by Mia Madison
I storm back to the office, not appreciating the crowd snapping selfies with the giant tree on Rockefeller Plaza. When I arrive my heart sinks to my frostbitten toes. Everyone has emerged from their cubicles to take over the huge sleek reception area in preparation for the Christmas party.
“Really?” I snarl at the receptionist. “You'd think a hugely profitable company like Wellman Finance would blow some cash on their employees in the season of goodwill.” And by employees I mean slaves.
“Oh, it does. Mr Wellman is the best boss ever,” she gushes. “He hosted a huge thing at The Morgan. Very swanky. Now he lets us have this office party to shake off the cobwebs.”
I’ve never heard such adulation for a corporate slave-driver. I wonder when I'll get to meet this kindly old gentleman, Mr Wellman.
“He occasionally drops by the party early. We give him a roast and a silly gift. Then he splits so we can all let loose. And believe me we do. It's gonna get cray in here tonight but Mr Wellman encourages it. Oh, by the way, Andrea left a box of paperwork on your desk that she needs finished up by end of day.”
No one thinks to invite the office temp to shake off her cranky cobwebs so I head back to the dingy storage room to get down to my overtime with dust bunnies for company.
Chapter Two
My so-called office is down a service corridor behind reception, where they store extra chairs and other non-essential detritus. I'm alone in a tiny airless room while the staff share open plan trendy cubicles allowing them to enjoy frequent interaction. I fall into an excess carbohydrate funk all afternoon.
The box that Andrea, Mr Wellman's PA, decided is so important seems to gloat at the fact I'm going to have to stay late to get it done. The snow coming down thick now will have piled up on the sidewalks and maybe the subway tracks. Getting home will be a nightmare. Plus I took a chance and wore heels today instead of sensible boots.
No one suddenly remembers to invite the temp to the party, but I do get to listen to the increasing orgiastic jubilation filtering down the hallway. Around 7.30, I'm starving. I only had the pasta salad and that was hours ago. Not having planned on working late, I'm not stocked up with snacks to get me through the tedium.
I don't care if I'm not a real guest, I'm heading out to the canteen to grab coffee on the pretext of swiping up a couple of sliders from the loaded party trays I saw being spread out earlier.
The transformation of the office in a few short hours is shocking. The usually serene cream and exotic wood reception area looks like Armageddon. As though a swat team of over-sugared toddlers has marauded through the elegant space. I head toward the buffet spread and notice some kind of dark red-brown slash across the plush pale carpeting. But it's chocolate sauce rather than blood. How do you manage to leave a trail of chocolate across a very expensive floor treatment?
Oh, I get it. One of the girls is chasing a guy through the crowd wielding a squeezy bottle of Hershey’s. The back of his pristine white shirt is squirted with black and red and mustard yellow streaks making him look like a Jackson Pollock painting on the run. They're both squealing so I guess he's enjoying himself as much as she is. Someone's getting lucky tonight.
Dang, that makes my clit twitch and throb because it's not gonna be me. How can I live in the most exciting city in the world and not have had sex since I left college? Because this city has two buttons – work and after-work. Without a job and no money to hit the social scene, I'm out of the loop.
Visions of the hottie from the deli float up in my head before I can squash them down. His solid body under the fine white shirt, sculpted by the classy suit. No one could fail to notice the hard round globes of the ass-hat's ass as he rushed off to his cozy waiting limo. That was a man to fuel a thousand fantasies. He's going to be living in mine when I get home and get myself off before passing out asleep.
Discarded on life's scrap heap before the age of twenty two, I step up to one of the two bars set up in opposite corners and surreptitiously nab a tequila shot.
“Adios motherfucker,” a smart looking guy falls in beside me.
“Coming right up,” the bartender replies pouring some violent blue liqueur into a glass.
“There's a cocktail called adios motherfucker made with Windex?” I ask.
“Curacao,” he replies.
I watch the bartender add gin, vodka, rum and tequila to the garish blue liquor. Holy shit. I serve myself a second tequila.
“And lemme get a liquid Viagra,” the confident young guy orders.
The bartender nods the okay and pours a mix of Jagermeister and Red Bull. No doubt that Mr Confidence will be up all night.
“You new? I haven't seen you around. Deke.” He offers his hand.
I sneak another peek at his face. Cute. Too cute. The scrubble on his chin looks like it took him three weeks to grow in. His skin is too doughy soft. He's only around my age and reminds me of the fresh eager jocks from college always on the prowl to get their dicks dipped. Too unsophisticated. Undeveloped. They're all exactly the same. Same lines, same boring routine. Like they're still growing a personality.
“Georgia Jury. I'm a temp for Christmas.”
“Well damn, Georgia Jury, I'd like a temp for Christmas under my tree.”
Is he hitting on me? Just like that? That's cocky.
He grins and stares at my chest then takes in my ass without a scruple. He's totally hitting on me. Jeezus, I'm going to start charging.
An image floats up before my eyes. Of the gorgeous hunk at the lunch counter today. That guy definitely didn’t need 24 hours to grow in his model stubble.
Shit. Why do I keep thinking of that asshole?
I have a third tequila. Downing it swiftly before anyone important like the boss's assistant notices. The warmth suffuses through my tense core.
Much better.
Now for something to mop up the damage. I'm finding the buffet spread far more appealing than flirting with a kid right now. Just then, the catch-me-if-you-can players rustle past. Deke grabs me and pulls me in front as a shield, sure that his co-worker won't dare. He grips my arms and ducks out either side of me, tease-tempting her with his moving target.
She does dare.
The liquor has taken over the corporate girl and spat out a daring monster.
A squirt of mayonnaise lands across my chest, the slash traveling over the hump of my breast.
“Dammit you two,” I shout, but they're already off, screaming and laughing as they hurtle around the reception. I sound like I'm uptight when really I'm just not drunk enough.
I weave to the buffet and stuff some mini tacos. So good. There's a creamy cheese ball covered in S'mores which is amazing. The cheeseburger dip is nothing short of tastebud climax. I have to tell my Mom about this one. Before I'm noticed like the beggar that busted in off the cold streets, I grab a handful of crab puffs and spring rolls. I pile on some nachos and then I see the jumbo shrimp which I skewer onto cocktail sticks five deep.
My flattened palm is piled high and precarious as a Jenga tower and I need to steady the pinnacle with my other hand before I add my mark to the trashed carpet. Beside me a woman is seated in a chair deep-throating two vodka bottles, held in place between her lips by a pair of smart young executives. She's furiously double butt-chugging the liquor, trying not to gag on her laughter while conveniently hanging onto both men's belt buckles, her fingers buried underneath.
Things are about to get sticky around here. And I haven’t had nearly enough tequila. I lift a discarded shot and throw it back.
Before being hip-checked again, I duck into one of the service offices to scarf my precarious treasure.
The photocopy room should be safe. Except that of course everyone has seen Fatal Attraction. But that's so last century and instead of sitting on the glass plate to photocopy her butt for the entranced guys around her, the blond from accounting is riding the machine like a bucking bronco. She's in the saddle, leaning forward, her palms clinging to the edge of the machine,
pressing her ample cleavage with her upper arms. The light moves back and forward along her splayed thighs, rendering a ghoulish glow on her skin as she makes a hundred copies of her spread pussy mouth.
One of the guys grabs the stack of paper from the tray.
“Way to go, Jessie,” he whoops. “Ride that cowboy.”
He admires the murky picture of her open hole and hands a copy to everyone. When my turn comes and he thrusts one at me with a leer, I shrug away indicating my already stuffed hands.
“Way to go, Red,” he tells me. “Get your carbs in. Winter's coming, you need to lay down stores.”
Everyone howls like he's the funniest comedian to hit the circuit. And I make my escape, humiliated but intent on feasting in the privacy of my stifling box room.
I'm heading across the expansive reception, dodging the swaying drunks when an office door is thrown back and a naked man emerges. He hurtles through the crowd, lassoing a pair of bright red panties in circles above his head. When he brushes dangerously close to me, almost felling my pile, I can't help glancing down over his ghoul white skin.
At least he's wearing a Santa cap on his cock because really, some guys should only ever undress in the dark. His streak nets a roar of approval from the crowd.
“Feed me, Momma.”
He pulls up beside me and crouches on his thighs just enough so he's looking up at me with pleading puppy dog eyes as he pants, tongue out, ogling my stash of snacks.
I stagger away, desperate to get back to the anonymity of my broom closet. Another loud holler and I look up to see two guys with a girl sandwiched between them, sledging a tea tray down the wide spiral staircase leading up to the executive suite. They land in what looks like a painful pile-up at the bottom and roll around, too drunk to feel anything. The girl still has her legs tightly wrapped around the pelvis of the guy who headed up the sled. They writhe around on the floor to the full approbation of the crowd surrounding them.
I've never seen a bunch of office workers let loose like this. But then this is the first Christmas office party I’ve ever attended. Aside from one I was allowed to visit at my dad's company once. Everyone enjoyed the food and a glass of wine, mingled politely with their co-workers like they didn't spend almost half their lives in each others company and then sped off home to their families.
This party is totally out of control. And everyone is getting to know each other in the furthest way from polite.
Everyone but me.
Read more of Bossy Christmas Party NOW
Bossy Christmas Party 1
Also by Mia Madison
Bossy Billionaire
Bossy Valentine
Major Dad