Pulling a Late One

Pulling A Late One

Oh, you've been bad. You shouldn't have done that. Not on a weeknight. Especially not when you've got a meeting the next day.

But, fuck, it's tempting. A whole bar. Mostly students. The manager and the DJ know exactly what they're doing. Cheap alcopops. The birds love 'em. They'll do anything to get them for free.

Anything.

They're easy, but you still didn't pull for some reason, and you woke up alone five hours later, with both alarms blaring. You're now sat in this mind-numbing meeting trying to prop your eyes open.

Focus. Look at your manager.

“Just a few jobs to dish out today,” she says, sifting through stapled sheets. She says something about a park and a poster.

You take the assignment sheet. You make your contribution now, to show people you're with it. Don't let your eyes drop. Loosen your collar. Cool off. Straighten your tie to hide it. Listen to the conversation. Don't think about those girls. Don't picture them on the podium, in their little denim skirts, bending over and-

A wad of paper passes in front of your eyes. You try not to flinch. You look up at your manager from across the table. Strike one. She's noticed. She's pretending she hasn't.

Fuck, you think. You wouldn't be in this shit now if it wasn't for that DJ. You'd have just gone home. He made them do it. He made them kiss and touch each other, made them glance out to the audience where you were stood.

They even looked right at you. Like your manager is doing right now. Strike two.

Your colleague is speaking. You glance to him, like you've been paying attention all along. He's speaking.

“We're still waiting to hear back from them to get back to us,” he says. You hear him say “leaflets”.

Stay tuned for now. When you get home, you can think about this all you want. You can crack one out of the system and catch up on sleep. You can imagine you're the DJ. Oh. You want this champagne? You're going to have to show me a little more.

So the girls lift up each other's tiny denim skirts, looking at you, and French kiss.  They spank each other, hard. You can hear the smack over your music, a crack piercing the fast-paced, tuneless track. They show off their thongs. They grope each other's breasts. They push their cleavages against each other.

Please, Mr. DJ. Give us your sweet champagne.

You show them the bottle as one girl buries her face into the other girl's cleavage.

Keep trying, you think.

But something isn't right. The base has dropped out on your sound system. You don't understand the audio deck. The deck isn't there. Just three tables pushed together for seating purposes. All you can hear is the snare of- of-

Of fabric being stretched.

Your trousers. Your hand in your pocket. Your own self-abuse. You start to shrink, in more ways than one.

Your colleagues are silent, looking at the floor, scarlet faced.

Strike three. Oh, you've been bad.