It had been three months now, and I still got a bit of a high every time I thought of that night with Emily and Candy. We fell asleep on the chaise, in front of the fire, wrapped up in bath sheets and each other, the scent of sex all about us. Morning was glorious. I found myself spooned against Emily, my cock pressed up against her ass. She, in turn, was spooning Candy, her face nuzzled in Candy's neck, her arm buried into Candy's magnificent breasts. Emily was rocking into me, teasing my cock into a full erection. Then, barely moving, she shifted enough for me to slip into her from behind, and rocked me gently into an orgasm. Hate to say it, but I fell asleep again.
Later that morning, I woke up alone. Heard the girls chattering, preparing breakfast. I had nothing to wear. So, naked, covered with the dried juices of our lovemaking, padded to the kitchen. They, too, were naked, save the apron worn by Candy as she prepared omelets. Life was good. We chatted through the morning until it was time to head our separate ways. I packed my bag and headed to the airport... SFO via a short stop in Chicago.
In between meetings in Chicago, I stopped by the spa. Olga had left. No, they did not know where she went. My heart sank a little, much to my surprise.
Consulting has its ups and downs. With this gig, one never knew what the source of a particular pleasure/pain might be. Lately, it'd been mostly pain, exacerbated with a couple of new team members - Ian and Poppy. Fuckin Brits. Last time I'd dealt with them in numbers was on assignment in the middle east.. Jeez, they walked around there like they still ran the empire. Unfortunately, sometimes that attitude trickled into our business as well, so I was skeptical when Ian and Poppy showed up. Company had like a thousand guys named Ian, most of whom appeared to be of the belief that since they went to Cambridge or Oxford or whatever, that they didn't actually have to work or anything, just sound... well - British. This particular firm also believed in hiring hot women from UK finishing schools. So Ian, one of the project managers, and Poppy, the business advisor and self-acclaimed tech guru, had graced us with their presence now for two months, and they grew more irritating by the day.
Ian can be funny, if irreverent. The Brits evidently have no filter regarding contemporary America's sense of sexual harassment in the office place, and act accordingly. My company, with 'morally flexible' standards as far as profits are concerned, turns a blind eye. "Jesus fuckin christ. Did you get a load of her tits?" Ian was referring to Poppy, picked by Ian himself for the program. And, her tits are magnificent.
He drones on: "I mean, back at the home office, the girls are, by and by, pretty hot, but" he continued "Poppy here ... she's quite all right, you know?" Cockney accent. And he's an ass. But, one cannot argue, he is a fine judge of tits.
"Sorry Ian, I hadn't noticed." Not going to give him the satisfaction. He is, after all, an ass.
We're sitting in the conference room, awaiting the start of the weekly meeting. Me, Ian, couple others. Poppy walks in. Blonde hair pulled into a bun, brown eyes, conservative if form-fitting dress down to mid-thigh. But square-cut opening at the top unabashedly shows off her firm tits and deep cleavage. The big boss walks in and we get started. Five minutes into the briefing, I get a text from big boss. "JFC, can u believe Poppy's tits?!" Class act, he is, and not too concerned - or knowledgable - it seems, on the permanence of text messages on corporate phone accounts. I look at him and wink. Poppy gets up and begins her pitch. Her back to us, we all enjoy the form of her dress against her body. Rock hard calves, tight legs, thin waist, v-shaped back. And big tits. She's a vision... very prim and proper. Laughs politely at big boss's jokes, demurs when the boys speak roughly. Mostly though she's talking shit, but big boss doesn't care much.. she's a treat. But a problem, as it turns out.
We get to my part, and the numbers don't add up. My numbers. Not good. Hundreds of contracts, maybe ten times that in sub contracts, worth hundreds of millions. We're off by five grand, and I can't figure it out. Stayed up half the night trying. Poppy is happy to point out that, if Im given just a bit more time, she's sure I'll get it resolved. Ian piles on - no point in wasting an opportunity to climb a step on the office ladder it seems. Big boss smiles, talks about the quarterly reports coming up at the end of the month, and is certain I'll get it done by then. "Steve," he later says, "Don't fuck this up. We have this contract, and you have your job, because you're the expert."
Meeting over, and weekend coming. Poppy has something fabulous planned ("Oh - doesn't Everyone, Stephen?" - I hate being called 'Stephen' - "My boyfriend is here studying at Berkeley... we have a private wine tasting set up in Napa. Do you like wine?") She goes on for too long about how her boyfriend is so smart and blah blah... I've tuned out. I''m tired. Of her. Of my missing 5k. And likely I'll be dissecting the financial controls program to find it. Worked until 10PM that night, then drove back to the hotel. Belle awaits behind the bar.
"Belle, thank god you're here." Know how to make a Manhattan?" She thinks she does, but she does not. Wrong bitters, for starters. I run up to the room, bring back my bottle, and walk her through the process. This is supposed to be lighthearted, but I'm afraid I'm irritated enough about work that I'm just coming off as an ass. Belle is more insulted than amused. At least I'm not clueless in reading women in that particular regard... I mean, I cannot read when they are horny but sure as hell can read them when they're pissed. I blame my wife.
"Hey, Belle - I'm sorry... my feeble attempt at humor has run aground, and I'm afraid I've made you the victim. Please forgive me." She does, with a hug and kiss on the neck. "It'll be better tomorrow Steve - golf day, right???" She's beaming again.
"Ahhh. Nope. Work tomorrow... prepping for an audit."
"I'm sorry.. thats too bad. Supposed to be a really nice day, too... I'm going to the pool and work on my tan lines,".. she giggles. "If its any comfort, I'll be here all tomorrow evening... maybe we can try to make your Manhattan again." Another hug, and I'm off to bed.
In the office at 7AM Saturday. With luck, I can figure this out and get an afternoon round in.
NINE hours later, and no resolve. I called some tech guys somewhere in Indonesia, who offered to make a copy of the program and do their own analysis. I accept and head out. Too late for 18, but 9 maybe. I arrive at the course 45 minutes later, drag my bag out and head to the pro shop. Played here many times by now, and know the pro, his staff, and the cart girls by name. As I walk down to the shop, I spot a woman, alone, standing by her bag. She looks latin. Dark hair, piercing eyes, light cocoa colored skin, without flaw or blemish. Maybe late 30's. Petite, but nice muscle tone. Skirt a bit too long and shirt a bit too loose for my taste, but she seems attractive enough.
I go in, pay my fee, and head out to the first tee. She's still there. No one else in sight. I really should have introduced myself, but was, frankly, more interested in blowing off steam. Shot 45... two 3-putts and an OB. Ugh.
The next week in the office is no better. Nope... still haven't found the missing money. Yes, I know its my job, and our ability to do this well is why we got this contract blah blah... Pisses me off. Whats more irritating is that it seems to be Poppy pointing out the problem, and usually in front of big boss. Thursday was the worst. Meeting time, and Poppy with a short skirt, high on the waist, tight blouse with a couple buttons undone, not noticeable until she peels off her jacket. In front of big boss, just as he walks in. She then goes on about how we're all ready, except for my small 'problem.' I get the look from big boss. Thursday night, 10PM, I'm still going over the program when the tech guys from Indonesia call.
"Mr. Samson, in short, you're being embezzled." Do tell.
"There's an unattributed account number here, hidden from all the regular reporting. Someone dumped 5K into it from another account."
"Can you tell who?"
"No, but it's either you, or its someone with access to the encrypted account files." Its Poppy. And I have proof.
"Anything else?"
"Ya, there is... Does anyone there get living expenses?"
"Sure - couple of Brits. Why?"
"One of them is getting twice the standard allowance... an extra 5K per month."
"Can you tell who?"
"No, just an employee number." I smile. Couple key clicks... Also Poppy. There is a god.
Now, I'm not a vengeful man. People make mistakes, humanity is flawed, and I'm a prime example. But don't fuck with me. I don't take kindly to being played a fool.
On Friday, I manage to convince Big Boss that I think I have the issue resolved, but need Poppy's well-established expertise for maybe an hour at the end of the day to resolve. Poppy pushes back... fabulous plans and all.. but, given draft reports are due on Monday, I get my way.
5PM. Poppy walks in, sunglasses on, bag in hand, headed for the door. "OK Stephen, what is it?"
