Our boss prefers Doctor Spencer, though his phD is in Sociology. We keep track of his orders and take dictation as he holds his hands behind his back and stares out onto the city beneath him. Well, Bradley takes notes.
Technically I’m Bradley’s boss, but there’s not enough room—even in nearly seventy feet of office space—for two bosses. It’s my job to coordinate Dr. Spencer’s schedule with the precision of a surgeon and the ruthlessness of a bloodborne pathogen. The job pays well and keeps me in fitted trousers that hug my legs diligently and shirts tight enough to tastefully advertise the work that my trainer and I labor over.
If I seem overly conscious of my appearance, trust me it’s the job. Adam Spencer’s silhouette stretching out against the setting sun looks like the shadow of a titan and his ass, shoulders, and calves are so impressive that some men find it difficult to look directly at him. He expects a certain standard. Some days that standard makes it difficult for Bradley and I to do our jobs. But today, Bradley keeps sneaking looks at me over the tablet that’s permanently attached to his left hand. He takes notes as surreptitiously as ever, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.
He raps out more notes, but this time he swings the tablet in my direction.
I can see whats printed there: Still sore?
Then he’s back to typing out Dr. Spencer’s wordy assessment of the company’s well-being. The shareholders have been restless for years, our market share sits at a frustrating plateau, and our boss smells a coup in every careless word. The environment, if it wasn’t so obscenely lucrative, would be toxic. Bradley and I have taken to cooperative stress relief.
Technically I’m his boss, but we both have keys to the executive bathroom and occasionally he finds me lingering there. More than once has Bradley—whose hair is long nearly to the point of being unprofessional, whose eyes are exactly as soft and perfectly blue as a likeness of Jesus I remember from my youth, who never raises his voice above the companionable—ordered me down on my knees and suggested, rather forcefully, that I “suck his fucking cock. Please.”
I’m technically his boss, and our pay grades reflect that, but, well, we work so closely together that it’s best to operate as equals. Today, for instance, has been stressful so Bradley offered a tantalizing proposition in front of the mirror that runs the full length of the executive bathroom. I found myself on all fours while he fucked me. I stared into my own rapidly reddening face as he wrapped his tie around my throat and pulled both sides like reins. His features twisted into a snarling, haughty parody of his normally obliging expression.
Dr. Spencer continues talking and I use most my restraint to ignore Bradley’s spunk running down my back and ass crack staining my tight, yet tasteful apparel.