Chapter 65

I knocked on Mr. Barnes’ half-open door. I saw him sitting with a man I didn’t know. Mr. Barnes reminded me of a college professor who never gave good grades. He was tall and had a stern countenance. I’d heard he’d been a football player in college, and even though that must have been thirty years ago, he still had the build.

“Rory, come in. Do you know Peter Cowell, the new director of human resources?”

Oh, God. I really am being fired.

“Uh, no. If this is about Mrs. Willoughby’s call, I really thought—”

“No, this is an entirely different matter,” said Mr. Barnes. “Sit down.” He motioned to a third chair in close proximity to theirs. “Peter here played racquetball yesterday with an associate of yours named Eugene Choi.”

I felt my stomach lurch. “Um, really?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Cowell, “and I’m afraid he mentioned your indiscretions over the weekend.”

I felt stunned. Why would Eugene do that? I’d suspected from the way I’d been fucked that last time that Eugene had it out for me. “Oh my God. I am so sorry,” I stammered.

Mr. Cowell leaned forward and looked me in the eye. “From your apology it’s apparent you know it can’t become public knowledge that Wesley-Shields employees engage in such activities as the party Mr. Choi described in detail.”

“Y-yes. I’ll clear my desk out immediately.”

“That’s one possibility,” Mr. Cowell said, arching an eyebrow. “There is a potential alternative.” I noticed his hair for the first time. He wore it a bit long and rakishly styled for a Wesley-Shields executive. He had a regal bearing and the eyes of a hunter. It felt as if he were looking at me as prey.

“First, we need you to sign this confidentiality agreement,” said Mr. Barnes, handing me a two-page document. “Any infraction of the agreement could lead to severe penalties including, but not limited to, a law suit and possible jail time for divulging company secrets.”

“And I guess if I don’t sign, I’ll lose my job?” My question was met with grim expressions. “Well, then…” I took a pen from Mr. Barnes and signed.

Mr. Barnes gave me a significant look. “This is very serious. Utter and complete silence on this matter. Are we understood? Utter and complete.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good,” said Mr. Barnes. He steepled his fingers. “Now we are free to inform you that the firm has need for a young man with your proclivities.”

“My proclivities?”

“How do I put this delicately?” said Mr. Cowell as he ran his hand through his hair. “You provide certain services in a semi-public environment.”

I felt my eyes widen in surprise. Once again, my dick began to harden. “I’m sure I’m interpreting this incorrectly.”

“Then let’s make sure there’s no room for miscommunication,” said Mr. Barnes. “You let guys fuck your ass at parties. From now on, your job at Wesley-Shields is just that. To get your ass fucked.”

“What!” I looked at them in disbelief. My breath had become shallow, and I was conscious of the throbbing in my hole again.

“Yes,” continued Mr. Cowell, “frequently. And sometimes at social functions. The company has a few important clients at different firms who will want to pump those buns of yours regularly.”

“Oh…my…God…” I whispered. A wet spot formed in my briefs.

“Of course, there will be some other light duties,” said Mr. Barnes with a small nod as if this were a normal conversation. “Answering phones, perhaps some typing.”

“A receptionist job? But I have a professional degree! In fact, I won’t even be treated with the respect a receptionist receives if I have to give up my ass all day long!”

Mr. Barnes nodded as if he sympathized. “True, but we’ll compensate you for the respect you lose with a doubled salary.”

Whoa.

Mr. Cowell leaned forward and grabbed my thigh. “You know, Rory, it’s a tough job market out there.”

“True,” I said, gulping as he started massaging my leg, his hand inching closer to my crotch.

“And you went to that insignificant Briggs State,” added Mr. Barnes, grabbing my other thigh. “These days, if firms are hiring anyone at all, it’s graduates of Wharton or Harvard.”

“Not to mention when the word spreads about what you like to do in your private time, you won’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell.”

I wanted to say “You can stop with the blackmail. I’m into it,” but their veiled threats were turning me on as much as their hands. I wasn’t stupid enough to think I’d be the one going to jail for this kind of proposal, but I certainly had no intention of squealing. They had a firm grip on my thighs now and they parted my legs.