My boss is not a big man, but he is powerful. He's the Head of Finance of one of the largest social landlords in London. The company has thousands of employees; it designs and builds entire neighbourhoods. And my boss is on top of the money, keeping his keen eye on the movement of hundreds of millions of pounds daily.
It is an immense responsibility, but he is up to the task. I have seen him take on behemoths and win. I have seen lesser people try to bribe him, and seen him dismiss them like flies. He is a powerful man. He is a firm man. But he is also a good man.
How do I know this? Because for the past few months, I have been temping as his personal assistant. Christ, I would have taken any job, and this just fell in my lap. His last PA quit, and HR organised a temp from an agency: me.
He didn't care that I was male. He was fucking busy. I walked into his office and he said, "Hello, I'm Kevin. Are you ready?"
I put down my bag, took out my writing folio, clicked my pen ready, and said, "Yes."
I almost said Sir.
And then he started talking, giving instructions, telling me what I needed to do, things I needed to tell to so and so. I wrote furiously. My heart was racing. This man expected efficiency. More than expected, he required it if he was to even function.
"Do you have all that?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied. Sir, in my head.
"Okay then. I have a meeting now with Ops and Services, it should end by 9:00. If it doesn't, you need to come rescue me, I have other things to do. While I'm in there, if you could run down that list I would appreciate it. When I get here I would like a cup of rooibos tea, black, no sugar. Thank you Jacob."
And he walked off. He knew my name.
But oh my god. As I had glanced up from my writing, my eyes had accidentally flicked across his crotch. His trousers were just tailored enough that I could see the outline of his package quite clearly. It wasn't impossibly large, but I was pretty sure it was big enough. I lost my train of thought.
Then I looked at the list and realised I was fucked. I had no idea who anyone I'd written down was. I had to get this done, and I had 60 minutes to do it.
I worked my ass off that morning. Everything he asked me to do, I did, and I did it well.
At the end of the day he said, "Thanks for what you did today, I didn't think a temp would do that well. Do you need work?"
"My visa expires in three months," I said. "I do need a gig, but I likely won't stay."
"Well, you'll work here until then," he decided, matter of factly. "Go speak to Allison in HR, she'll do what's necessary. Goodnight."
Yes, sir.
Over the next few weeks, I never left Kevin's side. I shadowed him in meetings, noting what was discussed so that he didn't need to tell me to implement what was decided. I stood behind him in private appointments with contractors, as a presence of accountability because so many of them are shady. I noted his every tick, and the tides of his emotions. It was my job to anticipate his needs, and meet them.
I came to know him as brutally efficient, but also just in his dealings. Firm when required, but never unnecessarily unkind.
He was also sexy as fuck. Kevin was in his 40s but cycled to and from work, an hour each way. He would come up to the office at 6am in his cycling gear, the breathable sports fabric accentuating not only his fit muscles but the prominent bulge of his package, too. I would give him his pressed suit and he would head off to the company gym to shower.
I would walk with him, writing as he spoke.
On one occasion, we reached the shower cubicles before he had finished instructing me, and he carried on talking as he got undressed, unashamed of his nudity.
He had nothing to be ashamed of. He didn't have crazy model definition, but his body showed the results of the cycling, and he had an inviting trail of light fur that began below his neck and angled down over his lightly protruding belly, until it joined the trimmed bush above his cock.
