Meet my father: Bruce Granger.
A 6-foot-4 giant of a man with rugged arms, broad shoulders, and a slicked-back mane of luscious hair blacker than midnight. The only thing more intimidating than his deep, booming voice is his stern glare. His eyes always burn confidence, and the slightest glance can freeze your lungs and root you to the spot. When he strides into a room, every other man instantly knows: he's in charge.
In high school, whenever a boyfriend of mine would pick me up from our house for a date, Father was always first to open the door. He would lock my admirer in an iron-hard handshake until the young man's legs were trembling and sweat was dripping down his forehead. I was Father's prized gem, his only child, his beautiful Claudia, the achievement he was most proud of. And he was fiercely protective of me.
I often wished I could have an equally intimidating effect on Father's romantic interests. After Mother died giving birth to me, Father had never remarried, but he had found himself inundated by no shortage of one-night stands and casual flings. It seemed as though every week a new sweetheart was throwing herself at him, some fresh 20-something secretary or intern who had sidled up to him at a work event. I would often be studying in my bedroom when he and his new squeeze would enter the front door. He would lead her upstairs to the master bedroom right above mine, and I would hear every sound of his conquering: every violent squeaking of bedsprings, every slap of his hand on her ass, every sharp squeal of "Deeper!" and every gravelly, masculine groan of pleasure.
Although I always made a show of disliking his new acquaintance when I would meet her in the kitchen the next morning, secretly I respected Father's lifestyle. I liked knowing he was the top wolf, that he could pull any gorgeous woman he wanted... and that he could pound her so thoroughly that she could barely stagger out the front door.
If there was anything Father liked more than fucking, it was competition. He turned everything into a contest, always looking for opportunities to one-up other men. Because he was as athletic as a bull and sharp as a whip, he tended to succeed in besting his opponents.
One man, however, had proven a worthy adversary. Mr. Dupont, his long-time rival at work. The two men were Senior Vice Presidents at the storied Gunn & Linkas Investment Group, and both had their eyes set on the title of President. The elderly fellow who currently held the presidency was due to retire at the end of the month. Who would become his successor? The shortlist had been narrowed until just Father and Dupont remained. They had worked at the firm the same number of years and secured almost identical numbers of deals. It was neck and neck. The two men, who had always competed over the sizes of their cars and the prices of their watches, were now fighting even more viciously: putting in extra hours, making riskier and riskier deals, following wherever the winds of victory blew.
I needed Father to win. I needed him to be the top wolf.
Which is why, when Bring-Your-Daughter-to-Work Day came around, I was all too happy to help.
Father held the door as I strode into the bustling lobby. My velvet heels clacked over the marble floor. They were dark purple, the same color as the pencil skirt that stretched to my knees. Under the snug waistband was tucked my blouse. White silk, smooth and slippery, rippling with every movement, shining under the chandelier. The button at its neckline was a fine pearl, and so were the cufflinks at the ends of its lush long sleeves. To complete the color theme, I wore a matte lavender lipstick and sported dark-purple eye shadow. My perfume was wild bluebell with hints of lemon zest.
As we pushed through the lobby, we passed several dozen teenage girls in ripped jeans and cheap crop-tops. They glanced up from their smartphones to gaze in awe at Father. His black suit and white dress shirt couldn't hide his bulging muscles.
We parted the sea of people and took the executive elevator. As we ascended to the 48th floor, Father reminded me: "This whole day was the initiative of that foe. He spoke directly to the Board to convince them to schedule it. Which can mean only one thing: he wants to parade his daughter through the office and rub her in everyone's face."
"He thinks she's better than me," I stated. "Don't worry, Father. I won't let you down."
"That's my girl."
The elevator dinged open. We stepped into the narrow, quiet hallway. Father led me through the twisting corridor until we arrived at a thick mahogany door. Since my wristwatch read 8:52, it was possible the Duponts had not yet arrived.
Father pushed the heavy wood to reveal a spacious office. A giant gold-trimmed painting of a bull decorated the left wall. Two black leather sofas lay near the door. And a giant dark-oak desk loomed at the other side of the room. Some thick waxy finish made it gleam. The office was empty except for two people standing in the far-right corner, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows down on Central Park. It was them. They tore their gazes and turned to us.
"Bruce," nodded Mr. Dupont, taking a step.
"You get bolder and bolder every day," Father said. "Moving this one-on-one to the presidential office."
"Oh he'll never know; he's overseeing the London branch today. And besides, I want our girls to see what it is we're striving for."
Dupont moved in front of the giant, shiny desk. Father strode right up to him and locked his arm in a tense handshake. The towering men were the same height, same muscular build, with the same burning confidence in their eyes.
Once upon a time, they had been best buddies: college roommates, weightlifting partners, wingmen. It had been like that for years. When they had approached girls at bars, they would talk up each other's finest qualities and shower each other in praise. Their routine worked so well that they often found themselves side-by-side banging two BFFs. One night, they brought a busty cheerleader back to their dorm and spit-roasted her -- one man on each end. They had a blast, figuratively and literally. But then it came time to decide who would call her the next day. Their need for her hand drove a steel wedge that remained between them for the remainder of college. After graduating, they found themselves at the same company, both dead-set on ascending the ladder at all costs.
"Claudia," his daughter nodded stiffly to me.
"Roxy."
We strode right up to each other, our burning glares rivaling our fathers'. Her bleached-blonde hair, Botoxed lips and tacked-on one-inch fingernails filled me with disgust.
I suppose the apples didn't fall far from the tree, for it had been a similar story between me and Roxy Dupont. Despite our fathers' rivalry, we had been close friends through high school. In the sacred sanctum of a 12th-Grade sleepover, I had shared my intimate secrets, my deepest fantasies, my most embarrassing sexual insecurities. The very next day, my boyfriend had stopped responding to my texts. When I finally returned to school after an agonizing Thanksgiving Break, I had found him cornered behind the lockers with Roxy clutching an arm around his waist, whispering my secrets into his ear.
Today was not just about fathers. Today was personal.
"A pretty young lady you have there, Bruce," muttered Mr. Dupont, finally breaking the handshake.
"Pretty
and
intelligent," asserted Father. "This year she made the freshman honors list. Straight-A student."
"So did Roxy. In fact, her literature professor lauded her essay on the history of erotic poetry as being the best piece of analysis he had ever received from an undergraduate."
What nonsense, I thought to myself. I had taken that class too, and I knew for certain that she had cheated all her assignments. She had stalked the English Department lounge until she found a lonely graduate student who could be seduced into writing the essay for her. Her 'perfect 4.0 GPA' was merely the combined effort of a dozen boytoys across campus whom she manipulated with blowjobs. That was what I despised most about Roxy. I didn't hate her because she was a slut. After all, I had awakened in unfamiliar dorms enough times to deserve that title myself. But I was an ethical slut. I treated my conquests with respect and worked hard to pleasure them as much as they pleasured me. Roxy, on the other hand, bartered half-assed blowjobs to advance her own selfish interests, discarding her boyfriends as soon as they became obsolete.
"Have I mentioned that Claudia now speaks three languages?"
"Impressive."
"Remind me: how many does Roxy speak?"
Mr. Dupont gritted his teeth. "Just one."
Father didn't relent. He stepped forward to drive the knife further into his foe. "And what is Roxy doing this summer? My Claudia already started a prestigious internship writing for our local newspaper."
I couldn't help but smile at Dupont's glare. He muttered something about Roxy still searching for opportunities. Then suddenly he cleared his throat. He glanced at me with a hint of a smile.
"You've grown since I saw you years ago, young lady. Although... it seems not every part of you has matured." His eyes flicked to my chest. "Roxy, as you can imagine, catches the eye of every boy on campus."
Roxy squeezed her hands together by her waist so that her breasts almost popped out of her crop-top. "Double Ds, Daddy. And what size does Claudy have? Oh right, her daddy already mentioned: she's a straight-'
A
' student."
"Don't worry, young lady," her father sneered at me. "I hear there are
some
