The Dreaded Staff Party

Oh god. The dreaded staff Christmas party. Does anyone enjoy them? Apart from Mary of course! You have read her report about hers I assume. It’s here if you haven’t. https://medium.com/@TracyTrouble/marys-missive-simon-s-works-party-47cbe0b25b1c

Mine would be different for two very good reasons. Firstly I worked in my office. Mary was merely married to the managing director. Secondly, my phobia about men. Mary clearly didn’t suffer one!

Our party had been scaled back this year. We’d had a poll during the year and the partners had asked us to vote on whether we wanted to continue as before where they took us all out to a black-tie dinner at a fabulously expensive hotel and paid for the whole lot or we had a very scaled down version of an open tab at the local pub and the difference was donated to a local charity. I’m pleased to say that option was unanimously voted for.

So we were off to the local pub. It wouldn’t be quite so bad as the sit down dinners of previous years. One could at least wander off from any conversation that got too tedious.

I wondered what I could get away with. Flashing wise I mean. I couldn’t not think of using the gathering for my hobby could I, but I needed to tread a careful path. Anything I displayed needed to have ‘accidental’ writ large across it. I also wanted to avoid letting those in my team, who had benefited from my office show (https://medium.com/@TracyTrouble/office-flash-22944da9b298 ), see anything. To show your knickers once could be thought careless. To show them twice? More difficult to argue the accidental route.

I’d dressed for the occasion as had virtually everyone else in what one might call our interview attire. Office wear but the smartest outfit — dress to impress! I had a dress on rather than a suit. It was black with a white lapel and edging which reached down to the hem. My cleavage showed but if I was careful, as I had been during the day, not too evident. That might well change!

Where the collar reached my waist it transformed into the skirt which was a wrap over. The skirt overlapped itself by about four inches and was unsecured. Deliciously suitable to give a flash of leg.

Unlike the wrap over Mary had worn in the photo shoot at Simon’s (https://medium.com/@TracyTrouble/sexing-up-simons-office-ff1d3fbb6c20) this one was cut tighter and less inclined to flap open. But with a determined wearer, it could be revealing. I was such a determined wearer.

The first half an hour or so was predictable. Everyone clutching their glasses. Everyone asking everyone else “Are you ready for Christmas?” “Are you going away?” Or the few pathetic comedians “Is Santa bringing you anything nice?” “Yes a big titted black lesbian.”

All credit to my team we weren’t quite so parochial, but really other than work we were so diverse finding common ground to chat about was a strain and once it got to “Do you think Hamza should have won Strictly?” I made my excuses and left in search of a group where I could flaunt myself without too much fear of morning after regrets.

I found the necessary in a group from our technical division. A division not renowned for its humour or its sexy staff. But I like a challenge and they were actually laughing as I approached them so it gave me an easy in. “What’s the joke guys? Can an innocent lady enjoy it?” (Yes, I know!)

There were six of them. Clones. Dark grey suits. White shirts. Blue tie with their professional organisation’s motif emblazoned on it. Black shoes. So highly polished I was sure they could use them to look up my skirt and admire my knickers. All in their thirties. Marital status unknown, but these guys were well known for being unmarried. Too committed to their craft. All worked in the basement. Known affectionately by everyone as the Boffins Basement.

My comment nonplussed them as I knew it would. “It wasn’t dirty,” one of them ventured, “but it was rather an in joke.”

I could imagine. Some weird term they’d managed to make a pun out of I suspected. I didn’t bother to reply but asked if they were enjoying themselves. I had other equally riveting questions ready to ask too (see above). I just needed an excuse to stay there.

I haven’t mentioned, but I imagine you’ve guessed, I had already rearranged my clothing. It only needed to be subtle changes. I’d hoisted the top up an inch from the belt which enabled the neck to balloon out slightly. Nothing blatant, but it created a clear view down my cleavage for anyone inclined to look.

Below the belt, I’d pulled the left side of the skirt slightly leftward. It was held there by the belt. Standing still with legs together nothing was amiss. As soon as I walked the skirt parted as if commanded by Moses. Giving a beautiful (for those of a certain persuasion) view all the way to my black lacy knickers.

I’d held the dress in place as I had walked over to them but now standing talking I changed my stance slightly. Put my right leg forward. Without looking I knew the skirt was lying against my leg but my inner thigh would be visible from the side. The man two to my left was ideally placed to appreciate my efforts. He seemed to. His eyes focused on me. On my leg at least. His face reddened slightly. His concentration on the conversation dwindled. I had a thought. I steered the conversation to Scotland, where I’d had my holiday. I asked if they’d like to see some photographs of it. They were too polite to refuse. I rummaged in my bag looking for my phone. Couldn’t find it. (Liar that I am). I put the bag on the floor so I could rummage deeper (you know what we women are for clutter) I didn’t need to open my legs far. The dress fell away perfectly. I hunched my shoulders slightly. My bodice continued to behave perfectly. Ballooning out. I hoped they liked my lingerie.

I was aware conversation had dried up. I stayed squatted as long as I felt reasonable then announced I had found my phone and stood, waving it in triumph. I’m not sure what the word is for a collection of men who all looked as if they had hards hiding in their trousers, but I had such a collection in front of me. My original voyeur had been joined in the red face department by two others. The other three had hints of leers on their faces. I hid the smile I was feeling. Success. Six wanking men. Perhaps I should try for the whole 12 days of Christmas, what’s next? seven women stripping? I was certainly in the mood. I showed my holiday snaps but somewhat surprisingly no one seemed that interested. After a few minutes, I decided to move on.

I would have loved to repeat the show but didn’t want to press my luck. As I’ve said I can claim a single show as accidental. However, I had another idea. I wandered off to the ladies clutching my half-full glass of bubbles. (Enough of a clue?) I went into one of the cubicles, hung my bag on the back of the door, and hoisted my dress out of the way. Pulled my knickers aside and held the glass between my legs. Topped it up. I tried the mixture. The taste was okay. The act mind blowing. I wiped myself, rearranged my dress demurely and went back to the party.

To any observant watcher perhaps my drink was darker than others but the chances of anyone asking was remote to nil. I joined a group I vaguely knew and sipped my cocktail. It’s difficult to describe the feeling of doing something so bizarre, so depraved, in front of unsuspecting work colleagues. I could feel myself moistening more with every mouthful. I couldn’t concentrate on what they were saying. My mind was occupied with dirty sexy thoughts. How these men, respectable married men would react if I said to them ‘By the way I’m drinking my own piss. If you want to add yours do.’ And then perhaps open my legs and let go a torrent in front of them!

It won’t happen. Not in front of work colleagues but the thought is now in my mind. Perhaps a pub somewhere? Another adventure for next year.

I remained on heat. I continued sipping my piss cocktail but other than that no other opportunity presented itself as caution was my watchword. At least I’d made the evening marginally more entertaining than normal.