Both feet in it
One of my first jobs after leaving Uni was an open-ended contract for a large property development company. I was meant to be involved in redesigning various back-office systems ("business process re-engineering" – how shameful is that?) and the subsequent staff training.

The job actually involved taking the female administrative staff out for boozy lunches and dinners, picking their brains, telling them how impressed the company's MD would be when I informed him how important their contribution was and emphasising how much that would help their careers; and then using their ideas. I did no real work, I got paid a fortune and I got loads of drunken gratitude-shags for giving the office girls a few crumbs of credit for their own ideas and hard work.

Once I'd managed to sort out the head office - ie sorting-out 3* of the girls working there (concurrently but not simultaneously) whilst two of them did all my work for me - I was meant to implement the same system at some of the regional offices.

Unfortunately, the office administrator at the first regional office I visited was a hideous, fat monster. You know how some fat girls are pretty underneath? You know how some fat and/or ugly girls look better after a few drinks? Not Anne. So I was faced with the prospect of doing some actual work myself.

Anyway, a week later I got back to head-office and a fax came through from her, thanking me profusely for all the hard work I’d done and gushing about how well the new systems were working. One of my colleagues picked the fax up, read it and laughed and started teasing me that I must’ve shagged her.

Of course, I denied it vociferously: “No way, I can tell you’ve never met Anne, I wouldn’t touch her with yours, she’s the most hideous fucking troll I’ve ever met in my life, there isn’t enough beer in the world to make her shaggable. I’d rather dig up my granny.” Etc.

Unfortunately, my remarks were overheard by one of the salesmen, who came up and said, “You do realise you’re talking about my fiancée?”

It still makes me retch just thinking about Anne. The rolls of fat around her stomach and thighs were actually hard. When I whispered to her that being with her made me think of hot, sensual nights of passion in Venice, the city of love, I actually meant it – she smelled like Venice at the height of summer and her cunt was like the Grand Canal (my story's title refers to this point rather than my overheard remarks above).

After porking** Anne 4 times in one night, the next day I met her assistant Denise who was cute, had enormous tits and developed a massive crush on me. Unfortunately, Anne made it perfectly clear to me if I laid a finger on Denise, she’d drop me in it. I spent a whole week fucking Fat Anne and fending off this cute chick who all but dry-humped my leg in the office.

Now that really was a shame!

* The third was a bonus – a dumb Italian receptionist who thought the more blowjobs she gave me, the higher she’d be promoted! She’d have been MD after a week, especially after she’d crawled under my desk to suck me off about 15 minutes after I’d spent my lunch hour fucking her best friend up the arse.

** I’d never understood how appropriate that euphemism could be until I met Anne.
(SpittyWoonerism, Mon 28 Nov 2005, 13:30, Reply)