Chapter 3

When the towering door opened, I was the only one sitting outside. Neither receptionist looked up, and no woman, all flushed and freshly fucked, came fleeing from Mr. Carlton’s office. It was almost surreal as I lurched from the couch with a faint squeak of leather and strode to the open portal. If he fired me quick enough, I could be home and packed in time to catch the first bus in the morning. I’d checked schedules as I rode the subway.

Once inside, the door thumped closed behind me and my gaze whipped to Mr. Carlton, who, in a similar suit to the one I had ruined, stood facing the glass panels. Since he said nothing, I sat in one of the overstuffed chairs before his desk, crossed my legs and waited. If he dragged this out, I would have to pack in the morning and take the afternoon bus; it made more stops.

“Who did you leave with last night, Miss Duncan?”

When I glanced at him, Mr. Carlton was taut, and doing his best not to look at me. His tone was—off, weird, like a hint of something. Annoyance? No. Curiosity? Maybe. Either way, it was strange. And his demeanor ... He always looked at me, even when he was pissed, unless he used his tablet. And there was no tablet. There. Right then. His eyes almost flicked to me, but then he rolled past to stare at—nothing. Instead of answering, I smoothed my jacket and made a point of staring at his reflected face.

“Did he, uh ... Did he take care of you?” he asked.

Take care of me? What did he mean by that? Oh ... No, Mr. Marvelous didn’t “take care of me,” thank you very fucking much. Besides what business was it of his? Chest tightening at his brazenness, I blinked, trying to hold in a gulp. Mr. not-Duncan, rider of ten pussies—he wanted to know if I’d gotten laid. If he didn’t get to, then who had I selected to fuck me while he played with all the others? But then I struggled to keep a grin off my face when Mrs. Hutchins’ words came back to me. He wanted a slut. Well, buddy—slut mode engaged. Oh, well. Since I had already dodged one firing event, what the hell.

As I stood, he swallowed, keeping his eyes fixated on the edge of the known universe. His fingertips quivered when I walked closer. A soft whimper slid from his lips when I nudged my “fun pillows,” somebody else’s name, but it seemed very appropriate right now, against his trembling back. His cologne, woodsy, leathery, and just ... Manly, smelled amazing; shivers slid along my spine.

While he quaked, I stretched upward. God, he was tall. As he swayed back into me, I straddled one of his legs. And muscular. His globular buttock pushed into my pelvis. Another whimper. If he had looked at me, he would have seen an impish grin before I leaned in and whispered. “Yes, they did.”

After giving his other muscular cheek a firm squeeze, I pulled away, spun on my heel and marched from his office. Good thing the doors were automatic as I never slowed, never looked back, and barely heard the third whimper as the door slid closed behind me.

What the fuck had I just done? As I shook with adrenaline, I giggled like a schoolgirl in the elevator. He hadn’t fired me, yet. But damn, that had been fun. Dangerous as all get out, but fun. Hey, he wanted a slut. Oh, and Superdick and I needed another date—tonight. My panties were soaked.

After that, I wish I could tell you the world changed, we lived happily ever after, he fired me at last, or I found Mr. Marvelous, etcetera. But no, everything returned to normal.

With one exception.

“Why does he keep glancing at you?”

“Who” I asked, knowing exactly to whom Mrs. Hutchins was referring.

“You know who, Naomi.” She stared over her glasses again. She hadn’t done that in a while, at least to me. “Please tell me you’re not a contestant now. Are you?”

“Oh, hell no. At least not in his game.” But even as I said that, a thought crept into me. No, I wasn’t in his game, but he was waiting to see what my game was. That was why he kept glancing at me at the meetings. Why his eyes tracked me as we left, even as his pussy of the day sucked down his jizz. It was up to me to define the next round of our private contest.

That evening, as I wrapped my silicon superhero up once more, it came to me. Like a lightning bolt. Already, I knew he wanted a slut. But what had I really done—fibbed? Okay, lied? So, what if I gave him a little more to feed his little fantasy? Positively giddy, I gasped when a new idea popped into my head as I lay back under my crisp, cool sheets.

As usual, after the next meeting we were supposed to wait while Mr. Carlton, followed by Miss Wednesday, the woman more often than not his toy on Wednesdays, left. But I strode past them into the arms of the most gorgeous man in the room. Of course, he jerked in surprise and almost shoved me away, but I ground against him and he sank his arms around me. Oh, and that felt good. Superdick had no arms. As we walked from the conference room and across the office, Mr. Carlton stared, no glared, while I sauntered next to my new best friend.

Of course, the joke was on me. Roger was the nicest guy, but also quite gay. Over coffee, he laughed when I explained in the most circumspect way how I was messing with the most senior man in the company. Roger was also very sharp.

“So you want to act like a slut, but not be one?”

While I didn’t lie, I didn’t give him the full truth, either. Which is that I didn’t know what I wanted out of this.

“Yes.”

And then he earned my lifelong trust. He wasn’t the only queer in the company or who attended the meetings.

“Oh, you magnificent madman,” I said, before sucking on my lips as my heart raced.

“You only have to convince them they won’t get fired for messing with the boss,” he replied.

When I nodded, he leaned in. “I’m serious. You’re having fun and it seems he is too. So he is keeping you around, but...”

“But, nothing. If any one of my merry band of co-conspirators goes, I go as well. Simple.”

He stared at me for a while before nodding. “Okay. Okay, then. ‘Operation Mess with the Boss’ shall commence.”

“Thanks, Roger.”

“Coffee is on you for the duration.”

A snorting laugh slipped from me. “That’s how this all started.

And so, the meetings became even more fun. Mr. Carlton had his toys at the table, while I sat with, or every once and a while on, Roger or on one of his special friends. Now, they were human and friction is friction. So many a hard-on slid along my ass as I squirmed in their laps. By the same token, I didn’t mind at all letting their hands wander over my body while the presenters droned on, relishing every furtive and then not-so-furtive glance from Mr. not-Duncan.

While I knew little about the queer community, I learned about bisexuality right quickly when one guy, a real looker named Mike, tall, dark, and rugged, took the opportunity to mirror Mr. Carlton’s moves with me. While his fingers played inside me, I became a whimpering, shuddering wreck before finally collapsing as I bucked against his chest. At the end of that session, Mr. Carlton stood, without asking a single question, and strode from the room. Everyone looked around, wondering what had happened. But I knew. And so did Mike—as I sucked his fingertips clean for him. It was the least I could do. His boyfriend would handle the massive throbbing mast after work—at least that’s what he said when I offered. Superdick and I made it to five tub-shaking Bada booms that night before I giggled myself to sleep.

Several days later, after a tamer meeting where I only played with Roger, Mr. Carlton returned to his routine of grilling the presenters. But, after he stood, he whispered something to his “Little Miss Fuck Me Hard of The Day,” who pouted before leaving. And then he gestured me to his desk as the others filed past. After I gave a worried look to Roger, he shrugged and disappeared. As my heart hammered, I didn’t blame him. If the boss had snapped, there was no point in taking them down with me. Besides, I was his main troublemaker.

“Would you like to go dancing with me tonight?”

What! Dancing. It was Friday night. Prime date night. Mr. Marvelous was out there. I knew it. Nah, I had nothing planned at all. Netflix and another shitty ready-made salad.

“Huh?” was my actual response.

“Dancing. Tonight. With me.”

“Uh, sure.” I mean, the salad sucked, half-wilted, and Netflix ... Well, it was Netflix, shitty, but pretty programmed drivel.

It wasn’t until I mentioned it in passing to Mrs. Hutchins and saw her open-mouthed stare that everything locked into place. Amelia’s words. My words—and actions. And now he was going to test me like one of his contestants, but...

He didn’t know me. Not really. To his eyes, I was a demure tease, who he found intriguing, if not challenging. I was a burr under his saddle, as my late father would say.

And I was planning to be a fun burr tonight.

As I slid into a loose fitting, silken black dress that both hugged my curves and had a flirty mid-thigh length skirt, I smiled at my “fuck-me” make-up and once more played with my hair. This time I had brushed it out and blown it dry; my blonde tresses now shimmered in layers over my bare back and shoulders. After fastening my high heels, I grinned once more and puckered my gleaming red lips before blowing a kiss at my reflection and bounding downstairs.

I was ten minutes late. On purpose.

As I stepped down, the chilly night air sending shivers across my scantily clad frame, the same tall, stoic driver opened the door. Before gliding inside, I greeted him with a smile.

This time, Mr. Carlton’s eyes not only followed me as I settled into the seat across from him, they grew as he scanned me. There was no way to wear a bra in this dress and it was cold ... And he was pretty in his evening wear. And my nipples harden fast. That woodsy cologne wafted over me and I adjusted my skirt, letting his gaze catch the lace tops of my thigh highs. They weren’t the smartest things to wear dancing, but the brief flashes of lace had the desired effect. He squirmed in his seat.

“Good evening, sir” Oh, he liked that. The “sir” piece, I mean. His eyes crinkled, and he smiled. Poor guy. He had no idea.

“Good evening, Miss Duncan,” he replied, emphasizing each word.

“You know, there’s no point in you not calling me Naomi by now—sir.” As I smiled, his grin broadened, and he nodded.

“Very well, Naomi. How are you tonight?”

While I am sure he expected the kind of polished, bootlicking drivel that most of his other “dates” gave, I licked my lips and locked my eyes on his before speaking.

“I am horny as fuck and hoping to dance my ass off.”

His eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. But I only grinned, adjusting the tiny spaghetti straps that, interwoven with magic, held the silken material over my “fun bags.” And we were already having fun. Well, I was. He squirmed once more, sliding his thighs apart. Then again, the silky dress sliding over my stabby little nipples sent another wave of shivers through me. I hadn’t lied; I was most definitely horny as fuck.

And I could not have timed my response any better as the limo once again glided, like on glass glided, to a halt before a brightly lit edifice surrounded by a swirling mass of loud patrons. Thumping music rattled the chassis and then poured through the open door when the driver opened it. This time I leaped to my feet and surged to the door before Mr. Carlton, stopping just at the threshold. His face nudged into me. As his hot breath bathed my underside, I shivered and grinned at the driver. Oh, this was continuing to be so much fun.

In no time, Mr. Carlton, being Mr. Carlton, was seen to his reserved booth and sat down. But I glanced down at him, tossed my clutch purse to the bench and turned for the dance floor. Friday night. Chest pounding music. Drugs. Alcohol. Half-naked—nope, check that, completely naked dancers on pedestals around the room. Oh, yeh. This brought back memories and soon I was embraced by the darkness, illuminated every once in a while by a swinging colored Arclight, dancing amid the swaying crowd.

Shortly thereafter, Mr. Carlton appeared and danced nearby, but another man—a large, young and quite possibly doped man discovered my swaying ass. In no time, he made it his own, thrusting into me as I ground back into him. As I stared at Mr. Carlton’s pale, wide-eyed face, I let my new best friend glide, yes, like on glass glide, his outstretched fingers over my silken dress. God, he had such nice hands, and they roamed everywhere, every, fucking, where, as we all but mated on the dancefloor before Mr. Carlton.

It wasn’t long before my dance buddy slid his large, rough hands around my ribs and under my dress to cup my swinging breasts. As a moan slid from my lips, I glided, not like glass, but like a very horny woman, against his warm shaft. Mr. Carlton licked his lips as he tried, and failed, to keep time with the music. Mr. Carlton’s eyes widened when I dragged my groping dance partner closer to him. His fingers were tugging my nipple stems something fierce ... Anyway, I pulled him close enough to speak over the rumbling beat.

“Oh, Ryan, baby.” At me calling him Ryan; his jaw dropped. No “sir” from me out here. He was in my world now. After running my tongue around my lips and groaning while my dancer thrust into me, I added. “He’s got a very nice cock. It’s so fucking hard, baby. And warm. God, I need a fuck.”

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