tagNonConsent/ReluctanceChristmas Party Intrusion

Christmas Party Intrusion



This is a rape fantasy story, it is written as a fantasy and meant to portray a fantasy. It has no basis in real life and is not intended to mirror reality. I do not condone, endorse or encourage ANY of the behaviour displayed in this story.

If rape fantasies bother your sensibilities it's likely better not to waste your time reading it. Especially if you have the urge to send me a stupid email afterwards detailing your sense of moral indignation. On the other hand if, like me, you enjoy this sort of fantasy I hope you like the story and comments are welcome :)


The cold weather signals the beginning of the Christmas season, and like the season, the office Christmas party would be happening this year like every year. I never liked the work Christmas party, so many of the people there I never even work with, but there really isn't much of an option to skip it. My boss expects everyone to be there, be part of the team.... be one big public service family. The section managers know their staff's participation in this sort of thing reflects on them; the more faces they can show the more their boss's think of their group's moral. I don't really have the backbone to say "no" to something obviously so important to him. Also, in the long run it's easier to indulge these things than be put on his naughty rather than nice list.

I work in a government lab as a researcher; it's work that I can often isolate myself doing. The samples don't tend to talk back and collaborations tend to be of the technical variety, rather than the cooperative. Being a government directive, the lab is part of the greater bureaucratic machinery. This means office workers, policy makers, policy analysts, vision leaders, portfolio managers........and all the other titles I never learned the true meanings of. Apparently, we are all part of the same team under one umbrella, in ways these are the cousins in the family that I rarely see. The Christmas party is the one time a year that we all get to congregate in the conference centre, have a little (bit too much) wine, hand out gifts for the kids who come and, if all goes according to plan, be out and home before 8.

That year the party was scheduled for December 9th, at 6:30, exactly 16 days and just over two full working weeks before Christmas. This strategically planned date was no accident, stretching into the third working week before Christmas, it assured the attendance of even the most dedicated vacationers. The other thing that was encouraged was, for those with young children, to bring their kids. They would be handed out presents, given cake and allowed to run around. It's hard to argue against the notion that Christmas is more Christmas with kids around, so most people really got into the idea. At the time my son was 11 and daughter 5; one almost too old, but not quite, and one at just the right age. I didn't really mind bringing them, since they would give me a reason to excuse myself from an awkward conversation and give me an excuse to bring my husband.

With him there I could stay by his side and allow him to do all the talking, something that has always come naturally to him. In a room full of strangers he can comfortably join a circle, and in no time be the centre of attention, it's something I admire about him, but not something I could ever understand. Even in a room with colleagues, I just don't know how to do that. To me it's hard to just start talking to people that I, for the most part, see all the time and never talk to.

When thrown into a forced social situation I never know where to move, who to talk to, how long to talk to them, what to do if there's nothing to say, what to do if I'm in a circle and people start moving away. I short; I'm a bit of a mess at these sorts of functions. The common ground to bridge conversation, that puts people at ease and make other people comfortable is never ground I stood firmly on. A professional conference for me is much easier, people from the same field to discuss the moving nature of the discipline. The Christmas party the rules of engagement are not so simple, you're supposed to move outside your clique; embrace your extended family however tenuous the relationships may be.

The snow was a little early on December 9th, it often snows in Canada in November and December but this year was unusual in the amount, there was snow everywhere. We were having a major snow storm and it was all accumulating on the ground. I usually love the first time snow falls each year, it makes everything look so pretty and peaceful; like a protective blanket draped over earth cleaning all the imperfections. Superficially healing the damaged parts and presenting a version more pleasing to the eye. The serenity of the scene usually leads to introspective thoughts about how we, as people, try to do the same with make-up, material items, clothes and even words.

This time however, I had no romantic feelings for it, I had to drive home and drive back for this Christmas party. My stress was overflowing as I wiped the snow of my windshield and made my way around the car to get the windows, with snow falling in the tops of my boots the entire way around. The swearing under my breath had migrated to the audible side, getting louder with each piece of ice the melted into my socks. I wiped just enough snow not to get honked at, or worse get a ticket for, off my car and focused my attention on the drive home. I had to get home, collect the family, make sure they're clean, get dressed and then drive all the way back and I only had two hours.

I washed my face and pulled my brown hair back to get it out of my face. I put some highlighter under my brow and on my cheekbones to make them standout. I never go over the top with make-up, I just try to accentuate my best features and hopefully make myself look a bit younger. A little bit of blush, a little bit of shadow, and a few swipes of massacre for the finishing touch. I let my long brown hair fall back down and tried to fluff my small curls at the ends. Popped my contacts in and in short order I was starting to look dolled up. I pulled on my carefully selected grey dress that I had spent days deciding on. The trick is to be conservative enough that nobody is talking behind your back, but at the same time being just sexy enough to feel confident. The style I settled on was a silk chiffon dress with a fitted bodice; the lining fell like sheer just beneath my knee. Worn with a winter shawl around my shoulders it had an understated elegance that didn't look too fancy. I pulled on a pair of stockings just to make sure I hadn't been too liberal in my dress selection.

I stood back from the mirror to look at my entire look. I wasn't going to be the belle of the ball, but I looked presentable I told myself, maybe even sexy. I wanted to wear some shoes with a bit of lift but not so much to be provocative. I settled on my smart looking silver wedge pumps, they gave my backside a bit of lift without looking like I was trying to; I stood 5'8" with them on. I'd put them back on in the car once we got to the building exchanging my boots. My legs are skinny but my hips flare out in a way that some would consider an imperfection, more of a pear than an hourglass, but men seem to like it; also gives my husband something to hold when we're screwing. Speaking of which, that was something I hadn't been doing all that much of, I always seem to slow down when the days get shorter at first; just takes me out of the mood.

I sprayed a touch of perfume on, not too much, but just enough for a hint. I kicked my shoes off and weighed myself out of force of habit; 143lbs. "Not too bad," I said to myself in the mirror. I checked my hair from a view different angles and it looked good enough. Everyone's hair gets a little messed with winter hats, or just the moisture from the snow, but with the way my hair naturally curls at the bottoms a bit, I can get away with a bit of mess and have it look intentional and good.

Entering an office party has to be one of the most awkward feelings for me. Everyone looks so subdued. Of course, in many ways everyone is subdued; nobody wants to make a fool out of themselves at such a function. An office party, is like a party where having fun isn't really the goal, people want to impress people or just not look stupid, having fun is something you need to pretend to do.

People were standing around and talking in circles that seemed to repel outsiders. Groups were delineated loosely by professional boundaries. The directors had their circle, which included the director general and a few who were bold enough to believe they belonged too. Other circles revolved around the lesser managers and their staffs, each group staying largely to themselves. Some kids were running around, the younger ones without a single awkward care about not knowing one another, the kids on the older side looking apprehensively around still sensing the room.

This is the worst part for me, I know I'm going to end up standing with my group, but I just don't know how to get out of that corner. As the evening progresses and others start mixing I find myself being the last one standing, often by myself. By that time I'm over analysing my every word to people who try to engage me leaving myself tongue tied.

"Why don't you have a drink honey?" My husband had taken the time to pour me one before I had the chance to refuse. He knows how flustered I can get and wanted to prevent it before it started.

"One of us has to drive, I can't," I said in an unnecessarily urgent tone.

"Don't worry, I'm drinking cranberry juice, just relax. You need it more than I do." It was like he was giving me medicine. I didn't argue. I knew he was right, I did need something. I took the red wine and quickly made an empty glass out of it. I didn't want to make a fool out of myself for all sorts of reasons, but there wasn't any reason to think I couldn't handle a few drinks. There was a lot of booze there and I resolved to make it my comfort, just enough to get a little comfortable out of my zone.

After three glasses I was feeling more receptive to conversation starters and I had even stopped analyzing and categorizing every moving piece of the social milieu. The snow continued to fall outside, the beauty of which was no longer lost on me. The sight of freshly fallen, clean snow, especially as the backdrop for Christmas trees and decorations inspires the nostalgia in me that the Christmas season is supposed to inspire. It's a pleasant and idealistic feeling, which however fleeting, makes me feel the safety of childhood memories and innocent thoughts. I loved Christmas when I was a kid. It was when the entire family would get together and be in one place, things would look pretty and most of all I'd get presents. Something about store bought love feels very authentic to a child, especially when you got the thing you wanted.

I soon found myself engrossed in conversations with people of varying degrees of familiarity. The topics ranged from work, Christmas memories and families; nothing new but my ability to take part was making me enjoy it. The other thing I didn't want anyone to know I was enjoying, but that I was probably enjoying even more, was some of the looks I was getting from men. My ego can't really help but enjoy it. I take a lot of time getting ready, picking out clothes and fussing over my appearance. Getting positive re-enforcement in the form of covert glances is one of my guilty indulgences.

The more men drink the worse they get in the practice of subtlety in this game. The quick up and down body glances start resembling a sight-seeing tour, the sidelong glances get full neck rotations, some forget to look up after walking up from behind and I can notice them looking at reflections to take even longer looks. To me, it feels like a harmless game that I enjoy playing; flirting without saying a word.

In my part of the game I need to tread carefully as well; perhaps more carefully since some of this behavior is expected of men. I have to encourage them to look, but not make it seem like I'm providing any incentive. If not careful, other women will pick up on it and then I'm looking at some dirty looks and feeling sheepish. Most of it comes down to posture. For me, it's mostly keeping one hand on my hip with a little tilt of my hip. The other hand bent at the wrist and pointed inward holding a drink just around chest level. For my stance I position my feet to try to take up as little space as possible. From what I've noticed, men mostly like submissive stances and submissive cues, so I express them in my body language.

In terms of direct flirting while talking to someone I have some things I will do and some that I won't. Leaning slightly inward while being talked to and a small hair flip is as far as I will go, direct body contact is past the limits of the game I'm willing to play. I stay away from touching elbows or reaching for hands and especially touching knees if sitting.

The other thing that men like is for their stupid jokes and ridiculous stories to be laughed at. This must be the equivalent of being leered at. In a perfectly sober state my laughing is generally reserved for what I find funny, after a few drinks, I'm much more willing to indulge the ego that I'm audience to. Most of the time speaking to men is just being talked at; rarely does anything resemble a conversation where both people are interested in what each other have to say. In a group sort of social setting this is magnified, the most outgoing in a circle will try to outdo each other with stories looking ever more satisfied by intensity of the group's reaction.

I think these games are low key, for the most part harmless, and fun to play. Engaging in them was nothing new to me. While I am shy in many ways, have made a pastime of second guessing myself and spend way too much time worrying about my appearance, I feel completely comfortable flirting in the right circumstances. I tend to get like that at weddings, reunions or something like that, but never at work. Feeling like a different person around many familiar faces added a bit of danger to the situation. The part of me that longed to live somewhere closer to the edge was being fed from it. I never even felt the possibility of it going any further than a few seconds of eye contact or perhaps some innuendo.

One of the eyes I caught was a guy from the capital investment group. In his early 30s he was a few years younger than me, but certainly hanging on to a younger lifestyle. He was good looking in a sort of brooding way, facial hair that looked to be a permanent shadow but not a beard and it still looked neat. What caught me most, when our eyes met, were his eyes: deep brown, intense and dilated so the light seemed to reflect in an attractive way. He was quiet for the most part but didn`t look out of place, just comfortable in the fact he didn`t need to out-shout anyone. Not tall, but not short either, he seemed a bit stocky without looking overweight, just well built. He was dressed better than most of the room, wearing a full, sharp looking grey suit, certainly qualified as being over dressed in that room. It also made him look more attractive than he would have otherwise. Nobody ever wears ties anymore at work or work functions, but to me the dress pants with a button up shirt and no tie just looks sloppy; this guy looked sharp.

The two seconds it took me to make that assessment led to my receptive flirt. That`s where, after the brief eye contact, I look down at my shoes and twirl some of my hair that falls forward with my two index fingers on my right hand. The idea is to try to look smaller and non-aggressive. At the same time I give a little shy smile as if it say, "it`s ok to look". Most guys will take this to be a stop sign, thinking they made me uncomfortable or something. That is part of the idea though, being submissive in nature, the signals I tend to give are for more aggressive men. Some can read these signs as clear as day and those who can`t, well can`t and that is the idea behind putting them out there.

He picked up on it right away. From under my hair I saw him confidently striding from across the room. I just love the butterflies in the stomach feeling of being prey. Once we started talking I felt sort of dumb because, while he knew my name, I had no idea what his was. I`d seen him hundreds of times, but I never thought to find out, I knew he worked in the office and we passed in the corridors sometimes but we had never talked. A minute into the conversation I realized I wasn`t about to get it, I also figured that I likely wouldn`t be needing it; any variety of pronouns would be enough to last me 5 minutes.

He spoke fast but steady, showing himself to be confident in his words. He was even nice enough to ask me a few questions about myself, as opposed to the usual endless bragging. That was sort of refreshing being as uncommon as it is. I kept my hands to myself the entire time, and my tongue never touched my lips. Whatever my come hither signals were from across the room, side by side it was clear that this attraction was to stay in the category of harmless flirting. He had no trouble reading that either, he kept his flirting subtle and fun. I got pretty excited when he gave me the intent, "I want to fuck you", eyes. That was as far as it went and soon we both parted as if by mutual consent.

I immediately went for another drink feeling a bit like a teenager at a dance. I was probably having too much fun, well at least enough that it was easily noticeable.

"And you couldn`t stop cursing the guy who invented Christmas parties earlier." It was my husband; he had come up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.

"Honey, I know. I haven`t had so much fun in a long time, I don`t know what it is."

My husband moved his hand along my arm leading to the cup containing the red wine. "Oh yeah," I said as if it just occurred to me that I was tipsy and we shared a laugh.

His hands felt good on my hips, I enjoyed the public display of affection, one that I may have found distasteful around co-workers under different circumstances. We swayed a little and I watched all the kids in the room running around with their newly acquired toys. Until, "when you finish that one, we should go."

"No!?" I really didn`t want to go so soon, I was really enjoying the evening.

"Michelle........got to take the kids home; it`s getting a bit late."

"It`s barely 7:30," I said in my most calm but clear protest.

"Lisa goes to bed at 8 and is already going to be cranky from all the excitement, just better to get them home." The voice of reason continued to melt the snow of my lovely winter night.

I knew if I went home at that moment I would feel really bad, I just wanted to say a bit longer, it was over at 9:30. "Can you just pick me up when it`s over?" This wasn't that unreasonable of a request, I had picked him up from enough work functions where he became unable to drive home from. My favourite such being getting taxis to golf courses so he doesn`t have to leave the car there. I figured I`d paid enough dues to make a single request.

To my surprise he didn`t have a problem with it. "Ok, I`ll be here at 9:15, just try to make sure I don`t have to carry you to the car," he said while smiling and tickling my ribs.

I turned around, gave a big hug, and said, "you`re the best!"

When I drink I have a bad habit of putting down cups and forgetting about them, it`s not that bad of a habit seeing as it`s one I share with most everyone. The result is using more than a few cups over the course of the evening. The cups on the tables and in the garbage overwhelmingly outnumbered the guests by 8:30. I wasn`t the only one having a good time, before long there were no cups left, something that didn`t align well with the abundant amount of wine left. Finding cups laying around wasn`t really an option, sanitary reasons aside, it`s also unsightly. It didn`t take long for the conversations to stop and the room to turn to a think tank focused on finding a solution to this immediate problem.

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bymichie© 14 comments/ 50850 views/ 26 favorites

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