Turning the other cheek

There I was: on a boat with the most powerful clients my company had, drinking wine, mingling, making important conversation with Mr. Bank President and Mr. Creative Director. And then I felt a breeze.

Someone dropped his cocktail napkin, and I graciously bent to pick it up (I now distinctly recall that movement). I flitted between groups of my own clients and introduced myself to others, imagining myself a great hostess on this trip around the lake as I networked with the mostly male big wigs. And then I felt a breeze.

Finally, after wondering about that "breeze" for far too long, I reached a hand back to double-check my bottom. My cheeks were still encased in the fabric of my brand new, bun-hugging pants, but....wait a second! I felt bare flesh down the middle. LOTS of bare flesh!

I quickly moved to the railing and pressed my back against it, knowing my face was infused with that tell-tale blush I often wear. Mind racing, I sorted through my purse hoping to find safety pins or something to close my pants and restore my modesty. Nothing. I contemplated jumping ship.

Instead, I worked my way over to the lower deck, careful to keep my back to the railing, engaging in polite conversation here and there. Scurrying down the steps to the lower, vacant bar I caught the eye of the female bartender and crossed my fingers.

"I have a problem," I announced to her. "I'm hoping you have a sewing kit or pins behind that bar!"

She stooped to check and stood up with bad news. No sewing kit. No pins. "Why do you need it?"

"Ummm...look!" I said, turning around so she could see. I only had an idea how exposed I must have been; I had specifically chosen an extra-skimpy thong to avoid panty lines so I imagine a great deal of naked flesh was exposed. I heard her gasp and, turning back to her, noticed she was swallowing her laughter.

"Oh, my. Hmmm...," she said, rummaging through more bar paraphernalia. "I have duct tape!"

"Duct tape it is!"

I excused myself, tape in hand, to the ladies' room to inspect just how bad the situation was. It was bad. The whole back seam had come unsewn, leaving a gaping hole where the material met. I had shown a lot of cheek and nearly all of my thong-filled crack. Swearing to myself, I got to work, taping the inside of the pants so the repairs were hidden, I managed to close it enough so that I could return to the upper deck.

First I had a shot of whiskey. Well, two. Armed with liquid courage and a plastered smile on my face, I rejoined the gentlemen clients upstairs.

I only have so much confidence, Readers. And I have even less confidence in the strength of duct tape. So I hope you understand when I tell you that for the rest of the trip, I remained mostly seated, hiding my mortification with lots of wine and an embarrassed silence. Surveying the audience I realized just how many attractive older men had seen me in my compromised state. And yet, no one had said anything, including any of my colleagues.

The only positive thing I can say is that my cheeks were unmarked, not having been spanked for quite some time. Had my cheeks been pink...well, let's just say that jumping in the lake would have been a far more viable option.

Oh, and on follow-up calls the next week to some of those clients, I closed a few rather large deals. Anything for the job.