"And don't bother to come in on Monday morning without those signatures because you won't have a job anymore! Is that understood, Junior?"
"Yes sir! Three signatures. Monday morning. Eight AM! Your desk, sir." I stammered as I backed out the door. "Three signatures. Extremely important!" I gently closed and latched the door behind me though every ounce of my being wanted to slam it as hard as I could and cry out 'BITCH!!!'
What a cunt! What a miserable, pitiful excuse for a human being! Jesus, I hated her! I hated being called 'Junior'. How could she. . . And why me? Why the hell did she have it in for me? I was always a good kid. Respectful of others. Quiet. Shy even. And now ten minutes before five on a Friday afternoon she sends me off on an errand that will take at least two hours. Will I get paid overtime? No! Will I get paid straight time? No! Will I so much as get a 'Thank You' from her hine-ass? Of course not!
I muttered to myself and fumed all the way out to my car. Two weeks into my summer job as an intern for the law firm where dad is a senior shareholder/named partner and I couldn't stand it. If this is what being a lawyer is all about, I want no part of it. The whole place is a farce. Ten minutes is two billable hours. Face time. Meaningful dialogue. Quality In = Quality Out.
It was all such bullshit. They were all phonies. Or bitches. Or both. And Ms Dykoff was the worst of them all! She was a junior partner, bucking hard to move up to shareholder status. I had been assigned to her. I wondered if I had dad to thank for that little number? Hell, he sat up in his penthouse suite with the other three high muggy-mugs and rarely showed his face down where the work actually got done. It was all luncheon meetings and golf dates and flying off to Chicago for him.
Ms Dykoff. What a piece of work. She was a militant feminist and I hated her from the first day. She demanded that her subordinates address her as 'Sir' to keep her on an equal basis with the male partners in the firm, and gave everyone a short lesson in how to pronounce Ms Dykoff ( "Extend the 'z' sound in the courtesy title. It's Die Cough. Die Cough. And if you write it, there is no period after the 's'." ). When she wanted something done, she wasn't willing to settle for your second best effort. Everything was done her way. Or else!
I got into my car and rolled the windows down against the 95 degree heat. It was like an oven in there. God, I wished I had I air conditioning. But I didn't. Some more of dad's doings. 'You want a car, you pay for it. And the insurance and maintenance too. I know I could easily buy one for you, but what would you learn from that?'
The car cooled off a bit as I eased into the center city rush hour traffic. At least I was out of the office, which made me a happy boy. Nothing planned for the next two days, either. Maybe go to a concert on Saturday night with Jason and Rick. Nothing definite. As I got further away from the city and traffic decreased, my mood lightened. Maybe a drive out to the boonies was just what I needed. I found myself humming and then singing along with the radio. Okay. Joseph Morgan Williams Junior was officially in a good mood now.
Timothy James was our client du jour. He was closing some sort of big business deal next week and M-i-z-z-z Dick-Off, as most everyone referred to her when she wasn't within earshot, was devoting her full time attention to him. She had given me directions how to get to his house, which was about 45 minutes away from the office, way out in the country somewhere. I made some turns, and then some more turns, getting into an area that I was only vaguely familiar with. I turned yet again, and saw a mailbox with the right street name on it. I crawled along the road. which was little more than one car width wide. I prayed that no cars would come the other way.
At last, I saw a mailbox that had his house number on it. I sort of hated to stop. It was cool there in the shade of the overhanging trees. I had found some good tunes on the radio, and I had the whole weekend in front of me. I didn't want to wreck it by asking Mr. James to sign these stupid forms that Miss Shithead had forgotten. Reluctantly, I pulled into the driveway and parked the car.
I rang the doorbell, but got no answer. I rang a second time, and as I waited, I noticed the red Porsche under the cover in the garage, aside of the tan Mercedes that Mr. James always drove. He must be home. Ms Dykoff had said he would be. I looked into the house through the sidelight window but couldn't see anyone. A narrow path, mostly mulch but with some slate stepping stones, led around the side of the house. I followed it.
As I stepped around the front corner, I admired the small house with itís stone exterior and board and batten siding at places. It was beautifully landscaped and professionally groomed. Every flower plant was exactly the same distance apart, and every one had a perfect bloom on it. The colors in the flowers perfectly matched the color of the house trim. Mr. James must of had some big bucks for a place like this. I turned again and now stood behind the house, looking at paradise.
The centerpiece was a swimming pool designed to look like it had just naturally been there. It had these huge, rounded rocks that went practically right up to the edge of the water on three sides of the pool, and a red tile and concrete deck on the fourth side toward the house. There was a waterfall splashing down over the lava-like rocks on the far side, making soft, gurgling noises. Tropical looking vines and plants grew in and around the rocks. I was simply overwhelmed at how refreshingly inviting it looked. I slowly took the last few steps along the garden path to the edge of the concrete, taking it all in.
Mr. James was sitting in one of those floating lounge chairs in the middle of the pool, head tilted back, sunglasses on, an icy drink in the cup holder in the arm of the chair, and classical music being piped in via the stereo speakers. And Mr. James was very much naked!
I gawked at the unexpected sight, taking in the rather attractive view of another man's privates on public display. Like a little kid, I had to jab at my own crotch to unstick my rapidly swelling prick from the front of my cotton briefs. As I did so, the manila envelope containing the papers slipped from my other hand and hit the concrete deck with a loud splat.
Mr. James looked over at me and took off his sunglasses. Nonchalantly, he asked "Can I help you with something?"
I blushed at having been caught staring and he smiled at me. He seemed to know why I had turned red, but remained completely unembarrassed by his nakedness. I couldn't tear my eyes away from him and finally managed to stammer out the reason for my being there. Clumsily, I thrust the envelope containing the legal documents in his direction, as if he could stretch his arm out and reach them from where he sat. As I looked at him it suddenly registered that he had no tan lines, and I flushed red a second time. The little general rose to full attention.
He sort of hopped and pushed his way out of his chair and slipped into the water, making his way toward me after ducking under completely to rinse off the sweat that had sheened his upper body. I thought about how cooling it would be to just jump in myself. As naked as Mr. James, I thought. It sent the last jolt into my pants to give me a permanent erection.
The fly of my Dockers' twitched as my randy prick started to jitterbug inside my Jockeys. Mr. James was in the water at the edge of the pool now, right in front of me. He had to notice it, and I blushed yet again at being caught with an erection just from looking at him. He smiled at me warmly as he climbed out of the pool and stood facing me, a puddle forming from the water draining off his body.
"Excuse me" he murmured, reaching to my left side and plucking an oversized towel from the glass and metal table behind me. He toweled his head dry, his flaccid prick jiggling about as he vigorously rubbed his face and scalp. Mesmerized, I watched every flip and flap it made. He peeked out from under the towel and again caught me looking. Flustered beyond belief, I turned my head away and fixed my gaze on the treetops beyond the pool.
"Just what did you need, Joe. It is Joe, isn't it?"
"Uh. . . Yeah! How did you know that?"
"Oh, I noticed you the other day when I was in the office talking to Betty. . . Ms Dykoff. She mentioned what a hard worker you are, and how difficult it is to find young men who are willing to work hard." His eyes trailed down to my crotch and I suddenly realized his double entendre. "What can I do for you, Joe?"
"I need your signature on these forms at a couple of places Mr. James." I turned back to face him and he was reaching up sort of under and behind his balls, rolling them around and drying them off, and at the same time pinching the base of his soft prick and tugging it outward and upward from his body almost like he was jerking off. I guess I gasped out loud when I saw him doing that. From what I had seen in locker rooms and at camp, Mr. James had a pretty nice set of equipment hanging between his legs and he certainly wasn't shy about letting me see it.
"Is that all you need Joe?" He looked at me expectantly, as if he wanted me to say something about his cock, or his being naked. All I could think about was getting back to my car and jerking off. Jesus I was horny! He bent down to the table and signed the forms where they were marked, then slipped them back into the envelope.
"That's all I was sent for, Mr. James." My voice cracked and jumped an octave, like I was still a teenager or something. Shit! I was 20 years old! A sexually repressed and virtually inexperienced 20 year old, maybe, but never-the-less a 20 year old.
Mr. James smiled at me, a broad sweet smile. "Please. Call me Tim." He stepped in towards me and I thought I might come in my pants, the way my cock was carrying on. "If I were you, Joe, I'd stay and enjoy a quick dip in the pool before heading back into town. Ms Dykoff doesn't need to know about it. At least I won't tell."
His voice had grown soft and seductive with the last sentence. I knew what he wanted. I wanted it too. Real bad, I wanted it. And had since. . . Well, a real long time, anyway.
But still it was wrong. It was only in the past year that I had figured out that I might be gay. The lack of interest in girls. The abundance of interest in guys. A lifetime of repressing my sexual feelings had bubbled over, and I hadn't had an easy time dealing with this realization. I felt guilty for months the one and only time I ever did something with another guy. Even then, we had barely touched each other. Mr. James cleared his throat as he waited for my answer.
"I . . . I don't have a swimsuit with me." My voice trailed off as I realized what a feeble excuse I was giving, even as my eyes again made their way down and back up my host's nude body.
Tim was thirty-ish, about five nine and in great shape. He had a mat of thick brown hair all over his body, bleached honey blond from a lot of time in the sun. He hadn't shaved for a few days, either. His skin was tanned to a lovely brown, with absolutely no tan lines. His prick was circumcised, between four and five inches long, with a fat mushroom head. I had surreptitiously studied my friends and classmates at every opportunity, noting who was cut and who wasnít, who had a really big one (soft at least) and who didnít, and how big the balls were on my buddies. I had noticed some of my friends looking too. Checking each other out. Timothy James was hung. And he was most definitely a hot-looking hunk!
"It's just us guys here, Joe. I don't think you really need a suit." As if to help me make up my mind, Tim reached over and started to unbutton my shirt. For some reason, I let him do it. It was time. Time to have happen whatever was going to happen. Despite the ensuing guilt, it had felt so good with Randy that time. So right while we were doing it!
My shirt was all the way open and had been slipped off my shoulders. Tim's hands went to my belt buckle. Now my pants were undone and in a pile around my ankles. My white briefs strained to contain my seeping seven inch rod and I knew I would come if he touched them. I was in a trance as he dropped to his knees, sliding my loafers and pants from first one leg, then the other. I stood there in the glaring sunlight in my white socks and white briefs, waiting . . . waiting.
At ten o'clock that night I called my mother to tell her I was spending the night with a friend.
At four o'clock the next afternoon I made the same phone call.
I finally got home at two thirty on Sunday afternoon. I was tired and my body ached from using unfamiliar muscles in unaccustomed positions.
And I was happier than I had ever been in my life.
I guess the maniacal smile on my face gave it away. Dad pulled me aside. "I hope it was everything you wanted it to be, son." He slapped me on the back and chortled.
"And then some, dad." I stared off into space reviewing the last 48 hours. "And then some."
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