“Pack up your shit, Bob. Because you—” I pause, and smile for emphasis.
The man trembles, his jaw quivering. For half a second, I almost feel bad for the guy.
And then I remember who I am.
I continue, “Because you, my friend, are motherfucking fired.” I roll my hands through the air like a conductor in the middle of commanding a symphony, easing my voice over each word.
Call me ruthless. But Bob is the definition of replaceable and it’s fun to tell him how worthless he is. He’s a stain on the earth.
Bob’s jaw drops. “I swear, I wasn’t that creepy.”
I scoff. “I already heard the story. I know everything. We have the mails to Stacy saved, Bob. Every last one.”
He starts to cry, and stutters, “You’re—you’re not...going to tell my wife, are you?”
I just shake my head, not saying anything. I should take pity on him, but fuck him. He sent a female employee dick pics. Over the damn work email.
And he’s trying to frame me as the bad guy? How dense can you be?
I decide not to tell him about the pass his wife made on me at the office Christmas party three months ago, which I so gracefully declined, even after she cornered me in the bathroom and begged to suck my cock. She said she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been with a real man.
Because I do have a soul, I turned her down, reminding her that Bob’s healthcare plan does in fact cover couples counseling.
And people say I’m an asshole. With goodwill like that, how dare they? I’m a regular Mother Teresa.
On a good day, that is.
I lean back in my chair and put my hands behind my head, looking out over the James River. My smile broadens, listening to Bob’s tears. I love watching the world burn. More than that, things are getting set back in their rightful place when a guy like Bob gets what’s coming to him.
And honestly, I do love firing people. It makes you feel like you hold all the power in the world. I highly recommend trying it.
It isn’t my fault some people are losers who shirk work and choose to focus on sending dick pics instead of romancing their wives. All I can do is set a strong example and fire all the losers who don’t deserve to be here in the first place.
Seriously, though. Too many guys these days are lazy, unproductive employees who spend half their workday doing non work-related activities. And I really hope more of them are better to their wives then Bob here.
Leaning back in my chair, I clench my jaw as I let Bob have his moment. His face in his hands, he sits teary eyed, trembling.
“Come on, Jack. Please. I’ll do anything. Anything so you won’t tell my wife.”
I just bite my lower lip and shake my head, almost starting to feel a tinge sorry for the guy.
But it’s not my fault he’s got loads of unresolved issues. This has been a long time coming. If he’s the type of man who will have hidden affairs in the office, he doesn’t have the integrity to be a part of my company.
“You broke the rules, Bob,” I say firmly.
Bob’s the exact opposite of me. He’s a man who avoids the truth of his own life. I’m a man who creates his own magnificent life.
Though I’m the heir to the Huston Hotel chain, I hunt and kill my own animals on the weekend on my property in rural Virginia. Deer, bison, boar.
I’m not going to tell her. I don’t believe it’s my place. But if I did, I bet she’d thank me.
I press my intercom. “Pam, would you please show Bob out?”
Bob sobs on his way out. What a fucking pussy.
I flash Pam a brief smile as she hands me a cup of coffee. Black, my favorite, but I don’t even need it today.
It’s eight a.m. and I’ve already fired two people, which is the best way to get your system going. It’s better than most drugs. I should do this more often.
I sit down and go through the emails between Stacy and Bob, to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Stacy, our college intern, is already in the office.
* * *
I’d seen her here earlier when I got in the elevator. I was barking into the phone at some idiot who’d fucked up and cost us millions. I don’t even know what obscenities I yelled, but they were fierce. Still, if you can’t keep your fucking word, and lose me money, I’ll show you where you stand real quick.
I could picture Stacy as she watched me on the phone. She wore gray pants, a striped blue and white shirt that did a horrible job of hiding her temptingly curvy figure. She wore glasses, and her honey-brown hair was up in a ponytail. Flats, not heels. She wasn’t pretty in the classical sense. She didn’t wear a ton of makeup, and I’d even heard guys around the office describe her as a plain jane. I think I recall them mentioning she was too boyish or something.
I beg to disagree. Or at least, I wouldn’t mind doing some further research on what she’s hiding under her boyish outfits, at the very least. It’s like she wants to hide her hotness from the world. I wonder why? I picture her in the elevator, and I get hard. My dick swells up right against my Armani fucking suit.
I’m all business, all the time. If there’s one thing I don’t do, it’s distraction. Fuck.
I click on the surveillance productivity software we recently installed, and have a look at Stacy’s work computer. I pull up the feature that shows me what she’s working on right fucking now. She’s always got this aura of efficiency about her. Let’s see if it’s real.
She clicks off her work email and on Facebook.
You could be working a little harder, but I’ll let it slide.
I watch her activity for a minute or two, and I’m about to move on when she pulls up a new webpage. I’m lucky as hell I’m not drinking my coffee, because I think I would have just spilled it all over my desk. My head gets light, and I scratch my eyes, trying to figure out if I’m being punked as I read the website on her screen:
Beta Kappa Nu-Virginity Auction for Charity
My name is April Ashley and I’m auctioning off my virginity.
Let’s take a step back. You’ll probably want to know more of the backstory.
Please know—this is entirely for charity. The money I make will be going to an injured volunteer firefighter’s medical bills and a local animal shelter.
Serious, classy replies only, please.
Currently starting bid is $10,000.
Click here to apply, and see below for pictures and my profile.
Stacy is a virgin?
And she’s auctioning off her V-Card?
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I can’t believe it. It has to be someone else.
The photos are blurred enough so I can’t tell see her face. But it sure looks like it’s her build, from what I’ve seen. Which isn’t much, since we have a solid dress code here.
I swear to God, the moment I think my life couldn’t get weirder, it does exactly that.
After I peel my jaw off the floor, I manage to refocus my eyes on the boudoir pictures of “April.”
I repeat in my mind the word I just used to describe her, and I should give myself a slap for being so wrong.
Boyish my ass.
If “April” is indeed Stacy. And the more pictures I look at, the more I believe it’s her.
Pulling the website up on my own browser, I scroll through the pictures. I’m not sure who did these—they clearly weren’t taken by a professional. But they aren’t half bad, either. The lighting is a little weird, and it seems like the photos are taken in different spots in their sorority house.
April’s got on black lingerie in all of the photos, in different poses. Her legs are long and muscular, and her figure is damn near hourglass.
She’s basically the girl you’d see if you looked up the antonym of boyish.
But what makes my jaw drop even further is below, when I read part of what she’s written in the Q&A in her profile.
What’s your biggest fantasy right now?
I have this recurring fantasy with my boss at my internship. He’s incredibly hot. He’s in his early thirties, handsome, and a multimillionaire. His presence—just being in the same room as him—makes me wet. Maybe because he’s part of the last generation of take-what-they-want men. I want him to see how wet I get for him.
I wonder what would happen if I went into his office.
I hope it would go something like what I’ve written out in detail a little for all of my fans:
I sit on the chair in my skirt, my legs slightly parted.
“Mr. H, I know why I’m here. I didn’t finish the report you needed me to run.”
I swallow hard, my heart pounding. Mr. H?
Well that’s a little coincidental. I continue reading.
I shoot him my ‘what are you going to do about it’ face. He rubs his brow, irritated.
I don’t think Mr. H has missed a single deadline in his life.
He’s so hot when he’s irritated.
“April, what the fuck? You had one fucking job to do this week. What happened?”
A rush of adrenaline runs through me as he comes around from behind his desk. I wonder if he’ll make a move this time. I wonder if he has the balls.
“I’ve just been having a lot of problems concentrating lately.”
He leans on his desk and folds his arms across his chest. Oh God. I can see his cock right through his blue suit pants. It’s enormous. Is he hard? He has to be hard. That can’t be his flaccid size.
“That’s not like you, April. You’re fucking brilliant. Where is this coming from?”
I want to tell him all about Bob. How that dumbass has been sexually harassing me. How it’s making me uncomfortable.
I uncross and cross my legs like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, keeping my eyes locked on his.
“I’ve just been a little distracted at work lately.”
He furrows his brow, and his eyes soften. His softer side almost never comes out. But I love when it does.
“That’s not good, April. Is it something at home? I don’t mean to pry. You can tell me to pound sand if it’s too personal. But it’s just—you had all week to compile this. And you’re usually so good.”
My body warms at his simple compliment. I don’t want to admit I purposely didn’t finish the report for the express purpose of getting called into his office.
“Nothing at home.” I clear my throat. “The distraction is actually...in the office.”
Please, cross that line, I beg him in my head, as I run my tongue along my lips. Please, Mr. H. Cross it.
My jaw drops at the screen.
A lump forms in my throat.
Mr. H has to be me.
Stacy is fucking fantasizing about me.
Not only that, she’s doing it in my building. On company time. On the motherfucking company dime.
I fire off an email to Stacy direct that she needs to come to my office, stat.
I never send emails from my own address. Everything comes from Pam. The five people who have gotten emails directly from me in the past week don’t work here anymore.
She’s having trouble concentrating? I’ll fucking give her a damn course in concentration.
Lesson one: how to concentrate on sucking the CEO’s cock and nothing else.
Not two minutes later, Pam buzzes me.
“Stacy is here, Mr. Huston.”
“Send her the fuck in.”
“Yes, Mr. Huston.”
She enters. Her brown hair reaches past her shoulders.
She doesn’t look in my direction. She looks down at the floor, just like any good sub would.
Interesting. Little things like that make a guy wonder. How dirty is she?
“Stacy. Good morning. Sit.” I point to the chair in front of my desk.
“Morning, Mr. Huston,” she croaks as she takes a seat, still not making eye contact with me.
I walk around deliberately, slowly. I lean on the front of my desk and fold my arms.
My cock is already raging hard through my suit, which isn’t blue, but black today. I’m not sure if I’m at my full staff yet but I’m close.
And yes, I measured. Any guy who says they didn’t is a liar.
“I called you in here to talk about your productivity,” I grit out.
Her eyes bulge out of her head. I wonder if she’s thinking about the words she was looking at not five minutes ago on her work computer. She licks her lips, swallows, and fidgets.
All three signs of nervousness. She wants to play around on company time? I’ll show her what happens to bad girls. I’ll show her how to play around on the fucking company dime.
A slight smirk spreads across my face. Her legs are slightly spread. This naive girl has no idea what’s about to hit her. She has no idea what I’m capable of. And she’s playing right into my hands.
She’s never met a man who eats game meats.
She’s never met a man who takes what he wants with no apology—and in person.
All she knows are the generation of dating app dudes who only know how to swipe right and can barely hold eye contact, let alone a conversation, in person.
Two pump chumps.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask her then head over to the bar in my giant office. It’s bigger than most dudes’ apartments that they share with three roommates.
“Ah, it’s eight a.m., Mr. H—” She clears her throat. “Mr. Huston. Isn’t that a little early?”
My blood pressure ratchets up to a thousand as her Freudian mess-up rings in my ear.
She’s nervous. And she’s on her heels. I roll up the sleeves of my white shirt and pour us two whiskies, neat.
I’ve seen her out at happy hours. Stacy can drink more than most guys. Now she thinks she can pull the whole “I’m innocent because I’m in trouble” act.
That strategy probably works with those dating app dudes who can’t look an attractive woman in the eye.
Not on me, though.
Slowly, I walk toward her and hand her whisky.
“Oh come on now. You’re in college and eight a.m. is too early for a little hair of the dog? Drink it.” My voice comes out gravelly.
“Sir, isn’t this against company policy, though?” she asks shakily. She takes it in her hand but doesn’t take a sip, glancing up at me through her small, black-framed glasses. It’s like she’s waiting for my approval. I stare down at her., and my thoughts aren’t exactly about the company policy. I’m looking at her luscious red lips, which are slightly parted. With no makeup, they’re as red as blood. I wonder how they’d feel.
Goddamn if this woman’s mouth wasn’t made for sucking cock.
Holding my drink, I explain the facts that she apparently doesn’t wholly grasp, “I am the fucking company. I wrote the goddamn policy. I’m telling you to drink. So drink up.”
She just has that “I can take a big dick in my mouth” look. I’m a motherfucking expert at recognizing that look.
I stand with my crotch at face level with her in her seat. We “Cheers,” drink, and I catch her staring. I don’t react.
“Do you know why I called you in here?”
“I don’t,” she murmurs and clears her throat.
I lean down, slightly, and bring my eyes to her.
“Take off your glasses.”
“I said, take them off.”