A crumb of comfort, at least.

The Regional Head of Drama has a name and his name is Neville; although most people who know him, (wife and kids amongst them) call him 'knob-head' behind his back.

As a departmental head, he doesn't make any programmes himself; his role is to commission and facilitate the making of dramatic presentations by others more talented in that way than himself. This means that most of the time, other people are doing the heavy duty work-a-day thinking for him which is probably why, on this specific occasion, he hasn't thought things through properly and, as a result, has over complicated everything.

His aim is simply to get Paula to drink so that he can relive the enjoyment of her he had back in his Editing Assistant days. He's positively salivating at the prospect of getting this particular voluptuous milf dancing naked around his ballroom-sized office for him before permitting him to screw her on top of his much prized and oversized mahogany desk; (his ultimate status symbol). Those working under him would say he needs such a big office to keep his ego in. Neville would argue that he needs it as a venue for planning meetings. He actually doesn't of course; the building he works in boasts fine meeting rooms a-plenty. So if further challenged on this, he'd simply say he needs a large room because his much prized king-sized mahogany desk wouldn't fit in a small one. Q.E.D.

Anyway, here's his plan regarding Paula. He'll invite her . . . no, she might say no; he'll summons her to a planning meeting in his office, hang a "DO NOT DISTURB. MEETING IN PROGRESS" sign on the self-locking office door, ply her with tasty cannabis flavoured biscuits which, if they by themselves don't get her high enough for him to have his wicked way with her, will at least render her susceptible to taking a glass of fortified wine or three with him, just for old times sake. Yeah, that's it; just for old times sake - not to mention the sake of the sort of frustrated libido which most balding, pot bellied, middle aged men with wives who've turned frigid, kids who've turned feral, breath that's turned rancid and yet who still harbour delusions of grandeur (just like Neville) tend to suffer from. But the wine will cure all that. The wine will "do the business" and thus enable him to "do Paula". Simple. Mid-life crises over! What could possibly go wrong?

Well, actually, his plan begins to unravel as soon as he issues his "summons" to Paula. It was always bound to really. You see, as has already been mentioned in our previous chapter, Paula is a very sensible woman. Therefore, she does very sensible things, like telling those who need to know where she's going and what she's doing. Those who need to know then tend to tell anyone else who might be vaguely interested, who in turn pass it on simply to have something to say in the chatty environment they're working in and so pretty soon, everyone in the building knows that the Head of House and Office Services is going to attend a programme planning meeting in the office of the Head of Regional Drama. However, this knowledge is causing certain individuals to pose the question, "WHAT THE FUCK?"

The reason for this response is well known to those who know it well. The fact is, House and Office Services are responsible for running Reception, cleaning and portering, parking, health and fire safety, security, provision and maintenance of office space and equipment, ensuring the toilets flush properly etc. In short, House and Office Services serves those who make the programmes by taking care of all those important but unsung things that have absolutely nothing directly to do with making programmes and yet, without them, no programmes could be made. Therefore, everyone who might reasonably have been expecting to be involved in the production of a new regional drama are equally reasonably, if somewhat vociferously asking, why is House and Office Services attending a Programme Planning Meeting when they're not? When and where it is are their follow up questions. They ask Paula these questions . . . and she tells them. Well why not? Being a sensible woman, she expected them to be there anyway. Not wishing to appear desparate (for image is everything in the broadcasting industry), directors, designers, writers, people in charge of casting, wardrobe and make-up are asking everyone for further details. Everyone, that is, but Neville. You see, no one working in the egocentric world of television wants to be seen as being over anxiously grovelling for work. Partly because it's demeaning but mainly because it's not actually the work they're grovelling for. No, it's the chance to once more experience the deep, life affirming and thrilling sense of triumph they always get from knowing their name is fleetingly appearing on millions of television/smart phone and i-pad screens around the world as the credits roll. It's what they live for. It's what all 'inflencers' live for. That's show business!

So, as soon as the venue, time and date of this mysterious drama planning meeting are known, each potential applicant for a place on the production team, quite independently of all the others, has been secretly hatching a cunning plan to casually pop into Neville's office with some inconsequential query or other just before this meeting is due to start. Maybe they'll be invited to stay and get their names on the credits, maybe they won't, but at least they'll be in with a chance of finding out what's really going on.

Meanwhile, Neville needs to test the efficacy of his biscuits on some unsuspecting moron because if they're not potent enough, he'll have to amend his recipé. Dust the finished product in cocaine possibly?

The obvious potential test pilot for his cannabis crunchies is his slob of a secretary who worked in a separate office, until today. She works there no more now and here's the tragic story as to why. Gloria, for such was her name, had the telephone voice of an angel but the body of a Russian shot putter of indeterminate sex and all the charm of a shoal of piranhas. Neville was too scared of her to get her transfered or fire her. This accounts for why he was probably the only broadcasting executive in the world who still had a secretary when all the rest have had P. A's for yonks. However, he figured that if his biscuits could mellow grisly Gloria into being nice for a change, he'd consider them operationally ready.

To this end, he bribed a minion to take Gloria a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits with his compliments. He spent the next forty-five minutes pacing around his monstrously sized and expensive mahogany desk, trying to pluck up the courage to go and see what effect his bickies might have had. As it turned out, he didn't have to bother. This fifteen stone, fifty six year old harridan burst into his office, positively gushing with gratitude. Apparently, he'd suddenly become the sweetest, most considerate and generous man she'd ever worked under and her one desire now was to work under him at a more intimate level. With these sentiments shared she raised her skirt and to Neville's horror, he saw she'd taken off her voluminous tights and substantial knickers. Her overly made up lips puckered up as she advanced on him. He tried to back away but was prevented by that bastardly treacherous mahogany desk that he instantly resolved would be reduced to a heap of firewood if he ever got out of there alive. First, Gloria engulfed him in a bear hug of an embrace whilst sucking out his lungs in the fervent horror of a forceful, soggy kiss. Next, she stripped him and herself (having had the foresight to hang the "DO NOT DISTURB. MEETING IN PROGRESS" sign in the door before she came in). Keeping him in her embrace dispite his **** squirmings, she then hitched herself up onto the desk and lay down, dragging her whimpering boss on top of her. It was wholely horrendous, and yet perhaps the most insidious thing about sex is that the feel of naked, soft, female flesh of any age or condition on a heterosexual man's penis becomes irresistibly delightful if this situation persists for long enough. Despite himself, Neville couldn't help becoming aroused. He found it helped if he closed his eyes and thought of Paula. He tried making believe it was Paula's lovely legs wrapping themselves around him, and this quelled his urge to vomit all over the quivering lump of passionate female lard that was trying to rub him all over her. He told himself that the moisture the tip of his lengthening cock had just encountered was from the vagina of the comely House and Office Service's head temptress. With eyes tight shut, it was a mental image he totally gave himself up to; thus enabling him to do the previously unthinkable and thrust himself inside the bloated body of his hag of a secretary.

Gloria was now laughing hysterically. 'That's probably the cannabis hysteria kicking in' he hoped.

It has to be said by those prone to say it that lying on top of and to a certain erotic degree, sinking into, smooth, softly undulating, warm, womanly flesh is probably not the most unpleasant sensations a man not totally devoid of imagination and testosterone can experience. Not if he's letting his erotic thoughts run wild and keeps his eyes firmly shut. The warmth and the wetness of the vagina caressing his thrusting cock swiftly had him tingling all over with an exquisite sexual tension so seductive that he finally dismissed all thoughts of Paula from his mind and set about enjoying fucking the hideously chubby, chuckling Gloria.

"Got any more of those scrummy bickies" she's asking between giggles. 'The munchies must be kicking in' he reckoned.

But then, disaster! "You're not laughing with me, you hate me. Everybody hates me" she wailed; eyes gushing with tears. Gloria threw Neville off of her, dashed to the open forth floor window and despite it being a bit of a tight squeeze, sort of hurled herself through it in slow motion. Still, she speeded up no end as soon as she came out the other side, plummeting in the general direction of down to her ****. Oo! What a horrible splatting sound that made! 'Guess that must have been the cannabis induced paranoia kicking in' pondered Neville. 'Still, at least I can get a P. A. like the other executive dudes now, so maybe this isn't such a disaster after all. It's certainly a crumb of comfort at least'.

Taking care not to be seen from below, Neville crept to the window and threw Gloria's clothes out after her. He thought it was the gentlemanly thing to do. He also forgave his mahogany desk for trapping him earlier and annulled its execution order. Besides, he'll need it when Paula comes to call.