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

by Misha Bell

  Am I about to get fired for coming on to my boss’s boss?

  We get into the limo again, sitting opposite each other this time.

  He makes the partition go up. “Just to clarify: I test the male batch, acting as both giver and receiver, right? I actually already tested one of the pieces on myself after I wrote the app, so I could in theory do the same with the rest of them.”

  Yes! He’s actually considering it. I want to jump up and down, even as the blush that had slightly receded on the walk from the elevator returns in all its glory. “That wouldn’t be good end-to-end testing, and you know it. You wrote the code; that makes you biased.”

  His nostrils flare. “Then how?”

  Even my feet are blushing at this point. “You just act as the receiver. I act as the giver, and record the testing data. It’s the proper way these things are done.”

  His eyebrows lift. “That’s stretching the definition of the word ‘proper’ way outside its comfort zone.”

  “Look.” I try to mime his accent as best I can. “If you want to quit, I understand.”

  A slow, sensuous smile curves his lips. “I don’t shy away from a challenge.”

  Can my panties really melt, or is that just a saying? Doing my best to play it cool, I quirk my fake eyebrow. “That’s a yes, right?”

  “Yes. How do you see this working, logistically?”

  Holy guacamole. He’s in. I got him to commit.

  But what now?

  On some level, I didn’t expect him to actually agree to this madness, and now that he has, I’m faced with the logistics of using sex toys on my boss’s boss. Logistics that will include getting him off—and recording how fast in a spreadsheet.

  Or worse, recording that I couldn’t get him off.

  C++ help me, there are worse logistics than that. For example, don’t most guy toys require an erect penis to go into some of the toys? How do I make sure his is ready for testing… logistically?

  “You don’t have to decide all this now,” he says, once again seemingly reading my mind.

  “Right.” I clear my throat and reach for my inner QA analyst. “Off the top of my head, it would be best to use the app as close to how it was intended as possible. Meaning remotely.” As in, I don’t want to be next to him for the “getting the penis ready” part of these logistics.

  Unless, maybe I do?

  No. Must at least pretend to be professional. Or what passes for professional under the circumstances.

  “Yes, doing this remotely makes sense.” Is that disappointment hidden behind the indecipherable expression on his face? “When do you want to start?”

  “I’m free tonight,” I blurt.

  Crap. That wasn’t smooth. Do I look like a loser who has no life?

  Recalling the scent of perfume on the testing sheet and inside the suitcase, I quickly add, “Assuming you don’t have a Friday night date, that is.”

  He pulls out his phone and sends a few rapid-fire texts. “My evening schedule is now cleared. This is very important.”

  “Why is it so important?” I ask.

  What I really want to know is if it has something to do with someone who uses a little too much perfume.

  He frowns. “I thought I explained this earlier. There’s a chance to demo the final product to the editors of Cosmo in two weeks.”

  That’s why it’s important to the Belka company, but not why it’s important to him. Oh, well. I guess he doesn’t want to tell me the real reason—which might mean it has something to do with the perfumed mystery lady (or possibly gentleman—why not keep an open mind?).

  If I needed another reason to keep things professional between us, here it is: Vlad might already be taken.

  Who is she? the green monster of jealousy demands.

  How would I know?

  Find out, then tell her you humped her man with a sex toy.

  Belka is probably the company she works for, so she might not care.

  Plan B: kill her.

  The car comes to a full stop, and with a mixture of relief and disappointment, I realize I’m home.

  “So… see you tonight?” I unbuckle my seatbelt.

  He exits the car and holds the door open for me. “Unless you change your mind—which would be totally fine.”

  Unless I chicken out, he means.

  Nope. Not happening.

  Hopefully.

  “Get home safe,” I blurt.

  Is he staring at my lips?

  Am I staring at his?

  A faint smile touches those lips. “You too.”

  “Thanks.” I make a concentrated effort not to trip over something as I sprint for my door.

  As I get into my building, I catch a glimpse of him still standing there by the limo, watching me.

  Dashing inside my apartment, I lean with my back to the door, fanning myself.

  Monkey peeks out of her little house.

  “I know, right?” I say. “What did I just get myself into?”

  After Monkey and I get our bellies full, I find creative ways to keep myself from worrying about the upcoming testing—and what works best is looking at my code.

  I implement some of the easier ideas the Phantom had suggested, then check to see if he’s written to me again.

  He has—along with making a change in my code.

  I hope you don’t take offense, but I renamed all the counter variables to use the word “count,” which is the Binary Birch standard. While I understand that your variation—Chocula—was a joke, it detracted gravitas from your otherwise elegant code. You can, of course, revert this change.

  Huh. I, too, get the urge to change code I dislike when I see it. Especially when I spot the kind of atrocities I saw in Britney’s work.

  Since Phantom has a decent point there, I don’t revert the change. As much as I like Count Chocula—and I go coo-coo for the stuff—the last thing I want is for the development team to think that I don’t take coding seriously. For that matter, it’s not good to publicize my cereal addiction so widely, especially now that I have a new delicious vampire in my life—Vlad.

  Speaking of the devil, it’s almost time for the testing.

  As I redraw my eyebrows and in general make myself more presentable, I contemplate if the testing should take place in my bedroom or the living room. Since living room seems a tad more professional, I tidy it up, then rush to the bedroom to get the suitcase with toys. Returning, I park it next to my couch.

  What should we test?

  I open the suitcase, examine the male-oriented toys, and choose the one that seems the least intimidating. Still, I go on Precious and research how to use the thing—no more toy-related hospital trips, thank you very much.

  The toy is a type of sleeve, and its use is usually pretty straightforward: lube it up, then stick a shlong into it. From here, the user would usually slide it up and down by hand, but the Belka model is high tech and will do the sliding up and down by itself. It’ll also vibrate if that’s desired.

  Determined to be ready for any eventuality, I lube up mine and put a finger in.

  Then two.

  Interesting.

  I’ve never put fingers inside another female—only myself—but this is eerily similar, except it feels cold. So more like a dead female, I guess.

  How stretchy is this thing?

  I put another finger in.

  No problem.

  I put in a fourth.

  Still no problem.

  I make a tight fist, and it slides in.

  Great, I’m fisting the poor jellyfish/dead woman’s vagina.

  Going back to two fingers, I bring up the app with my other hand to see the options I’ll need to use later.

  The major buttons are “Stroke” and “Vibrate.”

  I click Stroke, and the sleeve tries to swallow my fingers like a hungry jellyfish.

  Wow. How did they get it to move like that?

  I press Vibrate next—and now it feels like that jellyfish is try
ing to swallow my fingers during an earthquake.

  Throughout this exercise, I do my best not to think about Vlad.

  Or his cock.

  Or—

  Precious pings with a text.

  Crap. It’s time.

  I sprint to the kitchen, toss the sleeve into the sink, and wipe the lube from my fingers with a paper towel.

  Returning to the couch, I check my phone.

  Right. It’s the text that will link my app with Vlad’s.

  As soon as I set that up, the videoconferencing part of the app comes to life.

  Picking up the call, I try to be cool and not blush. This is work related. No reason to panic.

  Then I see his lapis lazuli eyes gleaming behind his lenses, and all professionalism goes down the drain.

  My cheeks burn as if stung by that same hungry jellyfish.

  “Hi, Fanny,” he says, his accent thicker than usual.

  “Hi, sir.” I fight the urge to salute him.

  The corners of his lips twitch. “You can call me Vlad, remember?”

  “Right. Vlad. I picked out the toy for today. The sleeve. It’s the—”

  “I know the one.” He disappears from camera view, and I hear him rummaging in what I assume is his own suitcase.

  When he reappears, he’s holding the toy in question.

  Impossibly, my blush deepens. “Yeah, that one.”

  “Good choice.” He brushes the tip of his finger around the toy entrance—making my lady bits insanely jealous. “This is the same one I used for my own testing.”

  “Great.” It takes effort to hold the phone steady. “So… I guess you put yourself into it?”

  Echoes of my earlier logistical thoughts buzz around my head.

  He needs to be hard for this. Is that my problem? Surely not.

  “Do you need a minute?” I nervously lick my lips. “To watch an adult video or—”

  “I’m ready.” His gaze seems to be on my mouth. “Where do you want me to point the camera? I’d prefer it to be my face, but if—”

  “Your face is good.” The words come out like the pained croak of a toad that’s been run over by an ice cream truck.

  I mean I’m only human, so I really, really would like the camera pointed down, but there’s no QA reason for it that I can think of, not unless I’d made the sleeve and wanted to make sure it fits snugly on his—

  “I’m in,” he murmurs.

  Alrighty then.

  That means it’s my turn… to get him off.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Stay professional.

  Clinical.

  Somehow.

  “I’m going to test the Stroke button first,” I say, and pray I don’t have a stroke as I do.

  He nods.

  I press the Stroke button.

  His pupils dilate.

  An intensity dial pops up on my screen.

  “I’m going to scale up the speed.” Did my voice come out husky? Got to quit that.

  He bites his lip and nods.

  I slowly get him to fifty-percent intensity.

  His jaw muscles tense and his pupils dilate even more as his eyes roam my face with the hunger of a predator.

  I like it. A bit too much. I cough nervously into my fist. “Tell me if it gets to be too much.”

  “This is good.” His breathing is clearly ragged.

  Damn, this is hot.

  Way, way too hot to be professional.

  I never would’ve guessed how much I’d enjoy this. I have to constantly fight the urge to sneak my hand down so I can join him in the fun.

  “I’m adding in the vibration. Okay?”

  I take the grunt of his response as a yes, and click the button.

  He groans, and his neck muscles tense. Then he exhales loudly, relaxing.

  As I watch his O-face on my screen, I nearly have that stroke.

  It’s official.

  I brought my boss’s boss to orgasm.

  Yep. That happened.

  At least, I think he orgasmed.

  Better check.

  “Did you finish?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “I need to know for the documentation.”

  There. That sounds semi-professional—especially if I were a courtesan.

  “Yes. It was intense.” His voice is raspier than usual. “When I used the same toy on myself, it felt much less so.”

  “Huh,” is all I can say at first. “Must be like tickling yourself. I wonder if my testing earlier wasn’t valid since I also did it on myself.”

  What am I saying? Why did I go there?

  Probably because I want him to get me off more than anything in the world.

  He tilts his head, eyes fixed on me intently. “If you want to retest, I can help.”

  “Right,” I hear myself saying as if from a distance. My heart pounds in my chest. “Good idea.”

  What? a part of me shouts. Are you so horny your brain has stopped working?

  “I better hang up now,” he says. “Have to clean up.”

  Clean up. Right. Because I made him come. My face burns bright again, even as disappointment snakes through me.

  I’m not ready for this to end.

  “When should we resume?” I ask, trying to keep my tone even. Professional, as befits an interaction between an employee and her boss’s boss. “Tomorrow?”

  His eyes gleam. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I wouldn’t want to make you work on the weekend.”

  Ah, right.

  It’s Friday night.

  I forgot that—along with my name.

  “Weekend is no problem,” I manage to say. “I did all that resting. This isn’t going to eat up my whole day anyway. We’ll just do one more piece of hardware. You said this was important.”

  Do I sound overeager?

  Am I overeager?

  “How does eight p.m. tomorrow sound?” he asks. “Unless you have plans?”

  So, he and the perfume lady aren’t meeting on Saturday night either. That raises the chances there isn’t anything going on between them—unless whatever is going on doesn’t require formal dates, that is.

  I take in a deep breath. “I’ll clear my evening schedule.”

  “See you then,” he says and hangs up.

  I make sure he really hung up, then grab a female toy at random and finish myself off to regain a semblance of sanity.

  Giddy with relief, I document today’s testing, finish my daily routine, and go to sleep.

  The next day goes by in a haze.

  I code more of Phantom’s suggestions, play with Monkey, and in general try to keep my mind off the big event that’s happening at eight.

  A package from UPS comes in the afternoon, filled with eyebrow paraphernalia. It takes me a while to try out the indelible eyebrow pencil, eyebrow powder, and the temporary tattoos, but the winning look turns out to be the stick-on human hair eyebrow wigs, proving once again you get what you pay for.

  Doing my best not to think about where that human hair actually came from, I go about my day until I get a call from Ava.

  “Have you been avoiding me?” she asks instead of a hello.

  “No,” I say.

  She huffs. “You didn’t reply to any of my texts.”

  “Fine, maybe. I just had a lot going on.”

  There’s a prolonged silence on her end of the line. “Is it Impaler related?”

  “Yes.” I tell her what happened.

  “OMG,” she squeals when I’m done. “You’re such a hussy. I love it!”

  “Am not. We’re keeping things strictly professional.”

  “Uh-huh. Denial is not just a river in Egypt.”

  I roll my eyes. “He might have someone. We work together. I—”

  “For tonight’s testing, choose that prostate toy,” she says, and I can almost hear her grinning. “Guys can be touchy about their butts, so if he lets you shove something in there, he’s into you, for sure.”

  My face burns like the surfa
ce of the sun. “We’re testing remotely, so any shoving will be of his own doing.”

  “Tomato, tomahto. End result: toy in butt.”

  “Well, he agreed to test all the boy toys.” I fight the urge to scratch my human hair stick-ons. “I assume he realized the squirrel was on that list.”

  “Trust me. He might not have connected the dots all the way up his rectum. If he doesn’t back out when you bring this up, it means something. At the very least, serious dedication to work, but more likely proof he’s really into you.”

  I scratch the eyebrow after all. “I guess. I don’t see how it will hurt.”

  “It might hurt him,” she says with a giggle. “Make sure to use lots of lube and take it nice and slow. When I do that sort of thing, I like to start with a little bit of—”

  “TMI,” I shout and begin singing Happy Birthday as loudly as I can.

  “Fine,” she says. “I better go check on my patient anyway.”

  I feel a pang of guilt. I haven’t even asked her where she was. “They’re having you work yet another weekend?”

  “I’m used to it,” she says. “Keep me in the loop. Byeee.”

  “Bye.” I hang up.

  For the rest of the day, I research every toy in the suitcase and ponder an important question: Which toy should I let him retest on me?

  After a long deliberation, I settle on the clit vibrator. My own session with it was super quick, which might be good for the first time with Vlad.

  First time.

  There will be a second. And a third.

  My heartbeat skyrockets, and I begin to hyperventilate—but then the videoconferencing part of the app comes to life, so I take in a deep breath and accept his call.

  Damn. I almost forgot how hot he is, with those sculpted features and dangerously kissable lips. And that lock of hair is at it again, taunting me, making my fingers itch to touch it.

  “Hi,” I say, trying not to drown in his intensely blue gaze.

  “How’s your weekend so far?” he murmurs.

  “Keeping busy,” I say on autopilot. “How about you? Do something different?”

  He seems to seriously consider the question—like someone who’s never made small talk before. “I took Oracle to a rodent specialist,” he finally says. “That doesn’t happen often.”