Hard Code: A Laugh-Out-Loud Workplace Romantic Comedy

by Misha Bell

  “You better be good.” I jokingly frown at my guinea pig as I collect my work laptop, work phone, and the suitcase. “I’m about to spank the monkey.”

  She looks at me with a blank expression.

  “What, you think monkey is supposed to represent a cock in that phrase?” I ask her.

  No reaction.

  “I know, right? Why are so many animals used as a euphemism for genitals in the first place? Cat, rooster, monkey—does humanity have a subconscious bestiality streak?”

  She turns on her heel and scurries into her house again—clearly not interested in dignifying my words with a response.

  I carry the work phone, the laptop, the suitcase, and Precious into the bedroom, then light a few candles around the bed and play Leonard Cohen on my Echo to set the mood.

  Opening the suitcase, I take out the vibrator, the toy I’ve been most curious about—mostly because Ava has been singing praises of hers so much I suspect she gets a commission from the manufacturer.

  This specific vibrator is made of some squishy Space Age material that feels like a jelly made out of slugs—but sexy pink, so I guess it’s okay.

  I already have my first quality complaint: the vibrator box doesn’t have any instructions on it, nor is there a little paper manual inside. There’s only one short note on the box: Get the Belka app for your phone.

  I make a note of this in my testing document. It’s feasible the Belka peeps omitted more instructions because these are prototypes, but unlikely. The packaging is too polished for that, so this might well be an oversight.

  Hopefully, my Bachelor of Science degree will help me figure out how to use a vibrator, even a smart one.

  I get the app onto Precious and choose “Vibrator” from the screen with the different toy options. The app informs me that it’s connected to the vibrator via Bluetooth, and that the vibrator’s battery is full—a great start.

  I click on the “Connect with Partner” icon and learn that you can do so via email, text, or even social media.

  I opt to test the text version for now and put in the number of my work phone.

  To make it seem like I’m testing the toys over the internet, I set up my work phone to connect through a proxy server located in Tajikistan—the farther, the better. Then I click on the text and am directed to download the Belka app. Once the app is ready to go, it opens up a small videoconference window—with options to see/hear your partner or not.

  I document all this.

  The setup was pretty effortless. Then again, it might be good to have someone less tech-savvy play with all this just in case—perhaps someone’s adventurous granny?

  In any case, the work phone version of the app is now in “Giver” mode, while Precious is the “Receiver.”

  I leave only the work phone in my hands because I need the controls on it. They consist of a start button and the knob for intensity.

  First things first. I apply the vibrator to my forearm and press start.

  Wow.

  It’s not just vibrating. The strange material makes it ripple, for lack of a better term. It feels… interesting. I play with the intensity until I find one that I suspect will feel good on my clit, then stop the vibrator.

  Hiking up the skirt of my dress, I pull down my panties. Just for shits and giggles, I’m wearing the gag pair Ava got me after my breakup. They boldly state “Open for Business.”

  Carefully, I press the vibrator to myself. It feels tickly and a little cold.

  Here we go. Time to start my workday.

  I open the timer app for the “Duration” section of the testing document and reach for the start button.

  Precious pings, stopping me.

  Swapping the work phone for personal, I see that I just got a text from Ava.

  Figures. Is it considered cockblocking when someone prevents you from using a vibrator?

  When you get around to the toys, think of being impaled by the Impaler, her text states.

  How did she sniff out what I’m about to do? She must’ve used her own vibrator so much she’s gained a psychic superpower. Or maybe she was bitten by her vibrator—by its Bluetooth, perhaps?

  Precious pings again. This time, it’s the eggplant emoji.

  I’m busy, I reply and silence Precious before grabbing the work phone once more.

  As my finger hovers over the start button, I do my best to thwart Ava by not thinking of the Impaler.

  Riiight. As everyone who’s ever tried not to think of something knows, the more you try, the more you end up thinking of the forbidden object.

  And that’s doubly so for when said object is as hot as the one I have in my mind’s eye.

  Fine. Whatever. I might feel better if I picture yummy lips touching my clit instead of slug jelly.

  The image of hypnotic lapis lazuli eyes firmly in my head, I set a timer and press the start button.

  Bzzz.

  I drop both the phone and the vibrator as a powerful orgasm unleashes a wave of endorphins into my system. A full-on, toe-curling orgasm—as amazing as it was unexpected.

  As the last spasms ripple through my body, I stare at the toy dumbfounded.

  Did that just happen?

  Is this a military grade vibrator, or did I just develop the female counterpart to premature ejaculation?

  Chewing on my lip, I open the laptop and look at the testing document.

  “Was orgasm achieved?” You can say that again.

  “How many times?” Once so far.

  “Session duration?” No clue. I put down a microsecond.

  What now? Maybe I do the same test one more time? After all, whoever put the handwritten notes together implied there would be multiple sessions.

  When I attempt it, I grunt in pain instead of pleasure. My clit is super-sensitive from the last go.

  I might have to give it a little break.

  With some trepidation, I snatch the dildo from the suitcase and open the packaging.

  Again no instructions, just a small packet of lube and the thing itself—huge and made of the same squishy material as the vibrator, only avocado-green instead of pink.

  I don’t mention this in my work report, but this thing reminds me of an alien tentacle. I mentally dub it Glurp.

  Taking Glurp in my hand, I uncharitably compare him to my exes’ equipment.

  Yup, Glurp is a big boy, almost frighteningly so.

  Opening the lube, I nearly drown Glurp in the viscous liquid and bring up the mental image of the Impaler as I slide the tip into my opening.

  Hmm.

  It fits and feels kind of nice already. The prior orgasm must’ve gotten me ready for this.

  I push Glurp deeper and pick up the work phone to bring the tentacle to life.

  Bzzz.

  I don’t instantly come this time, but the vibration or whatever it’s doing feels amazing. My inner muscles tighten, and I feel like I’m on the verge of something truly intense.

  A few interesting options show up on the app, like A-spot and G-spot stimulation.

  I’ll have to test them all, but for now, I decide on the G-spot because it’s the one I’ve actually heard about.

  I jab my finger at the G-spot button.

  Glurp begins to lightly twist inside me, as if zooming in on a target.

  Bing-bing.

  The videoconferencing app on my work phone hides part of the Belka app screen.

  Crap. It’s Sandra, my boss.

  What the hell does she want? There’s micromanaging, and then there’s interrupting your loyal employee from finding Nemo.

  I stab the screen to reject the call.

  The videoconferencing app expands to full screen.

  Oh, shit.

  I must’ve fat-fingered it.

  “Hi, Fanny.” Sandra’s eyes widen. “Am I interrupting something?”

  I redden like a boiled crab and swiftly disable the video.

  Did she see anything? Can’t be—the camera was aimed at my face, not at
Glurp.

  At least I hope it was.

  But then why the question? Maybe she figured something was up by the blissed-out look on my face?

  “I just wanted to make sure Project Belka is on track,” Sandra says apologetically, and I realize I haven’t responded to her still.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” I half say, half squeal. “It’s in good hands.”

  I have no idea if she hears or responds because at that moment, Glurp finally gives my G-spot a knockout.

  I bite my cheek to prevent a moan from escaping as my eyes roll back in my head.

  “Thanks,” Sandra says. “Email an update when you get the chance.”

  “Yes!”

  She hangs up.

  I extricate Glurp from myself and rush into the bathroom to splash some icy water on my overheated face. Leaving Glurp behind to be cleaned, I get back and record this session in the document.

  They better allow me to move departments. After today, I can never work for Sandra again, or look her in the eye.

  Also, can one develop a fetish this way? Next thing I know, I’ll need Sandra to call me every time I get hot and heavy.

  Looking into the suitcase, I debate what to test next.

  The buttplug catches my attention.

  It’s small enough not to be intimidating—a good thing for me, a butt play virgin.

  I take the package out and read the title.

  Anal Belka.

  Does Belka mean something besides the name of this project?

  A quick search reveals that Belka is actually a common word in various Slavic languages. It means beam in Polish (ouch), egg white in Macedonian (weird), and squirrel in Russian (hmm, okay). Given Vlad’s country of birth, I have to assume the title of both the toy and the project means the latter.

  In which case… an anal squirrel? Sounds like a rodent obsessed with keeping his park nice and tidy. Who decided that was a good name for this thing?

  Then again, Ava told me about the time they had a guy come to the ER with a hamster stuck in his butt—so rodents in butts must be something people are interested in doing. Why not a squirrel, too?

  I can never tell Monkey about this. As a rodent herself, she’ll be scarred for life. At least in the case of this Belka, no animals need to be harmed.

  Placing the work phone on the bed, I lie on my stomach and squirt the lube that came with the squirrel toy into my butt.

  The things I do for science.

  Or quality assurance.

  Or a paycheck.

  Feeling naughty, I place the tip of the toy at my opening and push lightly to see how much resistance my body provides. There’s some, but not as much as I expected.

  Well, okay, the squirrel is small.

  I get bolder and increase the pressure.

  There’s a small hint of discomfort, and then, like a baster into a turkey, the squirrel dives right in.

  Chapter Six

  Whoa. That feels strange. But also kind of good, maybe? I can’t decide.

  I set the timer on the phone and load “Anal Belka” as the toy on the app.

  A few new controls appear on the screen that weren’t available in the case of the vibrator and Glurp. For example, there’s a button named “Out” and one named “Deeper.”

  I’m not ready for deeper just yet, and out is premature.

  I press “On.”

  The squirrel begins to vibrate.

  The feeling is odd, but not unpleasant. As I adjust, I feel ready to brave more, and a button that says “P-spot stimulation” catches my gaze.

  I’ve never heard of a P-spot. Then again, I’ve never heard of the A-spot either. To be honest, I didn’t even know there were “spots” in the backdoor area, but I guess there must be since so many women like butt play.

  I hesitantly press on the P-spot button.

  The squirrel stops vibrating and gently burrows deeper into me.

  Weird.

  It keeps moving.

  Wait a second.

  It stops. I feel it whirling around as if looking for something, then it starts moving again.

  What the hell? I jab the stop button.

  Nothing happens. The squirrel continues on its merry way.

  I frantically press the out button.

  The squirrel stops.

  Whew.

  Wait a second. The squirrel is whirling around again, as if rooting for something inside me. Not finding whatever it is, it burrows even deeper.

  What the fuck? Does “P” stand for pancreas? I think that’s an organ in the digestive system, but there’s no way that’s a fun spot.

  I scan the screen in panic.

  There’s a help button here, plus a few more that don’t look promising.

  I punch all the non-help buttons at once.

  The squirrel keeps going deeper.

  I’m beginning to freak out. What if “P” stands for the pituitary gland in the brain?

  The squirrel stops. An error pops up on the screen, stating, “Prostate not found.”

  Prostate? Oh, no. Women don’t have one—at least not in the butt area. There’s something called Skene’s glands on the front side of the vagina that are sometimes referred to as “the female prostate,” but that’s clearly not what the squirrel was looking for.

  Through my panic, I begin to parse out what happened. The squirrel must be from the batch meant for the male sex. When the Impaler wrote the app, he forgot to account for a situation where someone who wants P-spot stimulation lacks a prostate to stimulate.

  It’s not a surprising bug, but it is a major pain in my ass—and that expression has never been this literal.

  I swipe angrily at the error message until it disappears from the screen. Then I pound the out button.

  The error comes back, and nothing else happens.

  Out of options, I click the help button again.

  A sound resembling a dial tone emanates from the phone.

  That’s not good. I bet that’s meant to dial customer service when Belka toys get into the hands of real customers. This early, I doubt anyone’s going to answer that call. Not that I’d know what to tell them if they did.

  Frantic, I drop the work phone on the bed and grab Precious to dial Ava.

  “I’m a little busy,” she says in lieu of a hello.

  “This is a medical emergency! Code red. I’m not joking, this is—”

  “Whoa, slow down, slow down. What happened?”

  “I have a squirrel stuck in my rectum. Or maybe my colon. Somewhere up there.”

  A moment of silence, then: “Is this a joke?”

  “I wish! I was testing the toys and—”

  Ava sounds like she’s got something stuck in her throat. “So the squirrel is a toy?”

  “No, I mean a real fucking animal.”

  “Hey, you never know. I’ve heard of lots of things stuck in there. Fruits, vegetables, keys, candles, coffee and peanut butter jars, lightbulbs, deodorant, smartphones, bottles of body spray, Buzz Lightyear—”

  “That’s not making me feel any better.” I squeeze the phone tighter. “What should I do?”

  “Go to the ER,” she says.

  “How about something less drastic,” I say, picturing how embarrassing such a trip would be—especially since my name is Fanny.

  For the rest of their lives, the nurses would tell everyone, “The patient’s name was Fanny, and she had a toy stuck in her fanny.”

  Ava takes an audible breath. “Do you have any abdominal pain?”

  “No.”

  “How about bleeding?”

  All blood drains from my face. “This just happened. You think there could be bleeding?”

  “Unlikely, if there’s no pain. Just make sure not to reach in there with tongs or anything that could cut or bruise the area. That includes your nails.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m not an idiot. At least not more of an idiot.”

  “Okay, but just keep in mind: There are cases wh
ere tongs have gotten stuck along with the original object.”

  “No tongs,” I say firmly. “What can I do, though?”

  “Other than going to the ER? You can try to poop it out.”

  I feel a pang of hope. “You think that would work?”

  “If it’s small enough, it should come out the way it came in.”

  I look at the empty box from the toy. “How small is small enough?”

  “I have no idea. Did it go in easy?”

  My face reddens. “Kind of.”

  “Then maybe it’ll be a case of easy come, easy go.”

  Ugh. “This isn’t funny!”

  “Look, I’ve really got to run. Keep me posted. If you decide to go to the ER, come here, to Presbyterian.”

  I grimace. “I’m trying the poop method first.”

  “Eat some fiber,” she says. “Better yet, a laxative.”

  With that useful advice, she hangs up.

  As I place Precious back on the bed, I see something on the work phone that chills my bones.

  The help call looks to have connected somewhere.

  “Hello?” I squeak into the receiver. “Is someone there?”

  “Ms. Pack,” says a familiar, Russian-accented voice. “I strongly disagree with your plans and am on my way to take you to the ER immediately.”

  Chapter Seven

  “No, don’t! I’ll call 911. Don’t come here!”

  No reply. He hung up.

  Growling in frustration, I click the help button again.

  A sound resembling a dial tone emanates from the phone once more, but when I wait and wait, it doesn’t connect anywhere.

  Maybe I can call him directly?

  Sure. Just as soon as I magically figure out what his cell phone number is. Unless… maybe Sandra knows?

  Ugh, no. I don’t want her involved. She’ll either have a heart attack from thinking the project has gone awry, or from laughter when she learns what’s happened.

  How does the Impaler even know where I live? Did the app access the work phone GPS, or did he simply take a look at my employee file?

  Anyway, the how is not important. The fact that he’s going to be here is. It’s bad enough he overheard the whole “squirrel in my butt” conversation with Ava—a fact that makes me want to crawl into a ditch and die. If he comes here and needs to rescue my ass—literally—I might just melt from mortification.