Position Interview

I tugged on the lapel of the suit and looked around the deserted reception room, admittedly a bit nervously. I felt quite alone here. The receptionist had checked me in, made a call, told me to take a seat, picked up her purse, and was gone. An end-of the day job interview appointment. I adjusted the knot on my tie and smoothed down my hair. I moved the heel of my right shoe back, feeling it encounter the end of the small duffle bag I'd placed under the chair. Didn't want to lose that.

It was all nerves. I knew I looked good. Eddie told me he liked sending me out on temp assignments like this because I looked so good in either a suit or a tux. Of course Eddie would probably tell me anything he had to to get me to do this.

Eddie had said, "Your name is Jeffery Walker. Remember that. And give him this résumé as soon as you enter."

"Résumé?" I'd asked. I scanned it. "This isn't anything I'd know about doing. I can't even pronounce half of these words."

"Don't worry, he won't look at it. Just make sure you establish that Eddie Jones sent you. He won't be concerned about anything else."

"Eddie Jones?" I'd asked, giving Eddie MacMillan a confused look.

He returned a pointed "don't ask, stupid," glare at me. He was right to. I'd done this before. It's just that Eddie had sprung this on me on short notice.

"We've got you backstopped," Eddie had said. "That's all that matters."

The room was starting to go to shadows. The receptionist had been gone for a good fifteen minutes now. It was well beyond the appointed time. I took several breaths. I didn't want to start sweating. Not in this special suit Eddie had given me to wear.

"Mr. Walker?"

I hesitated and then looked up at the door that had opened to an inner office. The voice was assertive and had cut through the silence like a knife. There was an accent in it. Spanish?

"Yes, sir, that's me."

"Step in here, please."

He was maybe in his forties. Good looking and built like a tank. Looked really good in his suit. Graying at the temples, but on him it looked good. Dark and sultry. Steel gray eyes. The Spanish accent. Yeah, maybe Spanish. He looked Mediterranean. He looked luscious. I was surprised. I had expected another sort of interviewer.

He stepped aside and grasped my hand as I entered the room. A warm smile and a strong grip in the handshake. "I'm Carlos Vendoza," he said. "Take a seat over there." He pointed to a chair on the other side of a big, wide, but not deep mahogany desk, swept clean. I sat, as I heard the door to the reception area close—and a lock clicked—behind me.

Vendoza came around and sat in the executive chair on the other side of the desk, facing me. We were really sitting pretty close together across the narrow desk. And when he leaned forward on his elbows, it almost was like he was invading my space—not that anything in this room was my space. It was all his, and he gave off the vibes of everything in the room being his too.

"You were sent by . . .?"

"Eddie Walker," I said as I laid the résumé Eddie had given me that had too many unfamiliar technical words in it for me to have had any hope of memorizing it, in front of him on the desk, the print turned toward him. It would be more accurate to say that I placed it under his nose and between his elbows. He fingered the edges of the document with strong-looking hands—long, sensuous fingers—but he didn't look at it. His eyes were boring into me, testing me without even starting into the questions.

"You understand what this position is, Mr. Walker? That it would be under me?"

"Yes, sir. I understand that. Mr. . . . Jones . . . hadn't specified what the business was, though." Eddie had told me to talk like this really was a job interview, to ask questions about the job.

"You could say that we work with imports and also . . . deposits, you might say. The company is based in Bogotá, Colombia. I'm the Miami connection, umm manager. I guess you could say I'm the inside man in Miami. Does that bother you, Mr. Walker? Me being an inside man?"

"No, sir. That suits me fine." Ah, that explains the Spanish accent then.

I had been looking above the man's head. I lowered my gaze and noticed that he had taken off his suit coat and tossed it aside on a side chair. His blue dress shirt looked expensive. Probably silk. And it was tailored close to his body, tapering down from bulging pecs to a smaller, but still solid waistline. The material was thin. I could see the shadow of the dark, curly chest hair swirling around on his pecs and descending in a trail toward his waist. And the material puckered at his nipples.

Although all of that was included in what I observed, that wasn't what caught my attention and made me take my breath in in a gulp. He was wearing a gun holster in his left arm pit with a godawful big and long handgun sheathed in it.

And then there was his foot. As I'd already observed, the desk wasn't too deep and the knee hole was open on both sides. His socked foot was resting on its heel on the edge of my seat between my thighs. Mostly on reflex, I widened my stance, and he pushed the foot farther into the chair, pressed his toes to my crotch, and began to rub. Any illusions that someone in my position could have had about this interview to this point—although most anyone would have caught on with the empty reception room and the click of the lock of the door—what he was doing with his foot would dispel that. My reaction was to go hard. There was no doubt that he could feel that with his toes.

"You haven't asked what it is that we import, Mr. Walker."

"I was interested in that, but would it really matter?" I asked, as I watched him unbutton the top buttons of his shirt.

"No, not in serving under me—me being an inside man—no, that shouldn't matter to you. But I'll tell you that we work with pharmaceuticals and in moving money."

"Ah. Good to know." No saying later that I didn't know, that was for sure.

"You are interested in the gun, I see, Mr. Walker."

Well, I was initially, but now I was more interested in watching him unbutton his shirt and pull it off his back. The hint of a magnificent, hirsute chest and taut nipples that had been given through the filmy blue material was borne out. The man was a bodybuilder and was doing all the right things in sculpting his body.

"It's big and long, isn't it?" he said. "The gun. That's me. A big and long gun. I'm also what you could call an enforcer. You wouldn't be expected to do that as well—working under me—I would cover you as needed. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said in a voice that was somewhat weaker than I intended.

He had his tie off and was winding each end through his fists. He moved much quicker than I was prepared for. He was behind me, looping the tie over my head and around my neck before I had time to react. He pulled me up from my chair and kicked it aside. I was gagging as he pulled my head back into the hollow of his neck while bending me over the desk, my chest landing on top of the résumé he hadn't bothered to read.

He fucked me from behind, bent over the desk, with that big, long gun of his. He took his time, both in the fuck and in the preparation. He'd choked me with the tie enough to have me gasping for every breath of air I could get and not worrying about anything else he wanted to do to me. When he released me, I just lay on top of the desk, looking at the floor on the other side of the desk and moaning and gulping in air, as he ripped my shirt off my back, leaving the tie in place.

I felt the bulk of him come off my back and his hands go to my butt cheeks as he knelt behind me. I heard and felt the rip at the seam of my breakaway suit trousers and then my briefs as he opened up access to my now-bare ass. And I felt the colder air on the cheeks and then his warm hands, spreading them. And his hot breath on my asshole.

"Don't even think of moving," he growled. And with a thought to that gun in his holster and to his size compared with mine, I didn't. I lay there, chest on desk top and fists grasping the far rim of the desk, groaning and grunting, as he pulled my cock and balls through my spread thighs and worked them over with his hands and his mouth.

By the time his mouth had moved back to my asshole, with his hands spreading my butt cheeks apart, I was his for anything that he wanted to do.

And what he wanted to do was rise up behind me, grab and reverse my tie to my back, and arch my torso back toward him with brutal tugs on the tie that left me gasping for air again. Stuffing himself inside me, me grateful that he had opened me up well with his mouth and tongue, he took me in long, deep, ever-quicker strokes that had me forgetting the choking of the tie around my neck. I gave him an A in stamina and vigor. Just in case I thought of objecting to any of this, I could feel the leather of his holstered handgun banging against my shoulder blades each time he jerked my torso up to his chest with a tug on my tie. He rode my ass hard, without letup, for twenty minutes to, first, my ejaculation on my nice new, polished shoes, and then his. He'd worn a condom, although I had no idea when he'd sheathed himself.

He exhausted me with the first fuck, but if I thought he was finished, I was very much mistaken. After he'd ejaculated, he stayed inside me, embracing me from above while he let his hands roam and told me I was "a good one."

He was really good at fucking himself—and I told him so.

After he'd calmed down, he began heating himself up again, ultimately with me on my back on the desk top and him crouched over my face and feeding his cock into my mouth for me to get hard again.

He climbed down off the desk, pulled my pants and briefs—what was left of them—off my legs, and made love with his hands and mouth up and down the black silk calf-high socks with suspenders that Eddie had insisted that I wear. He enjoyed doing that enough—and it looked from where I was laying that it made him even harder—that I had to wonder if Eddie knew something about the demand I wear those socks that I didn't.

After I watched him roll another condom on and spritz his cock and my hole with lube, he grabbed my legs at the ankles, spread them wide, giving me a wide stance that I appreciated immediately after, and thrust back inside me. I think he fucked me even longer this time than the first. And he was just as vigorous as before. I had reason again to think that he had to be spending a lot of time in the gym.

I would have let a guy this good looking and built and endowed do this to me for free—at least that's what I thought until the point of his last ejaculation. As he was building up to one, signaled by his ragged breathing and the jerkiness and intensity of his stroking, he let loose of one of my ankles and pulled his handgun out of his holster. Scaring the bejezuss out of me, he rammed the barrel up into my mouth. Frightened out of my wits and too surprised to react—and well, about to hit my own shoot off—I lay there, paralyzed.

I heard the click as he ejaculated. And then the deep laugh. A click, not an explosion and then nothing. But who knows it if was just a misfire. We struggled for the gun. He was still laughing, maniacally, I thought.

I'll always remember the rush of adrenaline from having the gun barrel pushed in my mouth and the struggle with the guy for that gun.

* * * *

I heard the click of the office door behind me and went over to the chair I'd been sitting in in the reception room and dug the small duffle bag out from underneath it. I'd scouted out the men's room outside of the elevators on the floor when I'd first arrived, and I went there, stripped, and cleaned myself off with paper towels and water from the bank of sinks. I worked as quickly as I could. Eddie had said for me to get out of there as quickly as possible, and I certainly wanted to do that. I was exhausted. All I wanted was a beer and eight hours of sleep—in a very isolated place.

Shredded breakaway suit and shirt in hand, I looked around for the trash bin. Then I remembered that Eddie had told me not to leave anything like that behind either. Of course he was right. I stuffed them in the small duffel after taking out my jeans, T-shirt, and bikini briefs. An entirely different, completely casual look. I checked my face in the mirror to make sure nothing needed to be cleaned off and saw that my hands were trembling. I felt so numb that I hadn't known they were.

Out on the sidewalk, I looked up the side of the high rise, trying to pick out the window of the office where I'd been. I couldn't. I don't remember having looked out of the window of the office to get my bearings.

I laughed then, relieved by "mission accomplished."

Eddie had told me that these were good jobs and that they paid more because of the kinkiness of them. Other than the gun being pulled on me and stuck in my mouth, I had found it all very interesting and arousing.

His story had been a good one—if you take away Eddie having explained it all from the beginning. Not the gun, though. Certainly not the gun. And if you didn't know that this was the headquarters of a major insurance company and that the title "Insurance Agent" hadn't been stenciled on the man's door over his real name—Kenneth, not Carlos, Vendoza.

He'd almost had me fooled about being South American—not the drug cartel business, of course. That was over the top but really pretty hot, in its own way when matched with his Latin good looks and great body. And that dick, oolala, that magnificent dick. He'd only dropped the fake accent when we were heavy in the clutches and he'd lost control of what he was saying.

All in all a good fantasy category assignment. And a great fuck. If the guy contracted for another fantasy fuck, I'd be happy if Eddie signed me up—the guy had said he wanted to see me again. But no guns next time. That was almost too real. I would have shit my pants on that if I hadn't cleaned out real good before going there. And if I'd been wearing pants. And if he hadn't had my ass channel stuffed with his big, long cock.