tagHumor & SatireThe Literotica Xmas Bash

The Literotica Xmas Bash

byTouch_type©

The Literotica Xmas Bash

All characters in this story are over eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Except in two cases. But I've got so much dirt on them, there's no way they'll sue.

I'm assured by management that everyone voting for this story will get an invite to next year's party in the post. So... Vote early, vote often and tell all your friends.

T_T xx


'How come you didn't bring this up at the editorial meeting then?'

Julian, the esteemed editor of the Bridlington Globe, tossed a copy of the local authority newsletter onto my desk. It settled unsteadily on a pile of press releases I had yet to get round to reading. We both watched as the column swayed slightly, then seemed to right itself, before the whole lot tumbled to the floor.

'Must rearrange my filing system.'

I was speaking more to myself than anyone else.

'Too bloody right. It's a shambles. I'm sure there was an in-tray on your desk when you started here.'

There was. I used it to keep my cycling helmet in. At the moment, it also contained my jacket and a sandwich box, the contents of which had turned a delicate shade of green since I'd brought it in about a fortnight earlier as part of my monthly 'save money, lose weight' regime. I picked up the news sheet and shook the sausage roll crumbs off it. Julian had circled an event in the Bridlington column with red Sharpie.

16-17 December, Literature Festival and Xmas Party, Sunnydene Holiday Park

I laughed out loud and looked at Julian expecting him to join in. He didn't.

'Must be a misprint.' 'Must it?'

He didn't sound convinced.

'Come on Jules. Sunnydene? Literature? The last time they had a visitor who could read was before the millennium. And besides, Kevin sends us two press releases a week. He'd have been sure to mention it.' 'As chief arts correspondent, I expect you to be across all developments like this on our patch.'

He stressed the latest neologism he'd picked up with which to mangle the English language. I blamed the BBC.

'And it's Julian. At least while we're in the office. We can't have the opposition scooping us like this. I'll expect to see a full-length, pull-out supplement when I get back from Gstadt. Take the junior with you. Be good to get the woman's angle.'

I groaned as he stalked off.

'Yes Jules.'

At least I could let him know I was going to do it under protest. I raised two fingers at his receding back. His last speech summed up everything that was wrong at the Globe. Julian was editor by dint of being the nephew of the owner of the group the Globe was part of, hence his ability to take a week off to go skiing at the busiest and most lucrative time of the year. That the East Yorkshire Times was considered our "opposition" was a joke. The crappy, glossily-produced monthly's main purpose was to try and persuade the hapless tax payers who subsidised it that the council wasn't completely useless. It generally failed if the word on the street was to be taken at face value.

The junior was some relative of Julian's; niece, or possibly cousin, I couldn't remember which. The entire chain of command was based on nepotism, that traditional backbone of the free British press. The male line had the typical unattractive physical characteristics of our betters: no chins, crooked teeth, receding hair, the muscle-tone of a jellyfish - think Price William without the saving grace of tallness.

They all had the good sense, however, to make sure their cash brought them into close contact with the more attractive gold-diggers of their generations. And they changed models every decade or so. Julian himself was recently divorced from wife number one: Lady somebody-something. She had had the bad form to show up unexpectedly from her sunshine break in the Caribbean and caught said husband with his cock in the mouth of the Swedish au pair. Both were immediately dispatched. There was an office sweepstake on whether Julian would return from Switzerland with another piece of up-market totty in tow. And if so, how many years younger than his she'd be. I'd got yes and fifteen so was quietly confident of making a few bob.

Clarissa, our junior and product of one of these unhealthy couplings, had the luck to snaffle mainly her mother's genes and was enjoying the benefits of the male line's money.

'Great tits, fine arse, nothing in the brains department. She'll be promoted in six months.'

Was how our elderly chief sub-editor summed her up after a perfunctory glance on her first day. I liked Eric. He had done my job before reaching retirement age. He came in one night a week to knock our copy into shape, shout at the printers and then drag me off for a boozy few hours in some flea-pit pub where he'd regale me with tales of the good old days. There wasn't much about Bridlington he didn't know.

To be fair to Clarissa, she didn't rub our noses in it. She'd even made efforts to fit in. She'd attended both Young Conservative and Young Farmers functions in order to find a suitable partner for her rural sojourn. That having failed - the youngest members of both organisations were on the far side of forty - she had taken to spending her weekends in London. She'd leave on a Thursday evening and not get back sometimes until late-Tuesday. The work experience girls she bribed with her cast offs and titillated with tales of her adventures at glitzy nightclubs with whichever Rupert or Hugo was squiring her that week, always completed the tasks she assigned them. So the paper didn't suffer.

Her habit of carrying copious supplies of disinfectant wipes in her collection of Gucci handbags with which to clean any surface in the town she deigned to touch with arse or hand, did piss a few people off. But it was a harmless foible and it made the rest of us laugh. And when you're young, blonde and have great tits and a fine arse, you get used to doing whatever you want, so there was little point in us yokels trying to explain that some might find her behaviours objectionable.

I heard her scream in the little cubbyhole she had occupied as her office. Julian had obviously broken the news about her appointment.

'But that's the weekend of Cissy Barrington's party. Everyone, literally everyone, will be there.' 'Now come on sweetiepie, it's just the one weekend. And who knows, you might be able to make some useful contacts in the literary world.'

She wailed.

'But I want to be the Daily Globe's fashion editor.' 'And you will be darling. One day.'

I called in to see Kevin on the Saturday on the off chance he was free. I was in the area because I had a date. It hadn't gone as planned.

As chief restaurant correspondent for the Globe it was my job to write boosters for local eateries. You know the kind of thing, my companion had the haddock, while I chose the rather daring sole. Ken and Flo's Caff had just changed its name to Ken and Flo's Caff and Bistro. They had signed a contract for six month's advertising and I was going to recommend them to hungry potential patrons unlucky enough to be stuck in the Sunnydene area.

My companion was to have been Angela. I had met her at the magistrates court the previous week. She had been there with her son who was being hauled before the beak for the latest breaches of his anti-social behaviour orders. The court foyer had two kind of people in it. Darren and his contemporaries, teenagers in baseball caps and knock-off designer sportswear. They were noisy and arrogant, as befits people too stupid to stay out of the clutches of our overstretched and barely competent police force. The rest were their older selves, now in suits and ties, the better-off ones accompanied by solicitors. By-and-large they were facing drink-driving or speeding charges and thought that by dressing up and being polite there was a slim chance they'd keep their licences. Suckers.

Being chief crime correspondent was the best part of my job. Not because of the endless stream of yobbos and drunks. That part was easy, the chief clerk gave me a list of names, addresses and sentences and a brief synopsis of the hard luck tale they told the magistrates. No, it was important because every now and then a Bridlington crime would make the nationals and I was the only fully-accredited journalist on the spot to mop up the stringer fees for writing them up. Kerrching.

Even better, about twice a year a member - or members - of one of the bigger gangs from the inland cities would visit our little town to dump the body of a rival, or pick up a load of smuggled drugs. Invariably they would have visited Brid as kids and have some kind of false-memory syndrome of it as a sleepy hamlet with no cops. Then the southern press would send their own boys up - never girls, note. I'm not sexist, just stating facts. I'd never have to buy my own drinks, or pay for my own food in the week between the discovery of the body and/or drugs and the arrest of the culprits. The flow of free drinks would continue for weeks afterwards; my cut of the mark up local publicans gouged from the southern suckers. To them a fiver a pint was normal pricing.

So Angela and I got chatting. Darren was more humiliated by the fact of his mum's presence than anything the courts might hand out. All the others were laughing at him. I bought her coffee and made sympathetic noises about the difficulty of bringing up boys on your own. She was about five-six with stupendous knockers on a slim build. My favourite. She jumped at the chance of a meal out, but when I went to pick her up she cried off. Darren had been threatening all week to do a runner and she didn't want to leave him at home on his own.

'That's very disappointing. I was looking forward to this evening. Perhaps some other time?' 'That would be lovely. I've got your number. Can I call you?' 'Of course, I'll be counting the hours.'

I smiled at her and kissed her on the cheek. Easy come, easy go, that's me. There are enough blokes around giving women shit. I like them to remember I'm not a total bastard. That night it paid off big time. I was half-way down the path when she stopped me.

'Hang on. He's in the middle of playing something crappy on his X-box. I can risk half an hour. Why don't we go for a drive?' 'Sure. That's be lovely.'

I knew a secluded lay-by not far away and thought it might be worth it just to get a feel of those mammaries. I'd been dreaming about them all week. You can imagine my surprise then, when about fifty yards down the road...

'Stop. Reverse in here.' 'But that's a private drive.' 'It's OK. He won't mind.'

I did as I was told as she lifted her dress and was tugging off her knickers.

'I haven't had a good shag in weeks. The meal would have been lovely, but that's what I really wanted.'

She was in the back seat and had whipped off her dress before I had a chance to check the hand brake. What followed was the best twenty minutes of my week. She had me unzipped and the old soldier in her mouth before I was even sitting comfortably. I helped by holding her long, blonde hair out of the way. OK, you got me, I also wanted to watch her guzzle. There's nothing like it. The fact that she was face down also made unclipping the bra a piece of piss. And those jugs. Thirty-six double-Ds if they were an inch. I just had to slip both hands underneath her and squeeze her nips 'til they hardened like pebbles. When I pinched one of them extra hard, she used her hand to take my dick out of her gob and looked up at me with big, blue eyes.

'Didn't take long for you to get it up, did it Charlie?' 'You deserve all the credit. And it's John actually.' 'Sorry, love.'

She was ripping at a condom foil with her teeth. God knows where she'd been keeping it. I always have mine in my wallet. Stickler for tradition, that's me. I was rubbered up and she was bouncing on top of me before you could say do you come here often?. Neither of us lasted long. I put it down to those wonderful nipples buzzing rhythmically in front of me. I almost went cross-eyed trying to keep up. She was the mistress of efficiency. She bounced and bounced, then stopped at the top of the arc, let herself fall with her full weight onto my pubic bone and then released a stifled scream after rubbing herself hard against me a few times. Ten seconds later, she was climbing off.

'Thanks, John. That really hit the spot.'

I was licked clean and zipped up before I really came back to reality. She was tugging at the door handle while I was still trying to manage my belt in the back seat.

'You don't want a ride home?' 'No, I'll walk. Besides...'

She nodded at the window of the house whose drive we were using. I looked out just in time to see a net curtain dropping back into place.

'... He gives me a tenner if I let him watch. I'll collect now and me and Darren can order up some take-away.' 'Call me.'

Even I thought I sounded like some virgin whose honour had been taken by a moustachioed villain in an opera cloak. Ken and Flo's were happy enough to give me a rain check on the meal, but demanded I take a copy of the menu and write my puff piece to coincide with their first paid ad. Fair enough really, don't you think?

I was still wondering what to do with my suddenly curtailed evening when I spotted that the lights were still on in the portacabin which passed for an administration centre at the holiday park as I drove past. Might as well try to get to the bottom of what was going on with the literature thing, I thought.

Sunnydene Holiday Park is one of those vast caravan and chalet encampments which you find dotted all round the coast of Great Britain. Their heyday was just after the war when workers had more cash in their pockets, paid holidays had become the norm and cheap flights to the Med had not yet been invented. Despite the six monthly announcements of major refurbishment, bi-annual relaunches and regular promotions of new attractions, it could not really shake of the image of a reconditioned army camp. Which is what it was.

There was no one behind the desk which stood outside the manager's door. There was a fan of neatly folded copies of the Daily Sport on a small table next to a greasy sofa so I did contemplate waiting for someone to come back and announce my presence. The Sport, for those of you nor familiar with it, calls itself a newspaper. But it's only real claim to fame is that it has pictures of naked women on virtually every page. They even manage to include the occasional topless model in their reports of premiership football. I went straight into the office without knocking.

Kevin was sitting back in his enormous executive chair, behind his enormous executive desk with his eyes close and his fingers steepled in front of his chest. He was an indeterminate man; the sort you'd find hard to describe if he was sitting in front of you. Indeterminate age; indeterminate height; indeterminate weight, hair or eye colour. He sat up, clearly startled, when he heard me come in and started coughing and rearranging executive toys on his desk.

'Ey up, Kev. Busy?' 'Don't you ever fucking knock? And anyway, what the bloody hell are you doing here at this time on a Saturday?'

I could hear scrabbling beneath the desk and the chair was pushed backwards on squeaky wheels. A plump, middle-aged woman slowly emerged. She was pushing her oversized breasts back inside what had once been a crisp business blouse and adjusting her dyed-blonde bouffant hair-do from where it had got squashed beneath the desk. That done, she placed both of her hands in the small of her back and stretched with a loud groan.

'I'm going to have to knock this malarkey on the head. Plays havoc with my arthritic knees. Oh hello, John, didn't know it was you. Coffee?' 'That'd be lovely, Cynthia. White no sugar. You're looking well.'

She simpered and scurried out with me smiling and Kevin scowling behind her. He used the interlude to adjust his clothing. I heard the loud zip of a fly being closed.

"I came about this so-called literature festival. What crap are you trying to pull now? And why wasn't I told about it? I got a right bollocking. As chief tourism correspondent I'm expected to have my finger on the pulse. You let me down Kev.'

At least Kevin had the good grace to blush apologetically.

'Ah, you see, that's where you're wrong. I tried to point it out to them. But. Well. It's going to be mega.'

I was confused.

'You're talking gibberish, Kevin. Why don't you take a deep breath and start at the beginning?'

I had a feeling this was going to be good.

'I saw this ad, see. In the trade press. This US organisation wanting to organise a festival bash.' 'US? You mean United Servicemen?'

It was the only thing I could think of that made sense in the circumstances.

'No, you wally. United States, the stars and gripes, the red, white and blue. You know, Trump's mob.'

He looked smug as I laughed at him. It was the second time that week I had laughed alone.

'So you're saying an American publisher, America as in mom-and-apple-pie America, is having its Xmas party here? In Bridlington? At Sunnydene Holiday park?'

He was beaming. I was seriously beginning to entertain the possibility that I was losing my mind.

'And spa - we're changing the name again. I know, mad isn't it?'

At least we agreed on one thing. Fortunately it was then that Cynthia returned with the coffees clinking on a tray. She put it down on the desk and pulled up a chair. I looked at her hopefully.

'That'll be all, Cynthia.' 'What Kev's trying to say.' 'I said, that'll be all, Cynthia.' 'Is that he offered them free run of the facilities if they brought in two hundred and fifty bookings.' 'What part of that'll be all don't you understand?' 'Seemed like a shot-to-nothing. You know we're lucky to get twenty here on a weekend in December. Hardly worth keeping the place open.' 'Blood and sand, I give up.'

We both frowned at him to be quiet. I nodded for Cynthia to continue.

'They almost bit his hand off. Apparently one of the big resorts in Orlando was the next lowest and they wanted fifty thousand dollars just to hire a conference centre.' 'Orlando? Florida? USA?'

Kevin couldn't help himself. He had to clarify.

'Orlando, Jonathan,'

He was being sarcastic. Obviously.

'Is in Disneyland, not America. Have you never seen the ads? It's near the US, granted, easy mistake to make. They've got one of those customs union type deals I think.' 'Thanks for that Kevin.'

I wasn't going to start the solo laughing thing again. I was two-nil down on that front. Cynthia sighed and raised one eyebrow. I got her message.

'We got the first two hundred bookings the afternoon we agreed the contract. Some bloke in a cheap suit tuned up from Scarborough with it. So that was it.' 'Two hundred?'

I was incredulous.

'That's not the half of it. They're from all over: Leeds, Nottingham. There's even a few from London coming.' 'Don't forget the Yanks.'

Kevin was looking increasingly smug.

'Oh yes, apparently there's a charter plane coming in to Leeds-Bradford airport a few days beforehand. Give them a chance to get over the jet lag and everything.' 'Of course. LA? New York?'

I was now trying to work out how Kevin had managed to drag the sensible Cynthia into this elaborate piss-take. And why. Kevin couldn't help but butt in. Again.

'Nah. One of those other bits. Mid-East?' 'The Middle East is west Asia and North Africa, Kev. At least try and get your story straight.' 'I know what I'm talking about. Don't you watch the telly? It's that bit of the States that's full of Muslims but they still voted for Trump. It was all over the news when that one who was married to Blow-Job Bill lost. She did right giving him the elbow. Dirty devil.' 'You mean the mid-West?' 'That's the place.'

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