Personal Assistant.1

 This is part of the Commencement collection—the secondary character in the prom story shows up here as well. I'm giving myself a C grade on this one, even if there are huge gaps that need to be filled. (Living up to the blog title, here).

If you’re going to be the side piece, don’t meet the family.

I can’t even claim that it started innocently. When the temp agency sent me to Envision IT I was doing data entry and scanning old records into the system. Mr. Baker was his own division, something with marketing or sales. He was very friendly with me and touched me a lot, though being a fairly touchy-feely person myself I didn’t mind. It was never inappropriate, just pats on the back or shoulder, or grabbing my arm to get my attention, or thumping my chest when I said something funny. However, he also flirted with me to an extent that I found embarrassingly obvious.

So when Mr. Call-Me-Stuart Baker and I were alone in the office that night, a mere one month after I had been hired on, I was prepared for his proposition.

Yes, Sir pt. 1

I know an update is long overdue, but I have been swamped like Prince Humperdinck. Nothing in real life is letting up, so blogging is on the back burner. Strange Bedfellows wallows in the mire of edits, the Windshield Incident Pt. 2 needs to be formatted and the cover made, and in the meantime I wrote a nasty little short that I will post in pieces. Now you've been updated. Bye.

Caleb walked in when I was reading the newspaper. I heard him say goodbye to Archer, but I had reckoned they were both going out the front door. Otherwise I might have put on a pair of shorts and a shirt, rather than sit there on the couch with my dick half-hanging out of my boxers. Then again, since Caleb’s footsteps stopped a full minute before I peered over the paper at him, I might not have.

“Hey, Caleb.”

He seemed to remember himself then, lifting his gaze quickly and giving me a nervous smile. “Hey, Mr. Kelly. I was just putting my glass in the kitchen.”

“All right.” I crossed my leg and turned a page. Caleb knew where everything was. The kid had practically grown up in this house, though as a long-haul driver I didn’t see much of him. My wife, Brittany, said he was a good kid. Quiet, a good friend to our rowdy son.

Caleb hadn’t moved.

Without lowering the paper I asked, “Do you need something, Caleb?”

“Uh, yes sir. I mean, no, sir.”

I really looked at him then. He was probably close to nineteen now, with a typical teenager’s lean build. Average height, with light brown hair that he parted on the side, straight nose and slightly ruddy cheeks, Caleb was the fresh-faced boy scout type who probably kept fit by mowing old ladies’ lawns. He was cute because he managed to be free of acne at his age, and had big, soulful eyes that I was just noticing because they seemed fascinated by my crotch. And just think: until two minutes ago I would have described Caleb as boring.