The Shredder

by Greg Ossog

I'm Neal Scoville, age 33, formerly a product manager at Granite 
Corp. Soon I'll be something else; I'm giving my notice on 
Monday. But I should really start at the beginning.

It was Thursday night, about 8:30, and I was alone at the 
office, taking advantage of some quiet time to catch up. 
Normally there are about 70 people in the building, but that 
night I had it to myself. Most rooms were dark save for the dim 
glow of screensavers and digital clocks.

Our company was nearly through a two-week audit conducted by an 
outside accounting firm. It was routine; we did this annually, I 
think -- but given the recent scandals, we were doing things 
much more thoroughly. Fortunately, it hadn't cost me too much of 
my scarce time; the auditors spent most of their time in 
Finance, or cloistered together in the small conference room 
serving as their home base.

When I walked down the hall to get a printout, I found out I was 
wrong; I wasn't the only one there. A young woman, shoulder 
length-blonde hair, was at the copier, shuffling some sheets of 
paer. I didn't recognize her, and assumed she was one of the 
auditors.

She saw me and immediately straightened up, offering a 
handshake. "Sandra Bryant," she said, with a crisp but pleasant 
voice. "I'm with Boardman and Carruthers."

"Neal Scoville, product manager," I said. "I think I remember 
you from the kickoff." I hadn't run across her since day 1, when 
her group presented for the managers and higher-ups. Get 
acquainted with the team, lay out the scope of the audit, and so 
on. She had lead the meeting, very professionally, dressed in... 
business attire, I guess. I didn't make much note of it. The 
entire Boardman team had been conservatively dressed.

Tonight was different. She wore a silky dress, silver-white like 
the underside of a sunlit cloud, ending slightly above the knee. 
Little black dots covered the dress like a contour chart. That 
analogy was apt; the dress was by no way painted on, but it 
hugged her full breasts, waist and hips, and just fit perfectly. 
Give her a broad-brimmed hat with a veil, fishnet stockings, and 
fire-engine red lipstick, and she could have walked out of a 
Mickey Spillane story. But she didn't have that smoky 
inscrutable look, or the red lipstick, or the hose: her legs, 
seen from knee down, were bare.

I noticed this all in a fraction of an instant, you understand, 
quickly focusing on her face and keeping eye contact. To stare 
at a woman's body in an office setting had long since gone 
beyond impolite to actionable offense. Anyway, to a man's eye 
her face offered its own pleasures: thin lips, lightly shaded, a 
few freckles; intelligent eyes. If she was sizing me up with the 
same standards I couldn't hope to measure up; I'm just an 
average guy. What I could hope for was to be seen as smart, 
well-groomed, professional and polite.

"I guess if you want it done right, you get stuck with the 
work," I said, commiserating.

She shrugged. "I really want to have things squared away 
tonight, so we can wrap up tomorrow."

"I'll be here for another hour or so. Need any help, I'm down 
the hall, where the light's on." I pointed to my office. "The 
thing is, after hours the front doors lock automatically. If you 
want to leave the building and come back in, find me first. I'll 
give you a number to call so I can buzz you in."

"Thanks." She smiled. "Actually, once I get these documents 
cleaned up, I'll be going straight home."

I said goodbye and walked back. I wondered if she had eaten 
dinner; I was starving. It was tempting to ask her if she wanted 
to grab a bite on the way home. I wasn't seeing anyone and would 
appreciate the feminine company. But such impulsive action is 
rewarded only in romantic movies these days. She just might have 
had her fill of older guys in business casual hitting on her. 
And I was obviously older, but who knew by how much. At the 
first presentation, she looked about thirty. But in her white 
dress and bare legs, she looked about 22.

Such thoughts mostly faded as I got back into my work. I felt a 
paternal instinct to go check on her periodically, but I knew 
she'd be fine. The building was secure, there was nothing that 
could happen to her. I was quickly engrossed in a brochure I was 
putting together.

Later, my thoughts were interrupted by sounds from the copy 
area. At the first "Neal?" I was out of my seat, and at her 
keening scream I was running down the hall. I didn't know what 
sort of danger she was in, and certainly if some armed bad guy 
had taken her hostage he would have heard me blundering down the 
hall, and fired a shot before I even saw him. But there was no 
other person. When I arrived it took a full second to comprehend 
what was going on.

We have a big document shredder, floor-standing, with the input 
at about thigh level or so, depending on how tall you are. 
Sandra was stuck, somehow her dress was caught in the teeth, and 
the shredder was noisily trying to ingest what it had caught. It 
had caught her hem just in front of her right leg, forcing her 
at an angle. Against her left leg and hip, the dress was already 
stretched skintight. A rip started at the hem and slowly worked 
its way upward.

With both hands, Sandy was trying to pull the material free, to 
no avail. She stared at me wide-eyed in horror, saying 
something, but the growl of the shredder was growing louder.

I tried flicking the power switch but it had no effect; the 
motor kept running. What the hell? So where was the cord? I 
couldn't get to it, it was underneath, and the shredder appeared 
to be anchored to the floor. The circuit breaker? I had no idea 
where it was. I'd be better off staying here and trying to help.

The dress was getting pulled off her shoulders, and Sandy had 
given up the tug of war at her waist; instead she grasped the 
material at her chest, trying to keep that from getting pulled 
down. Something seemed odd with her bared shoulders, until I 
realized she wasn't wearing a bra. She started bending down, 
letting the dress pull her, trying to keep covered. The tear 
along her thigh had grown into a ragged slit, baring a swatch of 
skin nearly to the hip.

I tried flicking the switch again -- still no good -- and then 
tried to pull her dress free, the same thing she had been doing. 
The top of the dress, what used to be the neckline, had slipped 
through her hands, which now covered her bare breasts. Her arms 
still poked through the armholes, but those were nearly at her 
elbows. I still couldn't get the dress free.

The dress now pulled at her elbows hard enough to force her 
forearms down, exposing her breasts; she had to wriggle her arms 
free and then replace them. I couldn't help but notice her 
breasts quiver as they were momentarily freed. Then I tried to 
pretend I had never looked.

Her dress was now skirt length, a tattered mess of fabric around 
her waist, and it was still trying to pull her in. It couldn't 
be saved; the only thing to do was free her. I helped make a 
final rip, a big one, and she broke free, bounding backward a 
step. The dress disappeared into the grinding teeth and finally 
the shredder stopped. The silence after all this, nothing but 
the hum of office machines, was eerie.

I looked her way and immediately apologized, turning away. I'd 
had a brief enough glimpse: she hadn't been wearing anything at 
all underneath. Her breasts, ripe, with pert aureolae and 
nipples, reminding me of strawberries, though the physical 
resemblance wasn't exact. Her thighs, like cream; a neat thatch 
of pubic hair between her legs. Your mind can remember a lot 
from just a glance. I was feeling a little lightheaded.

Facing away from Sandy, I tried to figure out how to help her. 
"I'm so sorry, I couldn't get it to stop," I said.

"I think I'm okay," I heard her say. "At least I didn't get 
hurt. Thanks for trying." I winced at that; it made me feel 
impotent. In a figurative way. And she didn't really accept the 
apology either; it was as if she blamed me for not saving her 
dress.

"Do you have any other clothes here?" I asked. "I can go get 
them"

"Noooo... that dress was all I had."

I started unbuttoning my shirt. It occurred to me that I should 
do things slowly and explain them, almost like when you're 
pulled over on the highway. You don't want to spook a cop, let 
him think you're reaching for a weapon. I didn't want to give 
Sandy the wrong idea either, by stripping my shirt without 
explanation. "I can give you my shirt. It should cover you up 
for now while we figure out what to do. Is that OK?"

"Yes, yes, that'd be good," she said, and in a few moments I was 
holding the shirt behind me at arm's length. She took it, and 
soon it was OK to turn around.

"You have good taste in shirts," she said, smoothing out the 
tail in front. It wasn't business attire -- most of her legs 
were exposed -- but it covered the naughty parts. "I do like the 
long tail," I said, with the hint of a sly grin. "Stays tucked 
in." It made my night when she smiled back.

"Well, long term, what do we do?" She couldn't really drive home 
like this. And without my shirt, neither could I.

There weren't enough clothes for both of us to go out; we'd have 
to cooperate. I could pick up some clothes, but all the stores 
were closed by that time. There was really only one thing left 
to do: I borrow her keys, stop by her place, and pick up an 
outfit for her.

"That's a half-hour away, each direction," she said.

I said there didn't seem to be any other way, and this was a 
special situation. She agreed to this, thankful, and I was ready 
to go. "You'll need this," she said, and took off the shirt, 
handing it back to me. Once again she was nude, more nonchalant 
this time, and I snuck in a few peeks, I really couldn't help 
it; and I know that's one of the things guys think women don't 
notice but they always do. Again I turned away as I re-dressed.

I was ten feet away when she cried "Wait!" Of course, she had 
forgotten to give directions, and I had forgotten to ask. I 
probably would have started the car and eased onto the freeway 
before it occurred to me that I had no idea where to go.

Sandy grabbed pen and paper and walked over to a counter, 
motioning me over. I had her/my shirt, and she didn't have 
anything at all, but she seemed to have no problem with that. As 
she rattled off turns and landmarks, drawing a quick map, I was 
struck by how absurd this was, standing next to a naked woman, 
practically a stranger, as she gave me directions to her house. 
She wore a delicate fragrance; her hair smelled slightly of... 
melon? I wasn't much good with scents. Her skin gave off a 
warmth I could feel even though I stood several inches away.

"OK, now I think we're ready," she said, covering her breasts 
with one crossed arm (finally) as she offered the map with the 
other. "There should be some gym shorts and a T-shirt in the 
second drawer in the tall dresser. Those should be fine."

"Anything else?" I wondered.

"Underthings?" she asked, grinning. "There's been enough 
embarrassment tonight. I won't make you sort through that 
drawer."

And I was off. It took only 20 minutes to her house, because of 
light traffic, and it was easy getting in. No dogs, no 
roommates; all I had to do was shut off the alarm (and turn it 
on again before leaving). Her place was a small townhouse and it 
barely seemed lived in. It was completely furnished, but had 
none of the clutter of day-to-day life: no pending bills, fruit 
bowls, magazines, and so on. I took the first shorts and shirt I 
found, only making sure they seemed in good condition. To the 
front door, turn on the alarm, and I was back on the road.

When I arrived, she had to buzz me in, and was waiting in a side 
hallway, out of sight of the front lobby. When I presented her 
clothes like a prize catch, she actually bounded up to me, 
embraced me, and kissed me on the mouth. "You are an angel," she 
gushed. "Thank you sooooo much." By reflex, I returned her 
embrace -- this is hard not to do -- but of course only got bare 
skin, and quickly let go.

"I'll get back to my office," I said, but she was already 
dressing, right there in front of me. The shorts were pretty 
small, hotpant style but decent, and the T-shirt was more of a 
crop top, baring her navel. She had the slightest roundness in 
her abdomen, though really not an inch of fat anywhere. Her top, 
thinner than I remembered, draped gauzily over her nipples. 
"Thanks again," she said, giving me a peck on the cheek, hands 
behind her waist, slightly on tiptoe. Was I blushing? I hoped, 
in the dim corridor, that she couldn't tell.

Ten minutes later at my desk, she peeked in. "Neal, I think I've 
done enough for one night. I'm going to head out now."

There was nothing here I couldn't do tomorrow, and offered to 
walk her out. The front door clicked shut behind us and we stood 
there in a cool breeze: nice contrast to what had been a hot, 
humid day. I thought it was important to say what I did next.

"You know," I said, "officially this never happened. I'll never 
tell anyone. No need to know."

"That's very sweet of you," she said, and paused for a second. I 
thought she was about to give me another kiss, not that I would 
have minded. Some guys would probably consider that a huge 
tease. But I realized much earlier that this wasn't what she was 
about.

"Are you happy working here?" she asked.

Now I wondered if somehow this was part of the audit. Or that 
the whole set of events was somehow a test? That simple question 
seemed to change the whole set of events. I took a moment to 
form an answer.

"This is a good place to work. But certainly if a great 
opportunity comes along, I would consider it."

She smirked. "You're back in business speak already. Anyway, my 
friend Sandrine is looking for someone and I think you might be 
the guy. I'll have her call you tomorrow."

"What sort of position?" I said.

"I can't really tell you. She'll have to talk to you. Good 
night!" she said, and turned toward her car.

"Take care." What a strange evening. I drove home already 
missing Sandra, sad that she was going. And the job opening with 
her friend? Who knows. Could be a director. Could be a 
multilevel marketing scam. I'd have to wait until tomorrow to 
find out.

(Continues in "Seneca 1".)

  
shredder