

… and I corrected typos, made some suggestions (not always taken but always considered) and generally helped my friend Hugo birth his first novel

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*/lights up… Too fucking right, Clicky…*

… Hugo then sent his completed manuscript of ‘Cultish’ to my friend Leggy, to see if he would consider publishing it…

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*/take puff and rests cigarette in ashtray… You know what Clicky, I’m so happy to have been able to help my two online chums in their budding ventures, I fancy having a little dance…*

*Nice! …/retrieves fag and resumes smoking…*

So, Dear Reader, I strongly suggest you get your hands on a copy of ‘Cultish’ by Hugo Stone… It’s ridiculously funny… It really, really is… And have a Song…

‘Secret Santa’: 6 Sleeps to Go

 

Dear Reader…

*Where? …/wipes nose… Oh for fuck’s sake… the stuff gets bloody everywhere… /wipes hands…*

Dear Reader, I’m busy, busy

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*Yes, you’re always busy, Clicky. Now shush it… /wipes snout… Oh for god’s sake, you’re covered in it too…*

… busy, but I haven’t forgotten you, nor the promised third installment of ‘Secret Santa’. For anyone new joining us today, it starts here. But to briefly recap: Office Letch, Harry, moons over Office Honey, Josie, but she’s taken. However, a lucky pull from receptionist Shazza’s Secret Santa hat gives Harry the opportunity to make sure they both get what they want for Christmas. Though, what each of them want is not necessarily the same thing…

*******

Friday the 23rd crawled ever closer and the gift I’d bought for Josie had still not arrived. The artistically baubled and tinseled plastic office tree was already starting to accumulate a drift of brightly wrapped presents underneath. I was feeling nervous and tetchy. Josie’s secret Santa gift would be on the large size and I needed to get it under the tree without anybody seeing, especially Shazza, otherwise where’s the fucking anonymity in that?

The tree itself was Shaz’s work, of course. Another time wasting opportunity courtesy of the Fat Kontroller. She’d spent an entire afternoon erecting it, dressing it, redressing it, and snapping selfies with it on her mobile, whilst the rest of the office – myself included – ran around picking up the phone she was paid to answer.

My ill will toward Shazza was further exacerbated by the group email she’d been sending out each morning. It contained a photo of her handiwork and a subject line that read: ‘Tree Minus X Days to Secret Santa!!!’. Three exclamation marks – not one (acceptable) or two (okay, it’s Christmas) but three. It arrived in my inbox at 9am prompt every morning, and as the days passed it seemed to me that she was mocking my attempt to woo the lovely Josie. My present to her had still not arrived.

Going by this morning’s missive, ‘X’ equalled ‘5’. It was Monday afternoon and I now had less than four more days to plant my gift under the tree without the rest of the office seeing me do it. Assuming it ever arrived that is.

At least it would be pre-wrapped. I’d taken full advantage of the online service and chosen the most expensive option. My plan had been for it to be delivered to the office last week, the wrapped present concealed by the outer box’s plain packaging. This would allow me time to take it home, extract the gift, and smuggle it back into the office in all its sumptuously wrapped finery, without anyone making the connection between the two. So much for that, I thought moodily.

My telephone rang, making me jump. It was Shazza.

“Harry. There’s a parcel in reception for you,” her voice trilled in my ear.

Thank fuck! “I’ll be there in a bit,” I replied shortly, and made to put the receiver down.

“No wait! Harry!” she squealed.

“What?”

“Please hold for one moment caller,” Shazza purred and put me on hold. I looked at the receiver and fumed. Fucking bitch!!

I was about to hang up when she returned. “Harry, it’s being brought round to you now. Byeee!”

She hung up as the Fat Kontroller ambled round the corner carrying what I presumed was my parcel.

“Harry! This is for you,” he bellowed placing it on my desk. The Fat Kontroller loves to make dramatic entrances. Half the heads in the office popped up over their cubicles, then popped down again like a troupe of wary meerkats. “What have you bought?” he asked. “Not been surfing Amazon on company time I hope. It doesn’t look like my Secret Santa gift this year…completely the wrong shape, eh, Harry?” he said with a wink.

“No Mr Kontrell. It’s for my dad. Power tools. He loves his shed,” I said with added eye roll. In fact mum had banned dad from doing any home maintenance since the Kitchen Refit Disaster of ’01, but the Fat Kontroller wasn’t to know that.

“Oh. How boring. Still, it’s better than giving him socks, I suppose,” he replied. Not if you’re my mother, I thought.

He seemed lost in thought for a moment and stood drumming his fingers on the top of my parcel. I watched his fingers rise and fall. Stop bringing attention to it, you bastard, I screamed internally.

“Erm, how did the big meeting go this afternoon?” I asked in an attempt to retrieve his attention and stop that infernal drumming. “We weren’t expecting to see you back until tomorrow.”

“Oh fine, fine,” he said, patting his bulging waistline. “Seasonal hospitality. Clients insist on being entertained this time of year. It’s one of those necessary but irksome tasks of business. Someone has to do it.”

Yeah right, I thought. Only he would consider lunch in a 5 star restaurant, overlooking the city skyline, as ‘irksome’. “Oh absolutely,” I agreed with a sympathetic look. “And you have more to endure before the week is out.”

“Yes,” the Fat Kontroller nodded gravely. I sensed that my diversionary tactic was about to backfire in the form of more work, but at least he’d stopped fingering my parcel. “Actually Harry, can you get me the sales projections for next year? I think we might be able to revise the figures upwards.”

“Of course, Mr Kontrell,” I replied brightly.

“And I might need you to stay on at the end of the day. Onwards and upwards, Harry,” the Fat Kontroller boomed, moving off towards his office. “Onwards and upwards!”

As soon as he’d gone, I slid the parcel across my desk and placed it underneath. All I needed to do was open it, remove the wrapped gift it contained, drop that under the tree when the right moment came along, and take ‘dad’s present‘ back home with me. Simples! as a TV meerkat might say…

*******

Be sure to come back on Friday, Dear Reader, for the exciting, double post conclusion to ‘Secret Santa’…

*Will it have a sting in it? Stone the crows, Clicky… Spoilers! …/rolls eyes… *

 

‘Secret Santa’: 11 Sleeps to Go

Erm… as it turns out, I’m now going to be quite busy tomorrow. So, Dear Reader, here is the second installment of ‘Secret Santa‘ today. Enjoy!

*******

Unexpectedly, Josie called me the next day. She said she wanted a ‘quiet word’, and all I could do was imagine her hot breath in my ear. We agreed to rendezvous in the empty conference room, so I took the opportunity to visit the bathroom en route. Just to freshen up, adjust my underwear, that sort of thing.

She was already there when I arrived, sitting at the head of the table. Her long legs were crossed and her business skirt had ridden up to expose smooth, tanned thigh. She must use an all over sunbed because her tight-fitting, white blouse contrasted nicely with the colour of her caramel cleavage, making the most of her small but perky tits.

“Thank you for coming to speak with me, Harry. I realise you’re very busy.” She waited until I’d closed the door and sat down before continuing. “I need to speak to you about Shazza.”

“Sharon on reception?” I asked with an innocent face.

“Yes. I’m afraid she’s made a complaint against you. Apparently you were very rude to her yesterday.” Josie’s tone and steady gaze was meant to impart the seriousness of the situation. It just made me want to cover her plump lips with my own even more.

“Josie…I don’t know what to say. I’m…Is this about Secret Santa? I know I was a bit short with Shazza, but I was extremely busy at the time finalising our bid for the Clovis account. So this…is this an official complaint?” I enquired, feigning immense concern. Little Shazza’s had the nerve to make a complaint? That’ll be the day.

Josie looked flustered at my reply. A splash of humility can work wonders when you have as prickly a reputation as mine. “Er, no. Not an official complaint per se, but she mentioned the incident to me in private conversation. I thought I should have a word. I could see she was very upset.”

Not an official complaint, then? Interesting. “Let me assure you, Josie, that I’ll apologise to Shazza at the earliest possible opportunity.” I reached over and covered her delicate but beautifully tanned hand with my own and let it rest there.

“Look, I realise I can come off as a bit abrupt but I have a very stressful job. I’ll try to be a little more conciliatory in the future.”

She looked relieved. “Thank you, Harry. I realise Mr Kontrell can be a very demanding boss…”

I didn’t let her finish. “Josie, you’ve only been with F A Kontrell for, what, a couple of months now? We’re an expanding business, so one should expect there to be a little pain.” Time for a little self deprecation. “That would be me,” I said with a cutesy finger wave.

Her giggle was delightful. So was the way she used her free hand to push a lock of shiny, black hair that had fallen across her face, back over her ear. Her other hand was still trapped beneath my own and she seemed in no particular hurry to retrieve it. I pulled my hand away and sat back in my chair.

“So, how are you finding it here? Are you glad you joined us?” I asked with a rare smile.

Josie smiled back. “Yes. Everybody is very nice and, like you say, it is very busy.”

“Yes,” I replied as I sat back and crossed my legs. “It’ll soon be the 23rd and then we can enjoy Christmas.”

Josie recrossed her own legs, flashing some deliciously tanned inside thigh. An idea came to me.

“Actually, I’m not really fond of the Secret Santa tradition. I never know what to get the person,” I sighed.

“Oh, well who have you got to buy for?” she asked.

I gave her a look of bemused befuddlement. “I can’t tell you that, it’s a secret.”

She frowned and thought for a moment, pulling her shoulders back just enough for me to see a hint of lacy bra, as the buttons on her blouse gaped.

“Without some idea of who it’s for… gift vouchers?” She offered apologetically.

I grimaced. “Oh god no, I get those every year.”

“You poor thing, that’s so boring.” Josie’s hand, the one I’d been touching, moved toward me.

“Maybe you can help me,” I mused, shifting my weight forward. I lent my elbows on the table and leaned in conspiritorially toward her. “You may have noticed the office here is predominantly female. Now I won’t confirm it’s a woman I have to buy a gift for but it’s a strong possibility. I’d like to get something more…personal,” I confided in a hushed tone.

“Aw, that’s really sweet,” she replied, leaning in closer and cocking her head to one side. “How about perfume? That’s personal and functional.”

“Perfume?” I appeared to weigh up the idea. “I don’t know, I like that idea but I wouldn’t know one perfume from another without asking first, and that would give the game away. I think I’d like to get this person something fun.”

“Chocolates,” she offered emphatically.

“Er, chocolates are fun?”

“You can never have too much fun with chocolate,” Josie replied with a wink.

Saucy minx! “Well, you’re lucky in that you have a lovely physique, Josie. Not everyone is as blessed as you,” I countered.

She blushed. Dear sweet Josie, I could have eaten her up right there and then.

“Okay then,” she continued, “it has to be personal, functional and definitely fun… although not chocolates or perfume.”

“How exactly are chocolates functional?” I asked with a quizzical lift of my eyebrows.

“Er, to have fun.”

“Right, I will remember that,” I replied with a low chuckle. “Personal, functional, fun…chocolate is optional. You’ve been a great help, Josie. Thank you.”

She stood up and I allowed my eyes to wander over her body for a moment, admiring the way her hipbones thrust forward and accentuated the tautness of her flat tummy. She could have been a model. She should have been a model. It’s not often an angel crosses your path.

“And you’ll apologise to Shazza?”

Would I fuck! “Of course. Consider it done.”

We left the room together. I held the door open with one hand, cradling the small of her back with the other as I ushered her out before me. She was a honey all right and I knew exactly what Secret Santa would be giving her this Christmas…

*******

Part three will be along at the start of next week, Dear Reader. Until then, have a Song…

*Ha! Good choice, Clicky… /thinks… this would be an ideal opportunity to remind Dear Reader they can get a copy of The Underdog Anthology immediately on Kindle…*

*Oh you… /blushes…*

 

‘Secret Santa’: 12 Sleeps to Go

secret (n.) late 14c., from Latin secretus “set apart, withdrawn; hidden, concealed, private,” past participle of secernere “to set apart, part, divide; exclude,” from se-“without, apart,” properly “on one’s own” (see se-) + cernere “separate” (see crisis).

As an adjective from late 14c., from French secret, adjective use of noun. Open secret is from 1828. Secret agent first recorded 1715; secret service is from 1737; secret weapon is from 1936.

Dear Reader, I’m given to understand that sales of The Underdog Anthology have been ‘brisk’, which is very heartening – it’s an ideal stocking filler or Secret Santa gift…

*/sharp intake of breath… That’s a good idea, Clicky! I could definitely do that… /pats snout…*

I have a Christmas tale that I wrote for the ‘Christmas Underdog Anthology’, but that won’t now happen until next year. So here, Dear Reader, for your entertainment is the first installment of ‘Secret Santa’ by Roo B. Doo…

a-storyteller-needs-a-pipe

*******

I’d been watching her do the rounds all afternoon. She was shirking again, moving from desk to desk as slowly as she possibly could, irritating the hell out of everyone with her silly bloody ritual. Eventually, she got round to me. It was inevitable really. I gritted my teeth and braced myself for the explosion of seasonal bonhomie.

“Hi Harry! How’s it going?” Shazza gaily chirped from behind a stack of reports I’d neatly stacked along the edge of my desk. She was gripping some red velvet tat between nervous fat fingers.

“Shaz. What do you want?” I replied. For once my curtness was justified; I was actually quite busy formatting and pivoting tables on my computer screen.

Shazza briefly frowned but quickly recovered. “It’s Christmas in two weeks,” she smiled brightly, holding up her hands to reveal the tatty Santa hat she’d been holding.

“Really? Who’d have thought? Why don’t you come back in two weeks then?”

I really was very busy and not in the mood for another of the ‘bonding’ activities that the Fat Kontroller dreamed up to keep our airhead receptionist entertained. If you’re in need of a raffle, bake-off, dress up, dress down or sweepstake, especially if it’s for charity, then Shazza’s your man.

“Ooh, looks like we’ve found our Scrooge!” she squealed for the benefit of the entire office. “We all have to play our part, Harry,” she continued in that irritatingly positive sing-song voice of hers, “and I’ve been chosen to organise Secret Santa this year.”

I sat back in my chair and swivelled round to face her. “Sharon, you’re chosen to organise Secret Santa every year. Look, I’m up to my arse in it at the moment, I don’t have time for this shit.”

I must have hurt her feelings, because she suddenly came over all professional. “You are required to select a name from the hat to buy a gift for. Minimum £10 spend. Wrap and label it with your recipient’s name, and place in under the office tree, no later than 23rd December as they will distributed at the Christmas party at The Exchange that night.”

She thrust the Santa hat toward me. It was the same cheap hat she used last year. A threadbare velour Poundland job that was probably past its ‘sell by’ date on the day she bought it. Its fur trim was meant to be white but was tinged grey from the entry and exit of dozens of grimy wrists. I really didn’t want to put my hand in there, but the sooner I got it over with the sooner I’d get Shazza out of my face. I winced and took the plunge.

“You do know my great-grandfather was half Jewish, don’t you? Next year, Shaz, I’d appreciate it if you used a yamaka, so my cultural sensibilities aren’t infringed.”

The hat felt empty. I rummaged around until I felt a slip of folded paper that had worked its way down into the pointy end. I pulled it out, looked at it, and held it up for Shazza to see. “It says ‘Harry’,” I sighed.

“No! You have to buy for somebody else!” she cried, snatching back the hat and peering inside. Her dismay quickly diminished as she spied another slip of folded paper wedged in its grubby depths. She took it out and handed it to me.

I opened it out, read it, put it in my pocket and turned my attention back to my PC screen.

“Who did you get?” Shazza asked excitedly.

“It’s secret,” I replied, focusing on the numbers on my screen.

She looked crestfallen. “Don’t you want to know who’ll get you?”

I slid the slip of paper with my name on across the desk toward her. “No. Now piss off. We must be missing tons of important phone calls because you’re fannying about over here. We’re a very busy company. Chop, chop.”

Shazza scowled, turned on her heels and left. A few heads from neighbouring workstations bobbed up and quickly lowered. People walking away from my desk in a huff is not an uncommon event.

I thought about the name in my pocket. I hate the Secret Santa ritual – in the two years I’d been at the company I’d selected the Fat Kontroller from the hat on both occasions. The score so far was two bottles of malt whiskey for him and two £10 gift vouchers for me. They were from Boots and had all the hallmarks of an afterthought purchased whilst out buying haemorrhoid cream or a sandwich.

I hadn’t gotten my boss this year though. No, I’d picked out Josie’s name instead. Lithe limbed Josie in HR, with an elfin face, raven hair and legs up to her armpits. She was new to the company and the only honey in the office I’d even consider getting my fingers sticky with. Unfortunately, she came with baggage in the form of a muscle-bound boyfriend called Alfie, who chauffeured her to and from the office. With the visage of an Easter Island statue and phyisque large enough to affect gravity, Alfie would have no problem effecting profound change on the features of any love-struck suitor.

Still, an anonymous gift given legitimately might just open some doors, maybe some legs too. My mind began to whirl as I considered the possibilities. I checked the time: just 45 minutes until close of business. There was no point continuing with what I was doing now that Shazza had so inconsiderately shattered my concentration. A little Christmas gift web browsing might help me wind down and would, in all honesty and with hand on heart, be completely work-related…

*******

The second installment of ‘Secret Santa’ will follow in a couple of days. In the meantime, Dear Reader, have a Song…