Chapter 9: Office Initiation

Monday morning, I stood in front of the Blackwood Capital building downtown, adjusting my tie nervously. The building was sleek glass and steel, maybe fifteen stories, with the company’s minimalist logo etched into the entrance. Professional. Impressive. Intimidating.

I’d read both handbooks Patricia had emailed me: the regular employee handbook with standard corporate policies, and the smaller “Cultural Guidelines” document that was decidedly not standard. The second one had sections on “Workplace Intimacy Protocols,” “Consent Requirements,” and “Discretion Standards.” It was surreal reading HR documents that basically said “yes, you can fuck your coworkers, here’s how to do it appropriately.”

I took a breath and walked inside.

The lobby was bustling — people in business attire moving purposefully, the hum of professional activity. A security guard checked my ID and directed me to the elevators. Tenth floor.

When the elevator doors opened, I stepped into a hallway that screamed money. Polished floors, modern art on the walls, floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of the city. A receptionist smiled at me from behind a curved desk.

“Ethan? Patricia’s expecting you. Conference room B, just down the hall there and to the left. Need any water or the bathroom?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

I found the room and knocked. A woman’s voice called out, “Come in!”

Patricia Chen sat at the head of a long conference table, looking every bit the successful executive. She appeared to be in her early fifties, with dark hair styled professionally, wearing a tailored navy suit. She was attractive in that confident, powerful way — the kind of woman who commanded attention without trying.

“Ethan! Please, sit.” She gestured to the chair across from her. “Coffee? Water?”

“Water would be great, thanks.”

She poured from a pitcher on the table and slid the glass toward me. “So. Your brother David speaks very highly of you. And your academic record is strong.”

“Thank you.”

“But I’m not particularly interested in your GPA,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I want to know who you are. What you believe. What you value.”

The interview had begun.

For the next thirty minutes, Patricia asked questions that had nothing to do with typical job skills. She wanted to know about my philosophy of life, my views on loyalty, my understanding of community. She asked how I defined family, what role I thought pleasure should play in work, whether I believed professionalism and intimacy could coexist.

I answered honestly, drawing on everything I’d learned this summer. About how trust was built through vulnerability. How community required both boundaries and openness. How people were happiest when they could bring their whole selves to every aspect of life.

“Here’s a scenario,” Patricia said, leaning forward. “You’re in a meeting with colleagues discussing an important project. A coworker you find attractive propositions you — clearly, directly. How do you respond?”

I thought about it. “I’d assess two things: whether I’m interested, and whether engaging would interfere with the actual work that needs to get done. If both answers are yes and no respectively, I’d say yes. Consent and professionalism can coexist.”

Patricia smiled. “Good answer. What if you’re not interested?”

“I’d decline politely but firmly. Make it clear I’m not judging them for asking, but no thanks.”

“And what if they push?”

“Then they’ve violated consent, and that’s a problem. I’d let them know, and if it happened again, I’d report it.”

“Perfect.” Patricia stood and walked to the windows, looking out at the city. “We’ve built something unique here, Ethan. We’re not just a company. We’re a community. A tribe. And that requires a certain ... mindset. A willingness to embrace unconventional approaches to work and relationships.”

“I get that.”

She turned back to me. “Do you? Because once you’re part of Blackwood, you’re really part of it. This becomes your professional identity. Your network. Your family, in a sense. That’s a significant commitment.”

“I’m ready for it,” I said.

Patricia studied me for a long moment, then smiled. “I believe you are. Welcome aboard, Ethan. You’re hired.”

My heart jumped. “Really? Just like that?”

“Just like that. David’s recommendation carries weight, and you’ve answered every question exactly how I’d hoped.” She returned to her seat and pulled out some paperwork. “The position is part-time with flexible scheduling — you set your hours around your college classes. The work itself is fairly menial: filing, data entry, delivering documents between departments, assisting wherever needed.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“It’s not glamorous,” she warned. “You’ll be doing grunt work. But it’ll let you see how everything operates. Learn the culture from the ground up. And the pay is excellent.” She named a figure that made my eyes widen — way above minimum wage.

“That’s ... very generous.”

“We value loyalty, and we compensate accordingly.” She slid an iPad across the table. “Standard employment contract, NDA, benefits information. Take your time reading through it.”

I did, carefully. The NDA was extensive — prohibiting disclosure of client information, business strategies, and anything relating to “company culture and internal practices.” Basically, you’re aware of the sex, you’re cool with the sex, you’re not an asshole about the sex, and don’t tell outsiders about the sex.

I signed everything.

“Excellent.” Patricia collected the documents. “You’ll start Wednesday. Arrive at 9 AM, and Katherine Morrison will get you oriented. She’s one of our senior administrative coordinators and she’ll be supervising you.”

She handed me an ID badge with my photo — they must have pulled it from my driver’s license info, they moved fast here at Blackwood — and a key card. “These will get you into the building and most areas. Restricted floors require additional clearance, which you’ll earn over time.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Chen.”

“Patricia, please. We’re not formal here.” She walked me to the door. “One more thing, Ethan. Read that second handbook again before Wednesday. Really read it. What you’ll see here will surprise you even if you think you’re prepared. But remember: everything is consensual, everything is optional, and professionalism still matters. We’re building something special, but we’re not chaos.”

“Understood.”

She shook my hand, her grip firm. “See you Wednesday.”

Wednesday morning, I arrived at 8:45 AM in khakis and a button-down shirt — business casual as instructed. The lobby was busier than Monday, people streaming in with coffee cups and briefcases. I badged through security and took the elevator to the eighth floor where Patricia had said Katherine’s office was located.

The eighth floor was open-concept — clusters of desks separated by low dividers, glass-walled offices along the perimeter, a large break room visible at one end. Maybe forty people working, the buzz of productivity filling the air.

A woman approached me, early-to-mid thirties, brunette with her hair in a sleek ponytail. She wore a fitted pencil skirt and blouse, professional but definitely showing her curves. Her smile was warm but assessing.

“Ethan? I’m Katherine Morrison. Welcome to Blackwood.”

“Thanks. Great to meet you.”

“Come on, I’ll give you the quick tour and get you set up.”

Katherine walked me through the floor, pointing out different departments. “This area is investment analysis, that’s consulting, over there is client services. You’ll be floating between all of them, helping with whatever’s needed.”

We passed clusters of people working intently at computers, others in glass-walled conference rooms having meetings. Everything looked completely normal and professional.

“Your workspace.” Katherine indicated a small desk in a corner of the open area, equipped with a computer and phone. “Not fancy, and you share it with two other flex-timers, but while you’re here, it’s yours. You’ll mostly be on your feet anyway, dealing with food or office needs, getting drinks, running errands.”

She showed me the filing systems, the document delivery protocols, how to use the internal messaging system. Standard office orientation stuff. I was actually a little disappointed—where was the crazy sex culture I’d been promised?

“Okay,” Katherine said after about an hour. “You’ve got the basics. Let’s start you with something simple. These files need to be organized alphabetically and scanned into the system.” She handed me a stack of folders. “Take your time, get familiar with how we label things.”

I spent the next two hours doing exactly that—sorting, scanning, filing. Boring but not difficult. People passed by occasionally, some offering friendly introductions and eagernesses to work together, but others were absorbed in their own work. A few times I caught people glancing at me — the new guy — but nothing unusual.

Around 11:30, my stomach growled. I’d skipped breakfast in my nervousness.

Katherine appeared beside my desk. “Hungry? Let’s grab lunch. The staff lounge has faster food than the cafeteria downstairs.”

“Sure, sounds good.”

I followed her down a hallway to a large, comfortable lounge area. Couches and armchairs clustered around coffee tables, a full kitchen along one wall, several high-top tables with stools. Maybe fifteen people were scattered around, eating and chatting.

And in a corner booth, a woman was getting her pussy eaten.

She sat on the table edge, her skirt hiked up around her waist, legs spread wide. A man knelt between her thighs, his face buried in her cunt, clearly going to town. The woman — stout and sassy, maybe early-forties — was eating a sandwich with one hand while gesturing with the other, having an animated conversation with a colleague seated next to her about quarterly reports.

“— so if we adjust the allocation by even three percent, we could see significant returns,” she was saying, then paused to moan softly. “Oh fuck, yes, right there — anyway, as I was saying, the risk assessment shows —”