Chapter 64

“Look at me,” he said, putting his hand on my face, “I want you to know that it’s me who’s fucking you.” I moaned at this, aware of how silent and still the men around us were.

Then Eugene moved to pull my legs back farther, and I saw how enraptured he was with what was happening to me. He swallowed hard, his expression practically one of pain as he stared at Jeff’s dick going in and out of my hole.

“My God, what a sweet ass,” Jeff said. His breathing became labored, and he grunted over and over as he began to come inside me. His thrusts were the deepest yet, forcing me to cry out. I pinched off my dick, trying my best not to come in case I had to take more cocks. But my body was out of control, and I shot forcefully into my own hand.

“Ooh, Rory,” Jeff said, as his breath returned to normal. “I really hope these parties become a habit.”

I grinned and blushed. I wanted to say “No, I can’t do this again. I’m really not a slut,” but from my state of dreamy afterglow, no one would begin to believe me.

Monday morning I sat in my cubicle feeling uncomfortable in my suit. My ass was still sore from the weekend. I had told them one guy was my limit for the evening, but they talked me into taking a second dick. Kurt’s. And then a third for which they blindfolded me, so I wouldn’t know who was inside me. I thought I smelled Eugene’s cologne as I was fucked so urgently and ferociously it felt like a bolt of anger behind each thrust of lust.

Then on Sunday, Jeff called at two A.M. and asked to come over. I felt thrilled that such a hot guy wanted me again and wondered if possibly he desired more than sex. But after an hour of rough dicking during which he came twice, he said he had to get back to his girlfriend.

“She thinks I went to get cigarettes,” he’d said with a guilty laugh.

I found myself feeling angry, but realized that was ridiculous. If he thought of me as just an easy piece of ass to fuck, whose fault was that?

So today my butt was still paying the price, making it difficult to concentrate. It was just my luck Mr. Wesley would choose this morning to say hello to me again while I could barely function

“Young Mr. Caulfield,” he said, still wearing his gray wool overcoat and hat. “How are things going for you down here on floor twelve?”

I stuttered something unintelligible, and he said, “Fine, fine,” clapping me on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work.”

Great. I’m sure I’d made a swell impression. Speaking intelligently to superiors had never been my forte, but I’m certain a big part of the problem just then had been my huge, futile crush. Mr. Wesley was the epitome of the silver fox—tall with a healthy build covered by immaculate five-thousand-dollar suits. The deep timbre of his voice made me shiver, and he walked with a confident stride that said “I am the most powerful man in the room.”

I couldn’t help but wonder what had made Mr. Wesley stop on my floor. The distraction of his presence made the flurry of phone calls even more difficult for me.

“Yes, Mrs. Willoughby, I understand that you’re upset I didn’t recommend the same options to you that I did for your grandson. But you see, his time horizon is much longer, so it’s not too risky for him to invest in an aggressive growth fund…Yes, of course you can talk to my supervisor. One moment.” I sighed. I tried hard to be good at my job, but I wasn’t cut out for it. Other than Mr. Wesley, temperaments were testy around here, and I felt like I was always an inch away from termination. In this economy, every day was a bad day.

An hour later, I’d forced myself through the various financial newspapers we were required to read and handled several more calls from clients disgusted with the performance of their portfolios. The throbbing in my butt and my lack of sleep made me hazily believe each caller was screwing me. I realized at that moment my true vocation should be getting fucked for a living. Too bad it was illegal.

The intercom on my desk buzzed, and I was called into the office of my boss’s boss. My dick, which had been semi-hard at my fantasies of becoming a call boy, went soft. I barely communicated with Mr. Barnes. This couldn’t be good.

This was only the second time I’d been up to the twenty-eighth floor, the highest at Wesley-Shields that I’d visited. The halls were dark and cool. Instead of busy clatter, there was an imposing quiet. Large, probably famous, paintings covered the walls and every corner was festooned with massive flower arrangements. I wasn’t happy to be in all this luxury. My last visit resulted from an incident which led to the firing of ten people that nearly included me until it became clear I had nothing to do with the problem at hand.