****** Scanty by Suzy, the Biker Chick Floozy ******
===============================================================================

Scanty


It all started when somebody resurrected an article that Helen Gurley Brown
wrote for THE WALL STREET JOURNAL quite a few years back. The article was about
a game called "Scanty" that she and the other employees of the office where she
worked played. Of course, this was before sexual harassment became a vendetta.

The objective of Scanty was for the guys to chase the girls down the book
aisles, catch them, and remove their panties. That's it, game over.

I was working as a "temporary" for an innovative company that contracted out
computer programmers and systems analysts. Permanent employment and I don't
agree but I do have to plug the gaps between sugar daddies if I want to keep my
toys.

Six women and six men in a work team of a dozen we were. Our primary function
was to develop cutting edge software to deal with the looming Y2K alleged
crisis.

We were all at least several hundred miles from home and family in a new city.
All of the guys were either married with children or close to it.

We became a rather close knit group, prone to telling dirty jokes and playing
nasty pranks. One day at lunch we were chatting about the weather, tornadoes
and other violent storms. Jay, with his usual straight face, posed the
question, "What's worse than a hurricane?" We all look puzzled. I thought
nothing much of it when he reached across the table and touched my left bra-
less satin blouse covered breast. He gave my nipple a mini-massage with his
thumb and forefinger and answered his own question with "A tit twister."

Of course I got to be friendly with the local cops, who naturally rode Harleys.
The best prank I pulled was when I borrowed a mannequin from a clothing store
and put it in the front passenger seat of Greg's car and had the cops hassle
him about the dead naked body with blood all over much of it.

The funny thing is, Greg insisted on keeping the mannequin for a week doing who
knows what with it. "It reminds me of my wife during sex," he said. He followed
that up with yet another of his mean sexist jokes, "How do you paralyze a woman
from the waist down?"

"Marry her" he answered for us.

So on like that we went playing practical jokes rife with sexual innuendo which
helped relieve some of the on-the-job pressure. It was definitely the most fun
I have had without physical contact in a long time.

The guys came across this "Scanty" article and get the bright idea we should
all play. The girls were all for it, very enthusiastic. Even Sally was all for
playing which surprised us. She wouldn't watch movies or read stories with
explicit sex. "I was once scared shitless by a big hairy dick," was her
explanation.

The dudes made us sign this "Pre-Sexual Agreement." They wanted to cover their
ass but yet uncover ours. The agreement went like this...

"I, the undersigned, hereby voluntarily agree to play Scanty at my own risk. In
no event, will I initiate or participate in any sexual harassment or similar
action against any of the participants. Furthermore, in consideration of the
fact that matters might get out of control, I agree to:

... Take my birth control pills and insist on using a condom.

... Not get pregnant, but if I do, arrange for an abortion or waive all rights
to child support.

... Pledge not to disclose any details of this agreement or activities related
to its implementation to wives or significant others.

... Waive all rights to my panties if they are removed according to the rules
of the game.

... Promise not to fake orgasm.

(blah, blah and blah went on the agreement)"

We played Scanty at lunch at a local library. I mean, we didn't want to do it
at work. Besides we needed aisles and nobody goes to the library anymore,
especially not the upstairs.

Kevin was my stalker. We drew names out of a hat to see who chased who. I was a
little embarrassed when I said "Oh shit" when I got his name. He's a real sweet
but wimpy dude. Him and all his friends couldn't have gotten my panties off
unless I let them.

To make matters more of a challenge I wore my leather thong. What's a biker
chick without leather somewhere? It was a size small although I should wear a
medium. Very snug and extremely difficult to get on and off without a certain
amount of wiggling and pulling.

I might add that with leather you can't do the washer/dryer thing. In that I
tend to sweat and secrete other juices while the Harley is vibrating between my
legs, the thong was quite aromatic.

First, Kevin couldn't catch me so I had to like slow down. Then when he finally
grabbed me he couldn't wrestle me down. "Geez mawn, what, do I have to help you
rape me?" I thought.

I let him get me down and on my back and he lifted my dress up. He started
tugging on my thong but was not making much progress. OK, so I helped him a
little and he was so embarrassed and flustered it was kinda cute.

"Here, let me help you" I said as I took his hand and put it inside the thong
right on my snatch. He like jumped and everybody roared when I said, "It don't
bite, honey."

When Kevin finally got my thong off he whooped it up like he just scored a
touchdown. I think he did that mostly for the benefit of the camera. We taped
all the episodes.

The funniest part of all this was watching the other participants. It was
obvious Sally had played hard to get before. She squealed "No, no, no," as Greg
removed her panties. But when he got them off, she stared incredulously and
barked, "Is that all you want?"

"Sally, remember the rules of the game," we had to remind her.

The guys kept the tape and wouldn't let us see it. They said we'd have a party
at the end of our contract gig. Only then would they let us watch it and then
the evidence would be destroyed.

The day after the Scanty escapade, panties were hanging in each dude's cubicle.
The next day there were signs under the panties with different kinds of fish
with witty little sayings, like "SALMON... pinky and stinky" and "BARRACUDA...
my bite is worse than my bark." I got so mad at the "TUNA" sign under my
panties and what it said I ripped the damn thing down.

The other girls didn't get mad, they got even. We got wind the guys were having
a poker party the weekend before we were breaking up and all going home. We
found out where and managed to hide before they got there.

It didn't look like poker they were playing and the dudes looked very silly
wearing our panties. They were watching the Scanty tape and carrying on like
crazy, imitating us.

Finally we couldn't take any more and we all jumped up and screamed "Scanty!"
and chased them down and ripped off their panties. I mean, our panties.

At this point all six of us girls are staring at a hard-on. These guys were our
buddies but we didn't really want to have sex with them. But they all got this
like begging dog look on their faces.

I winked to the girls and said, "We can't do anything that is not politically
correct. Our President himself said it is not sex."

Sally was the only one who looked a little confused. But it was obvious that
she understood the no sex when she asked, "Can I spit or do I have to swallow?"

We let the guys keep our panties. They wrapped them up and gave them to their
wives and girlfriends as gifts. We still get notes that whenever their lover
wears them they have the most incredible sex. Each note always ends with the
postscript, "Best job I ever had (LOL)."

I might add that none of us girls have had to work much since that job. We
managed to copy the tape unbeknown to the guys before they destroyed the
original.

We now market a product called "Scanties" naturally. You get a copy of the tape
and six pairs of well-used panties for $99.95. A notarized statement is
enclosed attesting to the fact the panties were acquired by chasing us down and
ripping them off.

One dude alone, Mr. Snoid, has purchased over one hundred. Rumor has it he
requires his editors to wear them over their heads, with the crotch right under
their nose, to stimulate erotic thinking. He did, however, have to issue a "No
masturbating while editing" edict because, as he whined, "No fucking work is
getting done."

To order yours today, dial 1-900-SCA-NTIES and hold until the busy signal
stops.

Suzanne (suzanned@erie.net)

This story is part of White_Shadow's_Nasty_Stories.
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