Flanna and Me

Two quick ways of being fired in our company are being caught screwing the chairman's wife or grossly fiddling personal claims for reimbursement of work-related expenses.

The third way is ignoring a particular memorandum to all heads of departments four pages long which, in effect, states get caught screwing a subordinate and you'll face the firing squad.

When I joined the company – it markets sex aids for the infirm – I was a little disappointed to be asked to sign the attached sheets confirming that I'd read 'The aforesaid Memorandum'. In previous employment I'd found a good supply of subordinates ready to suck dick and the like. I was frustrated and I could tell my new subordinates were equally frustrated as some of the hot little lovelies knew that the boss was always good for release when they became bored or over-sexed. You know how easily some people become bored at work and being over-sexed is endemic to people sitting all day on the tush.

Being the company's replacement legal counsel, I knew what 'subordinates' was supposed to mean – my personnel and anyone else in the company of a lower rank than me, which meant most of the company. My nuts gave me a painful jolt in protest.

I thought of resigning but the second thought saved that upset. The rule meant I was free to sexually shaft my superiors provided I avoided infringing 7-1(b) in the Company Code of Ethics that I do nothing to bring the company into disrepute.

I consulted the list of company personal. Seven persons were above me in the pecking order: The chairman, the CEO, director of finance, director of operations, general manager of production, general manager of marketing and general manager of staffing and communications. After them came senior managers with me top of that tree.

Only the GM of marketing and GM of staffing/communications were women; that indicated pretty lean pickings. Oh you might say, they cannot have sex with you because of that memorandum – you are a subordinate. Yeah, right – only wrong. I was on top, so to speak because of the badly drafted no fuck memo.

The memo used the word 'your' subordinates meaning subordinates in the signatory's department. In effect this meant I could work my way through the company's entire personal plus even my own staff if they were temporarily drafted to other departments. But enough of thinking of seducing the entire female population of our establishment – some eighty of them; I focused on the two lovelies above me, technically my superiors. I knew they and I would be impervious to company discipline should we be caught fucking, if I argued I was seducing my superior and she was simply being compliant, rather than screwing me. I did say the memo was badly drafted.

Next day Rosie Mack, general manager of staffing and communications, called in to check I was comfortable in my office and had all I required. She saw me walk and lock the door and didn't bat an eyelid. Instead she asked, almost excitedly, "Have you detected a flaw in Memorandum X1-20068?"

"Yes."

"Tell me later," Rosie whooped, pulled off her panties and put her legs up on the arms of the chair.

It was one of those unsatisfactory 'slow, fuck-fuck, slow and erupt' encounters that afterwards you wonder why you bothered.

"Thanks – I'm pregnant so perhaps we'll not do that again," young Mrs Mack said.

One down, one to go; why bother?

On my third day on the job the general manager of marketing, Miss Flanna O'Connor, arrived back from a convention on sex toys at Atlanta. I glimpsed her going into the CEO's office and went weak at the knees as I imagined her as a convention model with a 15 inch thermo plastic rubber double dong with veined heads comfortably nestling in both rear and front midriff orifices.

A couple of hours later when I was wading through the crap my predecessor had filed haphazardly on my computer, someone knocked on the door.

"Come," I said, hoping it would be Flanna and she'd come in giggling to say, "What was that you just said, you naughty boy." She'd look at my square shoulders, thick matt of black hair, very kissable lips and then lock on my deep green eyes and soak the front of her panties.

Instead, a thin woman of fifty-something came in and said, "Welcome to the company Mr Stirling. I am Mrs Sharpe. Miss O'Connor would like to see you in her office – now would be convenient."

"Hi, Mrs Sharpe - lovely jacket. Tell Miss O'Connor whoever she is I don't do courtesy calls unless by prior arrangement. If she wants to discuss business then she comes here."

"Very well, Mr Stirling."

"That's very professional of you, Mrs Sharpe. Tell me, what's the Irish kitten really like?"

"Good day, Mr Stirling."

Oh, I forgot to say our company is located in the New England region and Mrs Sharpe is Old English, an immigrant – probably from Plymouth or Portsmouth judging by the accent.

Two minutes later the door flew open. Fuck, I hadn't noticed the red hair earlier – I was too busy noting the ass.

"You are a subordinate of mine"

"Hello, who are you?"

Steam almost came from her ears. I'm sure she would have cracked me one had we been closer.

"I am Miss O'Conner, GM marketing."

"Oh hi, please sit. Someone said you were down in Boston being laid."

"You humor belies your appearance, Mr Stirling, boyish."

I grinned and said ouch and that brought a dimple to her right cheek. How she could do that without smiling was miraculous. I wondered where else she had dimples.

As she sat I looked for a white flash between her thighs or even red hair or 100 percent skin, but she sat holding her leather skirt down with the effect I saw nothing more than had she been in a a chastity belt covered with a blanket.

She glowered – not an oft-used word these days but that was the look: "Are you prepared to debate my seniority over you?"

"No."

She smiled slightly, perhaps triumphantly.

I gave it to her: "Because there's no issue to debate."

She too has green eyes and they froze over as I watched. "How do you account for that?"

"My contract stipulates I report directly to the CEO or to his stand-in if he's away. If you are officiating in either of those positions you would be my superior. Otherwise you are just an office buddy – that is, if we pull fangs and settle down to enjoy such a relationship.

She came back off the floor like a pro: "I'm willing."

"So am I. Do we kiss and make up?"

"You could do me the honor and by-pass that convention."

"Agreed. Is this a buddy visit or a business buddy visit?"

"Business. I want to fire my PA Mrs Sharpe. Rosie who manages Human Resources says I can't do that without due cause and advised I should consult you."

"Is there due cause?"

"No, dammit."

"You have two options. Negotiate management to offer Mrs Sharpe early retirement or to have her moved sideways or upwards, citing – um – incompatibility."

"That would be difficult to prove. Although cold she's very polite."

"Do you like her?"

"Obviously not."

"That establishes incompatibility giving you legitimate reason for asking for her removal either with a retirement offer or to a position of at least comparable standing in terms and conditions. Clause Staffing, 8(f) in the company handbook."

"You know that well enough to quote already?"

"It is my job, Miss O'Connor."

"Flanna."

"What's that?"

"My name, you fool. You are a tease. My father is a tease. Perhaps I can also get to like you."

"Anything is possible, Flanna. Please decide what action you wish taken and print out your requirement and hand it to me along with Mrs Sharpe's personal file. Do not breathe to anyone, even under duress, that age is an issue with your Mrs Sharpe as that could land you in the pits."

"I hear you. Thank you. If you must know I was in Atlanta attending a products convention."

"Oh, what kind of products?"

"You must learn not to push too far, Mr Stirling."

"Harry."

"What's that – oh, your first name. What a sweet name, so boyish. Good morning Harry."

I knew why she'd been employed – because of her looks, her tits and ass and because she probably excelled at marketing and with that red hair would be no push-over – even before a belligerent prospect or client. That woman technically had balls. God I loved her.

Once you fuck a woman she is keen to give you anything, so I asked Rosie about her fetus. That meant listening for five minutes about how she was coping with morning sickness only she tended to have her downs in the afternoon. It was worth it though – she breached strict company procedures and gave me the password to unlock the personal file of Flanna Maureen O'Connor.

Oh Flanna, so you were headhunted by the company's recruitment consultancy almost five years ago from Cork; how corker as the English say. The file didn't give a great deal. She was thirty-one – would you believe it now? She looks older – just joking. It didn't give her bra size not that I required that – obviously two very generous handfuls, and I'm not joking. Then I found the possible breakthrough under hobbies – she writes romantic novels and at that time five years ago had two titles published on the internet by an electronic publisher, Sweet Kisses International. Gotcha!

That evening in exchange for a few bucks I was reading to learn about the inside of Flanna. I became smitten – such sensitivity, such deep yearnings; I deduced no-one could write with such intensity without being driven by feeling. The sexual encounters were frequent and often passionately raw. Flanna the writer of this turgid mush made me blush, often, in the privacy of my own apartment for goodness sake and I was forced to wrestle with raging hard-ons. But it was worth it – I made notes, particularly about positions which she seemed to favor in bed or over stone walls bounding fields in fog-swept southern Ireland overlooking Kilkern Lake.

This girl, prepared to be screwed on hard stone amid fog without fear of the Little People watching impressed me no end. For a few hours that weekend I lost reason and fancied Flanna Maureen O'Connor was the world's greatest writer – er, female writer.

I returned to work on Monday wondering where the weekend had gone and cursed when finding my darling was not coming in that day – she'd gone to Boston for a tea party; a dinner that evening actually where she would be picking up some sort of marketing management award.

I pined for my Flanna all day and spent that night in a bar drinking beer, pretending I was drinking Irish whisky to drown the sorrows of a love who was away across the seas of time. Next morning she called me from the car park.

"It's Flanna – sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I've clipped the ass-end of your car, taking some of it into my parking space."

"Oh, you careless bitch," I cried thoughtlessly. That new sports car was something special in my life.

"And feek you too," she shouted in my ear, disconnecting the call. I scarcely registered what I had said to her but an hour later after returning from leaving my car for repairs my heart was bleeding. I knew my arrogant outburst would have killed any immediate chance of attaching myself romantically to Miss O'Connor.

Damn.

I thought of sending flowers and chocolates but why? She was the culprit. But something within me began strangling my pride so I yielded. But what to do; offer to seduce her? I slapped my forehead searching for an adult thought. I sent her an email.

'Sorry.'

I waited all day like a fisherman watching in vain for a bite, just one. Incoming emails on such momentous matters as 'Attention all staff: Please work more diligently at keeping your desks tidy. Ruth, Admin Manager' sent my pulse rate soaring until I read the crappy first line.

At 3:00 I sent another email.

'Truly.'

Bang, the bite! A reply came from Miss O'Connor seconds later – didn't she have work to do?

'Accepted as it sounds genuine. Bill me for any insurance excess. I notice you have a loan car from the repairers – if that is withdrawn, borrow mine.'

I closed my eyes and said thank you.

At 5.30 I attended a briefing in the CEO's office. We were up against our biggest competitor – we both had been selected for the final pitch to supply product on a three-year contract to the largest chain of retirement villages in North America. I smiled at Flanna and for my trouble received a curt nod. Better than a cold shoulder or even worse, the fingers.

CEO Lenny Strongman said, "Guys, if we bag this baby it will slightly more than double our last financial year's profit – now that's not chicken shit. Flanna, I know that you and your support staff have taken us this far but we must now bump up our fire-power. Chairman Charlie will head the delegation, accompanied by Mrs Crossman of course, Lillian and I; you are in the team Flanna and I'm roping in you Harry to smooth out any adverse legalities that might crop up. Adult Toys Corporation (ATC) makes its pitch first which is bad for us."

"Why?"

Lenny frowned and the others gawked at me.

"If this deal is as close as I sense it is, Lenny, judging by your nervousness then the groundwork will be laid for us by ATC. When we come on the client's team will be more relaxed, just making a tick on their notes on ATC's oral submission on any point we make in excess of ATC's offer, a cross against any point we fall short on and a square on points where both parties appear equal. When we leave the room they add those ticks and crosses, subtract the crosses and if we are left holding the most ticks we get the contract."

Lenny looked doubtful. "But what about the quality of our preparation, attention to detail and the caliber of our delegation, our charm and our whit and..."

"Ticks and crosses, Lenny," I said, having been schooled by some big-time corporate negotiators. "You could have speech defects, egg on your ties and problems with flatulence for all they care. They are not there to love you; they only care about the quality of product, nipping a bit more off price and security of timely delivery."

"You sound awfully confident, Harry."

"It's how business is done at mega level, Lenny. I'll also tell you if you want that contract in the bag think of the final consideration – the one that counts above everything else: price. ATC are big players and will be aware of that. Who knows what bait they'll offer? My guess is a 2.5 percent shaving off their stated contract price. If you believe that you only have to offer 3 percent and guess what?"

Lenny rubbed a finger inside his shirt collar. "We are in the position to double company profit."

"Lenny has a point, said the director of finance, as one would expect such an officer to make such a comment.

"Wrong – you've taken your eyes off the ball; this game is all about bringing home the trophy."

Lenny had his handkerchief out, wiping his palms. "Three percent is a lot of money."

"Well, squeeze our suppliers to trim their margins – they will be delighted at getting this extra business. Put the screws on our own production staff to hit new levels of efficiency that ought to be possible because they are larger production runs."

Lenny looked at the GM of production.

"Yeah," said Galvin. "Harry has a point. With larger runs we ought to be able to milk greater efficiency. Our costings are actually based on normal production runs. We could increase the size of runs and persuade suppliers of raw materials and fittings to hold their billings on that additional output until we actually move the product, thereby substantially reducing our holding costs. Storage space is available."

"Galvin and Harry, you guys are brilliant," Lenny said. "Flanna and Harry, we fly to Chicago at midday Friday. We are booked in at the Conrad where the presentations will be held."

As we left the office Flanna flashed me a smile and said, "Very impressive."

"Thank you," I said to her departing back. At home that evening I spent hours on the internet reading about tips for writing romantic novels.

* * * *

I sat beside Flanna on the aircraft and at dinner that night where we were joined by the CEO of the client company, which was bad. The chairman was across the room dining with the ATC delegation; Lenny looked uncomfortable about that.

Conversations tended to drift into discussion about colleges, children and even grandchildren so Flanna and I were forced to amuse ourselves.

"What do you do to fill in time at nights?"

I had been waiting for something along that line, but this was the perfect opening. "I've just started my second draft novel. The first was a disappointment to me."

"Really, a novel – what genre?"

"Romance," I said turning to indicate to the attentive waiter to fill our glasses.

"Romance?"

"Yeah."

"I can't believe this," she said, eyes shining.

"If a guy has to write, he has to write about something so I've chosen the sub-genre, romantic action adventure."

"But that's what I..."

She caught herself and reached for the wineglass but went at it too quickly; red wine spilled down the front of her white dress.

"Oh feek," she said in a strong Irish accent. Others at our table looked shocked and Flanna sat open-mouthed in dismay.

"Oh, I'm extremely sorry I bumped you Flanna. How clumsy of me. Come, I will escort you to your room – you'll need to change."

The folk at our table watched in silence as we left the dining room, Flanna holding my arm.

"That was very gallant of you, claiming involvement."

"My heart went out to you, seeing your distress."

"How lovely of your to say that, how sensitive. But Harry, I've blown it for the company. Did you see that look of absolute disgust on the wife of their CEO? She'll talk to their chairman's wife and---oh Harry, we are doomed."

"I don't think so darling," she didn't seem to notice I slipped in that endearment. "It was a look of absolute horror at what she thought was the ruination of your beautiful dress. You saw how exquisitely she is made-up and dressed – she loves clothes."

"Are you sure about that?

"Absolutely."

"Oh Harry," she said as we left the elevator, squeezing my hand.

Inside her room I helped remove her dress.. She looked at it wailing but I calmed her saying, "It's just the front panel – any seamstress will easily replace that."

"You seem to know an awful lot about women's clothing Harry."

I just caught that comment; I was staring at her – she was in one of those white lace corset things with a strapless bra built in and straps hanging off attached to white stockings.

"I---have to do the research on the internet to write authentically."

"What do we do now?" she asked, almost fluttering eyelids.

I rushed to the dressing room – the only other evening dress was black.

"Put on black stockings and this dress – those older women won't like the thought of me up here consoling you on the bed. We go down right now and establish you as a winner."

As we approached the table the men stood and the women looked at us, impressed. Flanna almost cracked my fingers in expressing her silent thank you.

Later I prepared to kiss her goodnight at the door to her suite. But she was not having that; she pulled me inside, kicked the door shut and placed her lips against mine. I had a great desire to say, "Am I back in your good books" but was diverted because she was unbuttoning my shirt and pulling it out of my trousers; very expertly I thought.

I grabbed at her but instead of pulling back and cocking a fist she pushed those breasts at me and asked, do you like boobs?" I didn't have to speak like an impersonating romance writer; I just said, "Only yours, dear Flanna."

She was mine and wanting me to be hers. This showed in her demure. Her eyelids fluttered, her breath became shallow and the sweetest of smiles surrounded her lips; she gently kissed me, again and again, and I reciprocated while fighting to keep my fire dampened.