The first rule of Friday Lunchtime Fuck Club is YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT FUCK CLUB. Which explains why, for its first three sessions, FLFC was just two blokes quietly wanking in an obscure breakout room on the otherwise unused fourth floor of Amalgamated Incorporated.
(Rumour has it these “founding fathers” met when FF.B, a new starter confused by the building’s room numbering schema, took a lift to the wrong level and walked in on FF.A who could either put his cock away or switch off the dirty movie projecting on the big screen, but instead froze and did neither. Since then the second rule of FLFC has been YOU DO NOT FORGET TO WEDGE A CHAIR UNDER THE DOOR HANDLE IF YOU ARE LAST IN THE ROOM AT FUCK CLUB.)
The third and most important rule at FLFC is YOU MUST BE DISGUISED AT ALL TIMES – THIS IS A RESPECTABLE WORKPLACE. Which explains why the woman on her back on a desk near the front of the room and everybody forming the small crowd of men around her was completely naked except for A3 sized padded jiffy bag envelopes covering their heads, with eye and mouth holes cut into them. With one hand holding her jiffy in place, she rifled through a small plastic tub of cue-cards clamped between her mighty breasts which she used when she needed to relay info to fellow members. (Because rule 3b of FLFC is OBVIOUSLY THEN YOU DO NOT TALK AT FUCK CLUB EITHER (UNLESS YOU ARE A BRILLIANT IMPRESSIONIST).)
“When’s it my turn, Delilah?” asked Tom Jones.
“Well as my mother always said I’m next”, said Frank Spencer, “then you, then Paul Daniels”.
“Well that’s magic” said Paul, and he and Tom high-fived.
The silent woman found the cue card she was looking for and flashed it around the group. “ONLY IN THE BUM IF YOU HAVEN’T BROUGHT A CONDOM”.
Frank and Tom quietly dropped the johnnies they had been holding and pushed them backwards with their heels. “Ha, newbies” thought Paul, holding his semi-on in one hand and a tube of KY Jelly in the other.
The woman found a much-thumbed “LUNCHTIME ENDS IN 30MINS!” cue card and held it up to the eye holes of the panting man balls deep in her fanny. Of course nobody knew who he was for sure but his back was a mesh of ginger hair and so most suspected Hamish, from HR. Of course nobody knew who she was either but again there were suspicions: she was about the same height as Donna from the Training team, and she also had enormous knockers. And those who had worked with her possibly recognised the uncommon way she fashioned capital “E”s like backwards “3”s. And also she was black, and both the two other black ladies on the company payroll were away on holiday.
Just audible above the fast-paced rhythmic creaking of the desk was a quiet tapping at the door – tap tap tap tap, tap-tap tap tap tap – the theme tune to Match of the Day AKA the club’s secret code knock, for latecomers. “Please be another woman, pleeeease be another woman” thought everybody in the room (except twelve-dicks-a-day Donna* (*possibly)).
…TBC (depending on reaction)  |
