Hard At Work 9

I swear, COVID was the best thing that ever happened to capitalism. Wealth had flowed like crazy to the 1%, while waitering and barista-ing barely covered food and rent. My girlfriend Melissa and I weren't exactly getting rich. Discussing it over dinner one night, we agreed something needed to change.

"But what?" she said.

At that second, just like in a movie, the doorbell rang. I jumped for the door. Who knew what genie was standing outside, what scrolled prophecy I'd find on the doormat promising untold riches?

It was Dorcas, our next-door neighbor, rolling in on a gust of icy air. We all know March 31st is technically spring, but that day had been positively Arctic. Hence my observation of Dorcas's nipples, tiny and dark, striving for the finish line inside her thin white blouse. She wore that blouse an awful lot when she visited.

Dorcas placed her iPad on the table. She wanted us to join her in drooling over a deluxe new wheelchair she found on the internet. We spent an hour drinking sangria and checking out its gazillion features. Melissa said it was like a Tesla, only with faster acceleration and a higher price tag. None of us came even close to making that kind of money.

The tart scent of citrus, the clever edge of the Cointreau, and the nefarious Pinot worked their wiles. Once the pitcher was gone, Dorcas proposed a bit of group masturbation. Melissa jumped from her chair and stumbled to the bedroom to change into a miniskirt and heels. I followed Dorcas's meandering tracks to the livingroom.

I lifted Dorcas from her decidedly non-Tesla chair to the purple folded-futon sofa, stuffing pillows here and there for support. Dorcas hubba-hubba-ed while I undressed. Only when I had made myself hard did she slowly unbutton the white blouse, pulling both sides open. Those nipples. I stroked myself while Dorcas unzipped her denim cutoffs. I espied her diaper, which shouldn't be sexy, but she had used a red marker to write 'pussy' on the front with an arrow pointing down into the dim recesses of her crotch. It worked for me. The penmanship was terrible, but writing upside-down is hard.

Melissa traipsed in, playful, gorgeous, topless, and four teetering inches taller. She fell to her delicious kneecaps to help Dorcas slide her shorts down for enhanced digital access. I sat on the rug, my back against the overstuffed chair, my legs out and spread wide so the ladies could see. My dick stood taut and proud. Melissa slouched down on the Queen Ann chair, a favorite pleasuring spot.

The three of us got to business. We put on a good show, for real. I loved when the women's eyes lingered on my junk while I played. Within half an hour, we rubbed out four beautiful orgasms, the double going to Melissa.

My girlfriend, always theatrical, crawled to me on all fours in those fuck of hot heels. She licked my hand and penis clean, then crawled, her face a slick mess, across the carpet. She gave Dorcas a long kiss, full on the mouth, then listed off to bed.

The rule is, Dorcas and I can make out, just nothing more serious than that. We began necking like teenagers on the sofa. Lying on top of me, her breath smelled of alcohol; her lips tasted of cum; her nipples rooted about the hair on my chest.

Around midnight, Dorcas practically fell asleep with her tongue in my mouth and decided to roll on home. I stayed up scrolling through job postings on craigslist. Ideally, something half-time that paid a million dollars a year. You see why my eye was drawn to the listing, "Five hours a week, best pay in the city."

I clicked. The short post informed me that I had to be available between noon and 1pm five days a week. I had hoped for remote, but the posting was very clear that it was in person. "The ideal candidate," the ad said, "will start immediately. Reply for details."

Curious, I followed the link, gave my email, and received an auto reply:

Thank you for your interest in

Veni Press, North America's premier

publisher of artisanal cookbooks.

Job title: Staff Head

Hours: noon to 1pm, M-F, non-negotiable

No employee benefits.

Compensation: $1000/hour.

I smiled. Obviously a typo. And since nobody in their right mind would work for ten bucks an hour, I concluded that the actual hourly must be a cool $100.

A thousand dollars sounded awfully nice, though. I took a moment to indulge the fantasy of not sharing Lyfts anymore, taking Melissa out to the Four Seasons for our anniversary, that kind of thing. Hell, why not toss in a bespoke suit for me, cuz Melissa once said the "star attorney" look transformed her into a whore. Which had to be true, as we never used the w-word in our house.

For thoroughness' sake, I then imagined making ten dollars an hour, in case the typo was two erroneous zeros. This featured me eating from the discarded take-out containers in Dorcas's garbage, which Melissa and I took out to the curb for her every week.

Still, $100 an hour? There must be a catch. Only bosses made that much. Also, what head of staff worked only five hours a week, and at a time of day when most people were on their lunch breaks? Finally, no actual duties were listed, no necessary education or experience, no "motivated self-starter" bullshit.

The email closed by requesting a head shot and a 250-word statement detailing my life's mission.

Me: For Pete's sake.

Sangria: Why the fuck not apply?

I snapped a selfie and typed a couple paragraphs about my intention to bring peace, love, and happiness to everyone on Earth, or at least the West End, where the email said Veni was located. In seconds, a new email requested my presence at noon the following day, along with a link to venipress.cum, which made me snort out loud. Maybe the job was for a competent typist.

The street address for Veni Press actually existed. Street view showed a small 5-story brick office building, maybe a hundred years old. Where your dentist might be, or your accountant.

It was only then that I looked at the time stamp above the job posting: "Posted 9 minutes ago at 12:01am."

I facepalmed my face with, well, my palm. At least Melissa and Dorcas hadn't seen me. 12:01 am, April 1st.

Me: April Fools' prank.

Sangria: Come on, buster, companies post jobs when they come up, irrespective of idiotic holidays.

I crawled off to spoon my girlfriend, still in her skirt and heels.

* * * * *

Of course I went. I was free til 4 that day. Plenty of time to look like an idiot at Veni Press and still get to work on time.

Stepping from the elevator onto the fifth floor, I beheld a glowing heavy-set young Asian woman in a baby blue tank top. Her white-on-black desk plaque read "Wenda". Wenda's nipples must have punctured all the bras she owned; she plainly didn't have one on now. It was an unusual look for work, but apparently kosher at Veni.

Wenda had a side nose ring, and her tattooed left shoulder showed a squid boxing a radish. She radiated acuity and self-possession. Hooking you up with Dorcas, I thought.

"Hello," she said. "Do you have an appointment with us today?"

"At noon, but I'm a little early. I can just have a seat."

A chime sounded from the elevator, and Wenda glanced past me. "Hey, here's your Official Orienter trademark trademark copyright copyright." Publishing joke, I guessed.

"Oui, c'est moi!" said a definitely not French voice. I turned to see a white woman stepping from the elevator, maybe forty-five, strikingly tall and pale. A tight pink turtleneck, turquoise pencil skirt, and maroon leggings hugged her body. Her angular face and prematurely grey bun suggested android invader, but her smile lit up the room. Active, amused lips hinted at someone constantly on the lookout for innuendo. My eyes wished only to rove the wavy outlines of her legs.

"I'm Jenn, the Box Manager here at Veni," she said. "You're gorgeous. You must be the new Staff Head."

"Well, I'm interviewing," I corrected her, chuckling nervously at the comment and the mistake. I shook Jenn's outstretched hand, cool to the touch. The immaculate fingernails were short and painted deep green. I had zero idea what a Box Manager was. Something in shipping?

"Oh, you're a shoo-in," she said, bending her wrist in an oh, you, kind of way. "Unless you're terrified of proofreaders or something. Let's show you around."

So the job is real? I thought. And I'm a shoo-in? I didn't know which surprised me more. We'd need to nail down the pay, obviously.

"Suis moi!" Jenn said, spinning around and exiting the waiting area. I quickly thanked Wenda and hurried to catch up. Jenn had a rear end to die for, and muscular legs, not skinny. She wore two-inch platform red Chucks. Her crimson leggings were semi-sheer, with dozens of little anarchy symbols picked out in black thread. The outline of boyshorts stood out through the skirt. Ah, me.

Over the next twenty minutes, we toured the entire fifth floor. Jenn addressed everyone by first name, and we were greeted warmly. They all seemed to share the delusion that I already worked there. Many expressed relief that I would start soon.

I learned that Veni's printing facility occupied the bottom two floors. The third and fourth floors housed the art department and marketing. Five was editorial and contracts. Jenn said my duties, like hers, would take me to every nook and cranny of the 60-person company.

Jenn pointed out the restrooms, copiers, vending machines, and staff lounge.

"You may never use those," she said airily. "but you never know."

"The bathroom could come in handy," I said brightly.

"Au contraire," she said, placing her pointer finger in the air and cackling like a witch. We continued down the hall, Jenn's elevated, narrow steps bouncing her rear end far more than I'd have predicted.

Jenn turned right, then left into a narrow stub of a side-hallway. She strode puposefully to the door at the end and turned the knob.

"Voilà! La pièce de résistance!" She tossed the door open and pressed my back to shoo me inside.

I gaped, for the modest door concealed a room twenty by twenty feet. It was nicely warm. Could this be some elaborate company-wide ruse? The room smelled of fresh cotton, coconut lotion, and roses. Its burgundy flocked velvet wallpaper reminded me of a bordello parlor in an old west movie. The springy carpet made me want to kick off my shoes. Subdued light from wall sconces caressed the raspberry ceiling.

To my right stood an entirely unenclosed toilet and a roomy glass shower, its one glassless side facing the room. The entire wall behind the sink was mirrored, making the room look even bigger. Just right of the sink stood a vase of maybe two dozen red roses. Fresh terry towels filled the four towel bars. A thick robe hung from a hanger.

Opposite lounged a day-bed suitable for Cleopatra. Its frame was carved wood covered in what sure looked like gold leaf, and it was upholstered in what sure looked like tan sueded leather.

"Magnifique, non?"

"Oui, oui," I said, my voice cracking. There was zero echo in the luxuriant space. I backed out, closed the door and asked, "Does everyone get such nice digs?"

Jenn rolled her eyes. "Of course not. It's for your own personal use. I get one, too, as Box Manager. We're special. On account of our superpowers. Everybody else uses the plebeian bathrooms." Her lips quirked in the cutest ironic smile.

Rejoining the main hall, we turned left and stopped outside the third office on the right. Its stout oak door framed a wavy-glass window with EDITOR painted on it.

"Tiens," Jenn said, glancing at her wrist. "Midi pil. The boss appreciates punctuality in all things." She gave the door three raps with her knuckles.

"Come," a voice said.

I must have taken a nervous breath, because Jenn lay a kind, cool hand on my forearm and said, "You'll do fine." She turned the knob, pushed the door open, and turned to go.

"Au revoir," I called over my shoulder. I stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind me.

Everyone who has ever entered a potential boss's domain for the first time suffers from either excitement butterflies or anxiety wasps. This felt different. You might say my stomach contained half amusement dragonflies, half bemusement moths.

"Welcome! I was hoping you'd come," the man behind the desk said, rising.

It was a kind voice, with an accent like Melissa's mom. He was fifty-ish, dark-skinned. He could have been from almost anywhere. He skirted the desk and held out a hand, but before I could shake it, his watch chimed. He withdrew his hand momentarily to read the text.

I took him in, looking for clues. His uncorraled, medium-length hair was jet, grey at the temples. He wasn't trim, but had a little belly, and wore a nice jacket of light grey wool over a beige shirt embroidered with little pineapples. His trousers were creased well, and his shoes looked uncommon, maybe handmade.

He dictated a short acknowledgement to whoever had texted him and addressed me again.

"Sorry, I'm a bit flustered today. Wonderful to meet you," he said, with genuine enthusiasm. His eyes were the mellow brown you would get if you could melt saddle leather. "Thank you for starting on such short notice."

"If I get the job," I said. "You don't know anything about me."

"Is there something untoward about yourself that you'd like to share?" An anxiously knit brow belied his playful eyes.

"Sadly, no," I said, a little disappointment in myself. "Ellis, by the way."

I held out my hand, and he took it warmly in both of his. It was more of an old-friends kind of hand-hug than a macho job interview vise.

"Renard," he offered. "Senior editor here at Veni."

I was having trouble reconciling the bizarre job posting with these entirely normal, down-to-earth-seeming people.

With a sweeping hand, Renard indicated a large armchair. It was mahogany leather, and so low I practically fell into it. And boy was it comfortable. He pulled a normal rolly office chair out from behind the desk.

"You could fall asleep in a chair like this," I said with a smile, my voice unusually low in pitch.

"Oh, I know," he said, sitting and facing me. I found the arrangement comical, because my low chair put my face at about the level of Renard's navel.

"Let me tell you a bit about Veni, and then I'll answer any questions."

What I said was, "Sounds good." What I thought was, Like what actually is this job?

Renard went on.

"We're a small publishing company that is cooperatively owned. Sixty owner/employees, each with an equal stake in Veni's profits. Everyone is paid equally: me, Wenda at the front desk -- everyone."

So everybody made a hundred dollars an hour?

"Except the Box Manager and Staff Head," he said. "Those positions pay one a thousand dollars a day."

I struggled to lift myself forward on my chair to seem like a motivated self-starter, but he held up a hand.

"Why, you ask?" he said, his bright eyes smiling. "Because it's an extraordinary amount of work in a very short time. In an average week, you will help 25, maybe 30 people. Is that too many?"

He paused, awaiting an answer.

"Too many for...?" I prompted, completely in the dark.

"Why, for you!" he said, laughing. "You won't see everyone every day, of course, but no-one should ever have to wait more than two weeks. Overtime is permitted, but never required, and isn't paid. Let's say, on average, 6 people a day. That's only ten minutes per. Seem doable?"

"Maybe, I guess, depending on what I'd be doing," I said. He was the one giving cat-and-mouse non-answers, but seemed to think I was being evasive.

"Of course it depends on what you're doing, absolutely!" he said with excitement. "A person who needs twenty minutes of your time one week may only need two minutes each of the next five weeks. But, talking average," he emphasized again. "Is that about what you'd expect? Jenn thinks you're good to go, and her work is as demanding as yours. Her judgment carries a lot of weight."

His gaze plumbed my eyes. Renard leaned forward, forearms upon his knees, and interlaced his fingers. It was an unusual posture for a boss interviewing a prospective employee. His benevolence beamed down upon me.

"Please," he said, "say yes."

On the one hand, I still had no idea of the duties of the Staff Head. Was it collecting time sheets? Vacation scheduling? Benefits management? Planning office parties?

On the other hand, for five thousand dollars a week, I'd gladly stand naked and have rubber bands shot at my genitals all day. What wouldn't be worth that kind of money?

"Sir, I -- "

"Please!" he interrupted. "Just Renard."

"Alright, Renard. I would very much like to say yes, but I'm still not sure what the Staff Head is expected to do."

"Only that. You'll work it out on a case-by-case basis, naturally. But nothing more," he said, cheerily. "So, Ellis, do we have a deal?"

I tossed my hands in the air. "Sure," I said, surrendering to his enthusiasm. I laughed, still completely at sea. "Why not?"

"Terrific. Could you start tomorrow? We've been without someone for two weeks. Things are pretty backed up, haha."

"I can start right now if you want. What do I do? Head to HR for some paperwork?"

"You're funny!" Renard said with a huge grin. "You're considered a contractor. You'll get a 1099 in January."

"Okay," I said. I actually giggled. It was all so opaque, so crazy.

"Alright," Renard said, standing. "I'll take your chair."

Thinking the interview was over, I stood and sidestepped towards the door. He plonked down into the leather cradle, leaning back in a totally relaxed pose, knees far apart.

"Now," he went on, "come kneel between my legs."

Wait, what?

Oh.

Staff Head. Just that.

30 people a week.

5 hours on my knees. Every week.

My mouth started watering like crazy.

I knelt at Renard's chair.

"Good boy," he cooed.

The smell of Renard's tooled leather belt made me dizzy. I unbuckled and unzipped him, my face hot, heart pounding, sweat breaking out all over my face and back.

I opened his fly, threaded my way through his boxers, and pulled out his balls and soft cock. My head throbbed with the forbidden thrill of touching a stranger, and joy sung in my chest. I breathed in the arousal on his skin.

His penis hung, lovely and a black so deep it was like some precious mineral. The foreskin shrouded his tip and ended in a little snout. I placed my tongue gently under his tip. The rounded cap of his cock slithered forward inside the foreskin, which widened like a mouth. The otherworldly sculpture of his want slid out and climbed my tongue. The last inch of his dick, and the entire tip, were the pinkest pink imaginable. His eyes cast blessings down.

His dick was on the short side, and I noticed Renard's little slit wasn't located at the very tip, but half an inch back on the head. He would ejaculate dramatically, spraying up into the air rather than straight ahead. Suddenly, I was desperate to witness it.

I pressed the warm rigidity of his shaft to each cheek. The temperature of his sex penetrated my face, and I felt the vitality of him in regular pulses. With my lips I pulled salty precum from him and kissed it up.

For a better look at his glory, I backed away and saw obstinate veins standing out along his length. I stared and panted. Renard's scent alone would make me say yes to the job. Hell, I'd have sucked him off for free. Would once every two weeks be enough? I definitely saw myself working some overtime.

His pleasure trickled toward my hunger. I caressed my face with his crown, painting nose, eyelids, my chin and forehead. Renard moaned. I let go. His dick strove for the ceiling, majestic, optimistic, the head bouncing with his heartbeat.

His dick was dense as stone, and as hot as a scrape on the knee. I enveloped his cock with my mouth, slid down and back, pulling at him. When I let go, he glistened and dripped. In my mind he sat in the driver's seat of a summer convertible, and I had all the time in the world.