Our CEO announced that my team lead, Mrs. Laurel Moreau, was up next. There was an applause, though rather dull and short-lived. That Martha chick from HR had certainly left an impression with her self-levitation number. She had made it look incredibly real, and the little pantomime of floating higher and higher with each garment she shed had made the nudity feel less gratuitous than most contestants before her. Honestly, I didn't see how my team lead could stand any chance: young, blonde, a cheerleader's body and flirty green eyes, that Martha bimbo was hotter than Laurel in just about every way - except the smarts, which unfortunately weren't going to be of much use for the night.
I'm not saying that sweet little Laurel Moreau is an unattractive woman, in fact there's plenty to like about her, especially if you go for the petite brunette type. I believe she's doing an admirable job staying in shape despite turning forty come summer, yet her skin, her hands, her eyes are those of a mother of two who doesn't have much time or energy to invest in herself.
I was therefore pleasantly surprised to see her all dolled up for once, with a fresh haircut and just the right amount of make-up. She sported a ribbed white turtleneck without sleeves, matched to a black miniskirt that had a silver zipper running the full length of its front side. Her legs were bare, and her feet stood arched in a pair of brown leather high heels.
Still, as per her trademark, she had no jewels or accessories whatsoever on, save of course for her wedding ring.
The conference hall fell near silent as my team lead got on stage. After giggling at a remark from the front seats that I couldn't quite make out, Laurel pulled herself together and began her performance. She held her hands up, fingers splayed, then flicked them for a split-second, showing us how now she appeared to be pinching her left thumb between the fingers of her right hand. Slowly, dramatically, she made a show of doing the old trick of pulling the thumb off, with a perfectly serious look upon her face. Most of the audience laughed at that, and personally for a moment I feared that the comedy wasn't intentional.
Laurel restored her thumb and pretended to study it, bending and twisting her hand around. She reached with her other hand again, somewhat gingerly, as if experimenting, and this time pinched at the wrist. With parted lips she gave us a suspenseful glance, and as she pulled, slowly, her whole hand separated from her forearm without any resistance.
We let out a collective gasp.
Amid the ensuing clamor, Laurel stared wide-eyed at the disembodied hand in her hand, apparently as surprised as we were to see it there, unharmed and animated, jiggling its fingers. Her left arm now ended in a skin-colored stump that, from what I could see, was perfectly flat and smooth, a sight that reminded me of taking my plastic dolls apart as a little girl.
Having come to terms with the shockingly realistic illusion, we all spontaneously began to applaud and cheer. That is, all but that Martha chick from HR.
Laurel's gape turned into a broad smile as she reattached her hand. She flexed it a couple of times to check that everything still worked right, then directed her grin at us, thrilled, a kid planning mischief, and gestured at herself from head to toe - twice. Whatever she was implying, her number was far from over.
The woman hopped to sit on the desk behind her, trampling the microphones, notes, pens and whatnot, and kicked her shoes off. I knew it was just part of the act, but it still felt odd to see such a naughty attitude in sweet, little, judicious Mrs. Moreau. Her toenails were painted the same dark shade of purple as her fingernails. Or maybe it was pure black - the stage lights made it hard to tell.
My team lead crossed her legs like a man, right calf over left knee. She finger-pointed her waggling foot to us, then clasped both hands around her ankle and broke it in two, taking her foot off without any noticeable effort or discomfort. She couldn't have looked more casual if she had snapped in half a chocolate bar. Just like her hand before it, Laurel's foot continued its waggling as if nothing was amiss.
The room went abuzz with the spectators' reactions. Baffled, almost outraged comments that I could summarize as "How the actual fuck does she do it?"
Laurel held her foot up next to her face with a smug smile, much like a trophy. When she thought we'd all gotten a good enough look, she playfully waved it bye-bye and tossed it over her shoulder. It bounced off the wall-mounted projection screen and disappeared behind the desk.
Without further ado, Laurel pointed at her knee. What happened next hardly came as a surprise, but was by no means less impressive for that: she detached her lower leg from her thigh, weighed it in her hands, and sent it flying behind her back. Shortly after her thigh, and by that I mean minus the buttock, was similarly dispatched.
I was completely and utterly in awe. My eyes were burning from how long I'd been staring, unblinking. My only consolation was that I wasn't alone. More or less speechless, we all looked on as Mrs. Laurel Moreau stretched, cracked her knuckles, and merrily proceeded to take her other leg to pieces, dumping each into the unseen pile behind the desk.
When she was done, the woman took a moment to look down at her own handiwork: what little was left protruding from her skirt looked like a pair of half hams ready for the oven. She wiggle-waggled them, and seemed amused by the sight.
We burst into another round of cheering, which however she didn't acknowledge. Instead, she propped herself up on her palms to slightly adjust her position, standing on the remains of her legs, and slipped off her sweater. The cheers grew louder and more bluntly appreciative, especially from the male part of the audience, who obviously never disdained a nice pair of boobs popping braless into view. My team lead was in even a better shape than I thought, her stomach was flat and unblemished, with just enough meat to smooth out the bones, and her grapefruit-sized boobs looked invitingly firm despite the lack of support. Her nipples were a cute blushing pink.
Laurel reveled in the catcalling for a while, squirming coyly, winking, blowing kisses and joggling her breasts left and right. Then, without any notice, she planted her hands on her hips and pushed her arms straight, causing her body to split just above panty line.
Amid our oohs and aahs, the woman eased herself - well, her upper self - behind her own bottom, leaned forward, put her elbows on its cross-section, and dropped her chin in her hands. Her lips were creased in a sly smile, one that silently challenged us spectators to make sense of what we were seeing.
"Aw, give me a fucking break," said my colleague and seat neighbor Russell Flaherty. "What the hell is this? I mean, the legs might have been fake, but... this? Come on!"
I didn't know what to say, so I just gave Russell a sympathetic look before turning my attention back to our common team lead.
She was unzipping her skirt.
The zip went all the way down, effectively bisecting the front of the garment, so that Laurel simply had to whisk it aside to unveil her groin in all its hairy glory.
I was glad that she had decided to go natural, it made for a welcome change after all those grownup career women with baby-like hairless mounds.
Catcalls time again as Laurel triumphantly hoisted her bottom above her head. Her excuse for a pair of legs was spread wide open, allowing us a glimpse of glittering wet labia.
The woman turned her butt in her hands and stared with lust into that very spot. Slowly, teasingly, she lowered her sex onto her waiting face.
Contact.
The butt cheeks shuddered.
Improbable as it was, we were looking at sweet, little, judicious Mrs. Moreau eating herself out, and in front of an audience at that. An audience that had gone totally wild.
Before any realistically satisfying length of time had passed, Laurel disengaged from herself. She licked her lips, a dreamy sparkle in her eyes, then she kissed that best part of hers before dismissing it in the same, unceremonious way as the others. I had never thought that one day I would see someone literally kiss their ass goodbye.
Some in the crowd voiced their disappointment, but all sounds were engulfed beneath an outburst of screams when the woman, eyes closed, pinned her head between her hands and pulled it clean off.
Just when we thought she couldn't possibly take things to the next level.
Carefully, Laurel placed her own head down on the desk, exactly where her rear had just so recently been. One or two inches of her neck still rose from between her shoulders, but most of it had come off and now stood as a base for her head.
Her eyes opened.
She looked our way for a while, kind of blankly, like someone waking up from a deep sleep. The hall was unbelievably quiet, especially if compared to the mayhem of less than a minute before. The woman's hands, moving as if on their own accord, began to casually play with her nipples.
Laurel turned her eyes upwards. In response, her torso squashed its boobs down on her head. The sequence was acted out in a kind of comical way, and some among us actually laughed in spite of the astonishment.
The woman's torso then grasped and tweaked its breasts as if trying to unscrew them. Which is exactly what happened: the breasts came free from Laurel's chest, leaving nothing but a blank surface behind. Like water drops falling from a faucet, they instantly took on an all-round globular shape.
Laurel deposited the orbs in front of her face. With the faintest of smiles she began to play with them, rolling them under her palms, squeezing and squashing, as if working two balls of dough. She took one to either side of her face and rubbed, gently at first, then harder. Her hair got all messy, her tongue slid out from her gaping lips. She looked ecstatic, and it was hard to believe she was just faking it.
All of a sudden one boob got flung away, towards the projection screen on the back wall. Splat, thump, bye. Laurel grabbed its twin in both hands and eagerly took it to her mouth. Since the nipple was turned away from us, I could only guess that she was licking or sucking on it.
For a moment, I pretended that it was all real. That I was actually looking at a woman disassembling herself and taking advantage of her own body parts. I wondered what it felt like.
I wondered at the possibilities.
The next piece to be discarded came as a bit of a surprise: Laurel lifted her own head by the hair, shook it up and down until it let go of the breast, and threw it over her shoulder. The thud it made upon hitting the ground sounded painfully loud.
The woman's torso raised its arms to strike a graceful pose, like a ballerina. With that it toppled itself over, and fell out of sight. We were left staring at a featureless ball of flesh, wondering whether there was more to come or not.
A few spectators tentatively clapped their hands. Before many more could join in, a hand reached up from behind the desk and snatched the breast away. Seconds later Laurel sprang up surprise-cake-girl style, back in one piece, arms wide spread and a huge smile on her face. Fully naked, she walked around the desk and bowed to our thunderous ovation. Against all odds that Martha chick from HR had been simply trounced, there was no doubt about it.
The jury's scoring was a mere formality: ten ten nine ten, thirty-nine versus the blondie's thirty-three. Our CEO came over clapping his hands, put his arm around Laurel's bare shoulders, and declared her the winner. The woman thanked profusely, cheeks flushed. She and her opponent exchanged an unfelt sporting handshake with kiss, then they were both dismissed. Martha strode offstage without waiting for Laurel to be done collecting her clothes, frustration veiling her flirty green eyes.
I wanted nothing more than to join Russell and the others in the congratulations while Laurel was still undressed - chances like that don't come often - but unfortunately I had more pressing matters at hand: the next match was gonna be me against Mabel Rizzo, the college friend who'd introduced me to the company and got my foot through the door. And I was going first. Before witnessing my team lead's mind-blowing performance, I had been pretty confident about the trick I'd come up with. Now I felt like no matter what I could do, it would have always paled in comparison.
Almost as if it had sensed my negative thoughts, the corn snake chose that moment to try and slither its way out of me. It took some serious butt clenching to get the little bastard back inside, all while my name was being called out and I had to stand and walk down the aisle. Luckily, nobody seemed to notice anything.