My current secretary is afraid of me.
I call him a secretary because I know it chafes and he’s too much of a chickenshit to correct his boss. His name is Lance Oliver Jordan—three first names. I call him “hey,” or “kid,” and take note when he complains to everyone that I don’t even know his name.
Lance Oliver Jordan graduated a year ago with a degree in Creative Writing. Lance Oliver Jordan is too pretty to be taken seriously, but takes himself too seriously to get over it. He calls me “sir” even though he can’t be more than five years my junior.
Lance Oliver Jordan wants me to fuck him, and he doesn’t even know it yet. Some might call me a cocky bastard for thinking so, but I can tell. Like the other day, when I ate in my office because I was busy. Jordan came in to give me a fax. I took it, but he didn’t leave.
“What is it?” I asked, noting how he wiped his hands on his trousers. The kid had sweaty palms from handing me a fax.
“Ah, erm,” he stuttered, “you, ah, well.”
“Spit it out.”
“There’s mayonnaise on your lip, Mr. Bentley” Jordan blurted.
I looked up. Jordan’s face was red as a tomato. I licked my lips and the hue brightened.
“Did I get it?”
“Um.” Jordan cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, sir. It’s, um, it’s gone.”
I said nothing and returned to my computer. Jordan practically staggered out of the room. I watched him collapse into his chair, and then fuck me if he didn’t glance down at his crotch. I know I’m easy on the eyes, but I didn’t expect Jordan’s peepers to be so well connected to his pecker. He still thinks he’s straight.
I make him bring me coffee, not because I particularly enjoy coffee, but because he gets jittery and starts stammering when he hands it to me. He doesn’t realize that even when I don’t look at him, I can tell he’s staring at me. Jordan blushes if I talk to him or about him, or if our fingers brush when he hands me anything, or when I do catch him staring at me. The one time I let him get on the elevator with me, he was breathing so heavily that I thought he would pass out. Lance Oliver Jordan is a chickenshit because he doesn’t even know he’s into me.
I know, because I’m all he talks about. Lance Oliver Jordan calls his mother on his lunch break, which he always takes at his desk, and all he talks about is me. He doesn’t get how thin the walls are when he whines. I suspect that he failed to read the entire Internet Usage Policy before he signed it, because he should know that I can read his emails. So I know that he thinks I’m one of Satan’s offspring. He postulates that the only way I could get a date would be if a hat hid the devil’s horns.
I don’t give a shit about dating him, but I sure do want to fuck him.
My secretary is in a post-twink phase. I’d bet my job that he was one of those skinny-ass hipsters in college who thought wearing glasses frames from the 1980s made him look thoughtful. Now he spends an hour in our gym every morning, and that’s after riding his bike everywhere. He wants the world to know he’s eco-friendly. It’s the one time I blessed global warming—when my secretary’s pants started getting tighter around his ass and thighs. He complains to his sister that I don’t pay him enough to buy new clothes. That isn’t true; I noticed his tastes run to the more costly labels, which naturally eat up his paycheck. I don’t blame him; designer suits make his ass a masterpiece.
Lance Oliver Jordan is a little shit. He’s pricklier than a cactus and more self-righteous than a priest. He hasn’t gotten a girlfriend since he’s worked here, has very few friends close by, and mostly talks to his mother and his sister. His date for the Valentine’s Day party left with another man. Jordan then got shitfaced, insulted six people on the way out the door, and told me that I had, “better fucking pay for this goddamn cab,” because he wasn’t going to spend money on pollution. Whether by accident or pure denial, he had forgotten everything by the following Monday.
So far I have bided my time. There are other people in the world to fuck and I enjoy messing with Jordan’s head. Lately, though, I spend more time staring at his ass through the window than I do working. It’s time for the itch to be scratched, preferably by his nails on my back.
There are a million places where I could move in on him. The elevator is a classic, the bathroom, or I could make him stay late and grab him while he’s in my office, or even bend him over his desk. I even briefly debated the stairwell. However, with sexual harassment lawsuits running rampant, I decide to give the poor boy a warning before I completely dominate his ass.
Jordan jumps when I toss documents onto his desk. He turns beet red, probably because I caught him playing reading that old Zero Impact Man blog instead of working. I’ve fired people for less, and he knows it.
“Mr. Bentley,” he stammers. “I had just finished that—“
I tap the paper. “Take a good look at that before you sign it,” I cut him off, and head back to my office. “Top one goes to Human Resources. Keep a copy for yourself, and file one for me under your name.”
It’s a waiver stating that we have a consensual sexual relationship and that he can’t sue the company if I decide he’s not as good a fuck as I thought. My signature is already on the paper. It’s a risky move, especially if he complains to HR before he signs it. I pretend not to pay attention when he glances back at me.
I’m surprised when not a minute later, he knocks on the door to give the papers back to me. I indicate the desk with my pen, and he sets the papers down and steps back. I intend to ignore him until I can get some work done, then I’ll fuck him. He’s fidgeting like a spider monkey, so I look up.
“Mr. Bentley, I just wanted to apologize,” he says quickly, not meeting my eyes. “I wasn’t goofing off, honestly, I was—“
I’m not interested. “Did you read this?” I ask, indicating the document.
“Yes, sir,” he answers. “I sent the original to Human Resources and made two copies.”
My secretary is a liar. Jordan didn’t read shit. “Your thoughts.”
“What?” He glances down quickly, but it’s too far away for him to read. “Oh. Everything, uh, looks in order, sir.”
I feel satisfyingly predatory when I smile and say, “Glad you think so.”
It’s a dismissal, and Jordan’s not that dumb. I go back to my work, he goes back to his desk, but I see him glance up every so often. The idiot still doesn’t look at the consent form. He probably thinks that I’m going to fire him.
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