Lance Oliver Jordan

My current secretary is afraid of me. I call him a secretary because I know it chafes and he's too much of a chickenshit to correct his boss. His name is Lance Oliver Jordan - three first names. I call him "hey," or "kid," and take note when he complains to everyone that I don't even know his name. Lance Oliver Jordan graduated a year ago with a degree in Creative Writing. Lance Oliver Jordan is too pretty to be taken seriously, but takes himself too seriously to get over it. He calls me "sir" even though he can't be more than five years my junior. Lance Oliver Jordan wants me to fuck him, and he doesn't even know it yet. Some might call me a cocky bastard for thinking so, but I can tell. Like the other day, when I ate in my office because I was busy. Jordan came in to give me a fax. I took it, but he didn't leave. "What is it?" I asked, noting how he wiped his hands on his trousers. The kid had sweaty palms from handing me a fax. "Ah, erm," he stuttered, "you, ah, well." "Spit it out." "There's mayonnaise on your lip, Mr. Bentley" Jordan blurted. I looked up. Jordan's face was red as a tomato. I licked my lips and the hue brightened. "Did I get it?" "Um." Jordan cleared his throat. "Ah, yes, sir. It's, um, it's gone." I said nothing and returned to my computer. Jordan practically staggered out of the room. I watched him collapse into his chair, and then fuck me if he didn't glance down at his crotch. I know I'm easy on the eyes, but I didn't expect Jordan's peepers to be so well connected to his pecker. He still thinks he's straight. I make him bring me coffee, not because I particularly enjoy coffee, but because he gets jittery and starts stammering when he hands it to me. He doesn't realize that even when I don't look at him, I can tell he's staring at me. Jordan blushes if I talk to him or about him, or if our fingers brush when he hands me anything, or when I do catch him staring at me. The one time I let him get on the elevator with me, he was breathing so heavily that I thought he would pass out. Lance Oliver Jordan is a chickenshit because he doesn't even know he's into me. I know, because I'm all he talks about. Lance Oliver Jordan calls his mother on his lunch break, which he always takes at his desk, and all he talks about is me. He doesn't get how thin the walls are when he whines. I suspect that he failed to read the entire Internet Usage Policy before he signed it, because he should know that I can read his emails. So I know that he thinks I'm one of Satan's offspring. He postulates that the only way I could get a date would be if a hat hid the devil's horns. I don't give a shit about dating him, but I sure do want to fuck him. My secretary is in a post-twink phase. I'd bet my job that he was one of those skinny-ass hipsters in college who thought wearing glasses frames from the 1980s made him look thoughtful. Now he spends an hour in our gym every morning, and that's after riding his bike everywhere. He wants the world to know he's eco-friendly. It's the one time I blessed global warming - when my secretary's pants started getting tighter around his ass and thighs. He complains to his sister that I don't pay him enough to buy new clothes. That isn't true; I noticed his tastes run to the more costly labels, which naturally eat up his paycheck. I don't blame him; designer suits make his ass a masterpiece. Lance Oliver Jordan is a little shit. He's pricklier than a cactus and more self-righteous than a priest. He hasn't gotten a girlfriend since he's worked here, has very few friends close by, and mostly talks to his mother and his sister. His date for the Valentine's Day party left with another man. Jordan then got shitfaced, insulted six people on the way out the door, and told me that I had, "better fucking pay for this goddamn cab," because he wasn't going to spend money on pollution. Whether by accident or pure denial, he had forgotten everything by the following Monday. So far I have bided my time. There are other people in the world to fuck and I enjoy messing with Jordan's head. Lately, though, I spend more time staring at his ass through the window than I do working. It's time for the itch to be scratched, preferably by his nails on my back. There are a million places where I could move in on him. The elevator is a classic, the bathroom, or I could make him stay late and grab him while he's in my office, or even bend him over his desk. I even briefly debated the stairwell. However, with sexual harassment lawsuits running rampant, I decide to give the poor boy a warning before I completely dominate his ass. Jordan jumps when I toss documents onto his desk. He turns beet red, probably because I caught him playing reading that old Zero Impact Man blog instead of working. I've fired people for less, and he knows it. "Mr. Bentley," he stammers. "I had just finished that - " I tap the paper. "Take a good look at that before you sign it," I cut him off, and head back to my office. "Top one goes to Human Resources. Keep a copy for yourself, and file one for me under your name." It's a waiver stating that we have a consensual sexual relationship and that he can't sue the company if I decide he's not as good a fuck as I thought. My signature is already on the paper. It's a risky move, especially if he complains to HR before he signs it. I pretend not to pay attention when he glances back at me. I'm surprised when not a minute later, he knocks on the door to give the papers back to me. I indicate the desk with my pen, and he sets the papers down and steps back. I intend to ignore him until I can get some work done, then I'll fuck him. He's fidgeting like a spider monkey, so I look up. "Mr. Bentley, I just wanted to apologize," he says quickly, not meeting my eyes. "I wasn't goofing off, honestly, I was - " I'm not interested. "Did you read this?" I ask, indicating the document. "Yes, sir," he answers. "I sent the original to Human Resources and made two copies." My secretary is a liar. Jordan didn't read shit. "Your thoughts." "What?" He glances down quickly, but it's too far away for him to read. "Oh. Everything, uh, looks in order, sir." I feel satisfyingly predatory when I smile and say, "Glad you think so." It's a dismissal, and Jordan's not that dumb. I go back to my work, he goes back to his desk, but I see him glance up every so often. The idiot still doesn't look at the consent form. He probably thinks that I'm going to fire him. The bike rack is at the front of the parking garage, near the exit. Lance Oliver Jordan is on the phone when I pull around in my car. My windows are down and he's talking way too loudly, so I can hear the last part of his conversation. "No, Mom, the bastard will probably wait till I come into work on Monday, then sack me. Maybe the stupid Murphy bed will crush my body before - oh, god, I gotta go." He slaps the phone shut and shoves it in his jacket. I pop the trunk open. "Put your bike in the back. I'm taking you home." He stutters for a little bit, grumbles idiotically about resource conservation, and then gets in obediently. I don't say anything more, because it's just that entertaining to watch him squirm all over my leather seats. Jordan doesn't say anything other than his address, and so for the whole way to his dingy apartment building all that I hear is limited road noise and the pleasant voice of the GPS system. When I pull up in front of the building unlock the car doors, however, he turns to me. "Am I fired?" I want to point out that I didn't make him clean out his desk, but I refrain. "No." He nods and gets out of the car. I would have followed him, I had planned on following him, but I don't want to fuck anyone on a bed that folds out of the wall. I'll wait. Maybe I'll grab him at lunch on Monday. On Friday nights I go to a local sports bar with some of my old frat buddies. Collectively, we're a bunch of assholes who like to rub our successes in each other's faces. Being gay gives me a little more work to do in that crowd, but at least this meeting of the minds gets me out of the loft on weekends. I like that it's within walking distance of my place. One of the bartenders is a pretty willing fuck, so if I'm going to sleep with someone I don't have to wait too long. One of my buddies just closed a big deal for his advertising firm, so he's buying and we're toasting. I don't like being drunk, but I can keep up with the Joneses. We're on the fourth round of beers when I look over to see Lance Oliver Jordan staring at me. His mouth is actually open, he's so shocked. He and his vintage hat are completely out of place here. It just takes the once for me to meet his eyes, and he turns bright red and swivels around on his bar stool so fast that he knocks his buddy's drink over. "What a sad fuck," laughs my friend Matt. I get out of the booth. "That's my fucking secretary," I tell them, and they laugh. "See you boys later." Matt shakes his head. "You're a twisted motherfucker, Cash." I shrug and head over to the bar. Lance Oliver Jordan, chickenshit that he is, is talking too loud to some guy who I think might work at my company. His back is to me, and he's fiddling with the ice cubes in his drink - either he has an iron deficiency or he's sexually frustrated. I step between them and Jordan shuts up. Fear rolls off of him in waves, and he starts fidgeting. "Let's go." His eyes go wide. "What?" I signal the bartender, who sizes Jordan up. "Put it on my tab," I say, then I yank Jordan off the stool and pull him through the crowd. I'm not wasted enough to just fuck him in the alley. Maybe I'll let him into my territory for a little bit. "Wait, Mr. Bentley," Jordan protests, stumbling after me. "Hey, I was with a friend." He might be a little drunk, but so am I. I ignore him until we get onto the street, when he pulls his arm from my grip. "What the hell?" he asks, then drops his gaze. "Sir." I take his arm again. "I'm taking you home." "I can get a cab, sir." What an idiot. I keep walking. "Sir." Jordan pulls his arm out of my grasp again, getting angry. "Whatever you're thinking, I'm not too drunk to get myself home." "I'm not sending you to your home, kid." "I - " he almost doesn't say it. "I'm not gay, sir." At least he can put two and two together. I step in and grab his ass with both hands, pulling him against me. The globular muscle is tight under my palms, the effect heightened by how tense he gets. He's tall enough that our noses touch. "Not even a little curious?" I ask, biting his earlobe for effect. He's breathing so fast that I almost tell him to put his head between his knees. "I'm not," he gulps. "I'm not..." I squeeze him against me, just to remind him that he hasn't stepped away. I'm getting hard, and I don't mind him feeling it. "What's wrong, Jordan?" He turns his head to the side, won't look at me. "Do I scare you?" He snaps his head around with an angry glare, and I pull him along again. Damn right he's scared, but he's probably been mulling over the day since it ended, wondering why he lets me bully him. I know his type, and I know his buttons. We're in the elevator on the way up when Jordan says softly, "I hate you, Mr. Bentley." "You don't hate me." "I do." "You hate," I correct him, "that you want me." Jordan huffs and rolls his eyes. "I do not." Rather than ask him what the fuck he's still doing here, I shrug my jacket off and toss it to him. He catches it, kneading it in his hands. He starts backing away when I pull my shirt over my head. "What are you doing?" he asks, his voice rising in pitch. I grin. "Getting started." He swallows. "What?" I toss my shirt at him as the elevator doors open. As I expected, he catches it. "You think you don't want me? Fine." He follows me out of the elevator. "But it's my home, and I'm taking my clothes off." "I apologize, Mr. Bentley, but this is ridiculous," he says, laying the garments over the couch. His eyes never leave my body, and in fact are riveted to where my hands sit on my belt buckle. "Just because you're at home doesn't mean you need to run around naked. I don't think I need to be here for this." Lance Oliver Jordan is looking at me like I'm water and he's dying of thirst, and he has no fucking clue. He steps forward until he's within arms reach. I unbuckle my belt and drop it. "Jordan." He doesn't look up, just stares at the waistband of my jeans. I undo a button. "Lance." Nothing. What an ignorant bastard. "Lance Oliver." He looks up quickly, flushing. I shake my head knowingly, and his hands clench. "Listen," he says through his teeth, "I don't know at what you're playing, but you have it all wrong." "Chickenshit," I say, unzipping my pants. He's probably half hard by now, the way his hand keeps straying towards his groin. I drop my trousers and step out of them. "Come here." Jordan looks everywhere but at my face. "No. I'm going home, and I'll see you on Monday, sir." His feet aren't moving, so I put my hand on the back of his neck and pull. "I said, come here." I lock my eyes on his, hold his gaze as I drag him into the bedroom. Jordan's not going to look away because then he'd lose a tiny bit more of his manhood, and he's not going to run because he's too focused on the staring contest. He starts breathing hard again when I unbutton his shirt. His mouth is partly open, and his dark eyes are wide and wary. He jumps when I skim my hands over his well-defined chest before pushing the shirt from his shoulders. His hands clench repeatedly when I run my finger over his waistband - I think he might be ticklish - and his hips buck when I plunge my hand inside to help undo the button. There are two sets of sounds in the room: Jordan's breathing, loud and fast, and the sound of clothing as it is pushed and dropped to the floor. He stares at his underwear when I drag it down to his knees. Jordan keeps opening his mouth like he's going to say something, but then he closes it again. He kind of looks like a fish, and that makes me chuckle. "What?" he asks testily as he shifts his weight. His briefs fall down past his knees. "What is so funny?" "You are." I put my hand on his chest and push. Lance Oliver trips over his pants, still tangled around his ankles, and squeaks as he sails backwards onto the bed. Then he just lies there, his eyes closed, his arms at his sides, palms turned upwards. He looks like an offering, or a virgin sacrifice. One corner of my mouth rises, then the other. He probably does think of himself as some martyr for the sake of a job he hates but can't afford to lose. Fuck if I let him pretend like that the whole time. I shuck my boxers and kneel over him. Jordan resists when I grab his wrist, but no matter how many hours he spends in the gym, I can afford a personal trainer. My muscles aren't for show. He keeps his palm open, fingers splayed when I grind his hand against my dick. I guide his hand until my cock is halfway hard, then loosen my grip. Jordan either doesn't realize or doesn't care that he's the one in charge of his hand, because his fingers close tentatively around me and he starts to stroke up and down. It's clear that he hasn't done this before; his fingers are trembling, which feels fucking good on my cock. Jordan shifts uncomfortably under me, squirming again. I check and see that his cock still droops, but isn't completely limp. He hasn't stopped stroking my shaft, but it's like he's trying to decide whether or not to use two hands. I smile. Fuck his hands; I'll let him use his mouth. I want him to look at me while he sucks my cock. At this point, I could either grab his hair and force him, or coach him. The wetness under his eyelashes tells me that it might pay to be a little bit gentler. So I put a hand behind the little bitch's head and shuffle forward. "Jordan." I pull at his lower lip with my thumb, and watch as his tongue follows. Damn, but he wants me. His eyes stay closed. "Lance Oliver Jordan, open those pretty eyes." His eyelids flutter and lift. He's still fidgeting. "Open your mouth, baby." He swallows once, then obeys. Damn straight. I push my dick into his mouth, and he starts sucking on it, just like that. No moans, no protests, he just keeps his fingers moving and sucks on the cockhead. His pink lips are wrapped tightly around my shaft, and his brown eyes stare up at me worriedly. Years in management tell me he needs some positive reinforcement. "Fuck, that's sexy," I say. He closes his eyes again, and I let him stay that way. His other hand comes up to cup my ass, not to bring me closer, but just to hold me still while he explores. I want to tell him to watch his teeth, but he's already nervous. I keep my hand behind his head and hold still. It feels like Jordan is playing with my dick, like it's this new toy that he can't quite figure out. It takes everything in me not to make a noise when he starts bobbing his head up and down a little. When Jordan swirls his tongue over the piss slit and sucks hard, lifting his head with a pop of his lips, I buckle over him with a groan; I don't get how he could have not done this before. My secretary freezes like he thinks I'm going to hit him, so I thrust my hips a tiny bit to encourage him. He starts sucking again. I let him get used to sucking dick until I'm about ready to come. Leaning over to the nightstand, I grab a condom and some lube. Lance Oliver keeps his eyes scrunched shut until he hears the foil tear. He pulls off my cock. "Wait," he says. His breathing is shaky. "Are you going to - " "Fuck you up the ass," I finish for him, rolling the condom over my cock. "Right up that sweet ass, and you're gonna like it." Jordan takes a look at my cock, then at my face, and says, "Well, shit." I grin. "I warned you," I say, and I scoot backwards to nudge his legs apart with mine. "You gave me no warning whatsoever," he argues. Suddenly he digs his heels into my sheets and grabs as much of my hair as he can. "Fuck! Oh my god, fuck! Shit!" Damn straight it's hard to argue with a tongue in your ass. Lance Oliver Jordan is squirming all over my bed, has probably torn several chunks of my hair out, and is yelling at the top of his lungs. I keep my tongue busy on that tight little rosebud, coaxing it open. I lube up my fingers and push one into his hole at the same time as I engulf his cock with my mouth. Jordan goes completely still. He's propped up on his elbows, his fingers clenched in the sheets. His eyebrows are drawn together in concentration and his mouth is slightly pursed. I slide my lips down his cock and watch that mouth form an "O". I add another finger and watch his lips purse a little more. How long has it been since another person has been near Jordan's prick? Even with a couple of fingers stretching his ass for the first time he's still hard as an iron pole. He's panting like a puppy. Every time I wiggle my fingers against his prostate his stomach clenches and his thighs shake. If I touch him any more he'll shoot. "I did give you a warning," I remind him when I pull off. "I handed you a legal document stating that we have a consensual sexual relationship, and you signed it. You didn't have to sign it, but you did." "I did not!" he argues, then sits up. I grab the lube and coat my cock with it, waiting for Jordan to figure it out. I can tell when he does, because this look comes over his face like he just lost a high stakes poker game. "Fuck me, I did." I stand up and turn him over, pulling his ass towards me. "Since you asked..." "Fucking A!" Jordan arches his back, which pushes him farther onto my erection. He's tight, and hot, and is clamping down so hard that I'm almost afraid he'll crush my dick. I'm above average but not huge, but right now I feel like I have the biggest piece of meat to ever grace a man's crotch. Jordan needs to loosen up, or I'm going to lose all circulation to my cock. I run my hands down his quivering, muscled legs and bless that bicycle of his. "Relax, Jordan." He's panting short and painful breaths and biting my pillow. "Fuck you," he hisses between pants. "How am I, fuck, supposed to fucking relax, ah, shit, with your horse dong shoved up my ass?" "Just relax," I repeat, and I slide my hand around to his cock. He's still mostly hard, he and lurches as soon as my fingers brush it. I'll bet he had one of those sex-crazed girlfriends in college who'd finger him every once in a while. No guy who's never played with his ass is going to stay hard while being fucked for the first time. Stroking him slowly with my fingertips, I ease my cock into his ass until I'm balls deep. I go so slow that it's painful. Jordan has his head buried in the pillow and from the sound of it he's either singing, crying, or praying. I keep one hand on his dick and the other on his hip. I want nothing more than to pound my dick into him until he screams. But I don't. I don't because my secretary is as stiff as a board. All his muscles are clenched, including his ass. If I pull out I might not get back in. It's actually a bit painful. I sigh inwardly. "Lance." I lean over him, pressing my chest to his back. "Relax for me." I slide my hand from his hip to his neck, stroking lightly, then into his hair. Jordan shakes his head and whimpers into the pillow. Any more and he'll suffocate himself. I turn his head to the side. "It hurts," he whines. His eyes are squeezed shut and his brows are furrowed. I almost laugh. "That's because you're so tense." He is kind of cute. It's been a while since I fucked a virgin, and a boy who thinks he's straight to boot. "Do you want me to pull out?" I can't believe I'm offering him a choice. "I can't - Oh, god," Jordan pants. "It'll hurt even more." What a baby. I pull him up until I'm kneeling and he's sitting in my lap. Jordan lets go of the pillow, but it's like he doesn't know what to do with his hands. Wrapping one arm around his stomach, I grab his left hand with mine, because I do at least know that he's left-handed. "Relax," I remind him, and place his hand on his cock. I keep my hand over his as he slowly strokes himself. I'm nice for a little bit, kissing his neck, murmuring encouragingly, waiting for him to loosen up. Jordan doesn't stop whimpering like a puppy. He does, however, start rocking on my shaft a little as soon as soon as he's completely hard again. Dear god; my secretary was made to take a cock. I bless the shitty writing skills that landed him at my office instead of publishing his expository novel. I also congratulate myself on the intuition that made me recognize a cock-hungry ass when I saw it. I sit back and let him do the work. Jordan probably doesn't realize he's fucking me; he's concentrating so hard on doing whatever he can for his ass not to clamp like a fucking bear trap. It doesn't take long for me to tire of the pace and position. Jordan doesn't have the stones to make any more than shallow movements and pull at his dick. He catches himself with both hands when I lean forward again and return to our original position. I take over stroking him while I pump in and out of his ass. "Oh, fuck," he groans, pushing his face into the crook of his arm. "Fuck, fuck fuck fuck." My chickenshit secretary still sounds like he's about to cry, so I do something else I've never done before. I pause. "Jordan, if you want me to stop, tell me to stop." He doesn't say anything coherent, just moans and sways his ass. I take that as a green light and resume fucking him. Just short strokes at first, testing to see how he reacts. Jordan jacks his cock and whines like a bitch; I can't tell if he's in pain or if this is just how he fucks. I put on hand on his back and shift my angle a little, then make a quick thrust. "Ungh!" The noise comes through his teeth in pure disbelief. I know I got it, so I do it again. "Oh, god, Mr. Bentley." Fuck yes. Just to hear his voice I, keep hitting his prostate directly. Jordan keeps making little sounds, saying, "Oh fuck," and calling my name like those are the only words he knows. He's shaking all over; my cock is the earthquake and the aftershocks of his ass clenching around the epicenter are so fucking good. It isn't enough just to fuck him now. Now there's a point to prove. This bubble ass is hungry for cock. I know it. Jordan needs to know it. I pull back until just the tip of my cock is in his ass. Jordan shudders and braces himself for another thrust. I don't move. He whimpers. I tighten my grip on his waist, but don't push or pull. Jordan presses his forehead against his arm, his shoulders drop and his back arches toward the bed. It would be perfect if I were going to do all the work. Jordan pants and moans and moves his hips from side to side, but doesn't push against me or pull away. Chickenshit. "Come on, Jordan," I say, tapping his ass. My secretary shakes his head against his forearm, moaning. He knows what I mean; he's just playing dumb. Maybe Jordan is like those shy dogs, where you have to make kissy noises at them to get them to do anything. I try a new tactic. "Lance," I croon. "Move, baby." I don't know why the fuck I'm bothering, save for the magnificent ass in which I am embedded. My secretary eases himself backward, slower than snails through tar. God, but I want to fuck him hard. Instead I run my hands up and down his sides like I would a skittish horse. When he finds his sweet spot Jordan stops and lets out a high-pitched "Mph!" that I've only ever heard from women. It takes every ounce of self-control to let him rub my dick over his prostate. Jordan rocks back and forth so slowly it's agonizing. He's tight enough that I could come just from that and I'm sweating in my effort to hold still and let him get used to me. However, I only plan on fucking him once and I plan on finishing it my way. The kid needs to shake his ass. Bracing one arm on the bed, I curl my body around his, reaching my free hand around. Jordan's hand is still on his cock, but he's concentrating too much on his asshole to pull on it. I guess his eyes are closed (I can't tell, his forehead is still stuffed into the pillow) because he jumps when my fingers brush the top of his prick. It's completely covered in precum; he must have been dripping this whole time. "A little faster," I coach. "Just build it up to where you want it." Jordan obeys, pressing back while I play with his cock. It feels both forever long and immediate when he's finally fucking me. His hands are clasped together and he's using his elbows to lever himself. Our bodies slap together, sticky and hot. Jordan groans, and squeals every time he gets himself good on his spot. Growing impatient, I turn him over and push my cock back into his ass. Fuck, he's tight. Jordan's still doing his best to push back, to fuck himself on my dick, but I'm moving too fast for him. Oh god, I'm gonna blow soon. Jordan's digging his fingernails into my arms, and his heels are driving into my ass. "I'm going - " he gasps, arching his back. "Cash, I - " And then he comes, quivering and spewing all over my belly, wrapping his arms around my neck. His ass clenches hard on my cock, and his teeth sink into my shoulder. I grab his waist and pull him tighter to me, trapping his cock between us, and fuck him even faster. He calls my name again and I explode into him, thrusting as deep as I can over and over again. My whole body is shaking with the intensity of my orgasm, and the edges of my vision turn white. We stay there for a moment, my right arm supporting our combined weight, Jordan wrapped leech-tight around me. I'm cupping his head, and I have my face mashed into his neck. "Oh, fuck," is all I can say, and I let Jordan flop back onto the bed. I pull out and roll over, my chest heaving as I catch my breath. Jordan puts both hands over his face. "Oh my god, I can't believe I just got assfucked by my boss," he moans. I laugh and haul myself into the bathroom to get cleaned up. Because Jordan's a pussy I throw an arm over him when I crawl into bed to sleep. I wake up the next morning to find him gone. Lance Oliver Jordan is a chickenshit. I'm not surprised that he decided to jet after sleeping with his boss. The kid's probably terrified of me, and getting the cum fucked out of him likely didn't help. Either Jordan will quit his job, or he'll worship me as the man who opened his eyes and ass. Jordan arrives late on Monday and doesn't look at me when I talk to him. He's completely subdued, like a mistreated dog. I get the feeling that if I say anything out of the ordinary, like ask him how he's doing, he'll cry. I opt to leave him alone. I watch him for the better part of an hour, still not doing any real work. It's happened before; sometimes just one good fuck isn't enough. If I had less self-control I'd make him give up his lunch break in order to fuck on my office floor. I page him for my morning coffee, and his hand is shaking so hard that brew sloshes onto the carpet. I look up. Jordan drops to his knees, scrubbing at the spill with a napkin. The mug is still shaking in his other hand, and he's biting his lip in distress. I sigh, and come around the desk. "I'm so sorry, sir," he mumbles. I grasp the mug and pull it from Jordan's hand. "You know that I can't fire you, right?" I ask, taking the only remaining sip of coffee. My secretary pauses. His breathing is as tremulous as his hands are. "It was in that waiver we signed. I can't fire you, you can't sue me or the company, and I can't force you to do anything you don't want to." Whether I'd like to or not. I have no time for lawsuits or jail. Jordan nods miserably, rising to his feet. "I'll let you decide. We can fuck as much as you want to," I tell him, "Never again or three times a day." I take a sip of coffee. I don't give a fuck if I'm being soft, I just don't want him crying all over my carpet because he's afraid of losing his job. That'd be pathetic. My secretary mumbles something at the floor. "Speak up, Jordan." "Er, nothing, sir?" He phrases it like a question. I set the mug on the desk behind me. "Don't be a chickenshit, Jordan. Curse words and insults won't get you fired today." "You're a monumental, sorry-assed bullying bastard," he grumbles, then adds, "sir." That wasn't really what I expected. Still, it's nothing new. "Anything else?" My secretary glares at me. "You turned me into a cliché. Now I have to wonder whether you hired me for my skills or because your ass of the week got boring. You completely disregarded my sexual preferences, so now I have to struggle with whether or not I really am straight, or bi, or gay." I turn back to my computer. "It's all up to you, kid." I'm tempted to say something inflammatory, like majoring in Creative Writing should have been the first sign. Jordan points a trembling, accusatory finger in my direction. "And I don't want to be another file in HR." "Pardon?" My secretary flaps his arms in frustration. He looks like an angry jay. "Who knows how many former, or even current employees have the same document filed away? I'm not so stupid as to get that you were only nice to me at all last night be cause you wanted to speed up the process. You don't like me. I don't want to be yet another notch on your bedpost." He blushes, then continues, "Or on anyone's bedpost, sir. I don't do one-night stands." Chickenshit. I lean back in my chair and spread my hands. "What can I say? I'd just gotten news that the man I've been in love for years with is getting married, and I used your lithe body to drown my sorrows." Jordan's expression softens a little. His heart must be made of butter, the way he melts so fast. "Really?" he asks, taking a step forward. "Nope," I reply. Jordan reels himself back, poker lodged firmly up his ass again. "My grandmother died, and I needed to feel someone's arms around me." Again the crease between his brows disappears and his mouth loses its tightness. I grin. Jordan notices, goes rigid, and flushes. Those cocksucking lips are actually pouting. He can't know he does that. What grown-ass adult pouts? "I don't need to know why you targeted me," he says loftily, "just that I won't be subject to it again." I sigh. "Kid, you wouldn't have opened your mouth if you didn't want to know why I fucked you." "I - " "Shut up." I stand, coming around to lean on my desk. "You want to know why? It's because you have a fantastic ass." I gesture at his hips and notice Jordan's hands twitch like he wants to reach back and cover himself. "You've been obsessed with me the whole time you've worked here. I can hear you talking about me on your break, and I know you watch me when you think I'm not looking." Jordan's pretty face is beet red by now. "I had an itch," I say honestly, careful to keep my tone clear if derision, "and you scratched it." Mouth set in a grim line, Jordan asks, "You never considered the repercussions this would have on me psychologically? That's it?" "Unless you want me to fuck you again." "No, sir." I love it that he keeps the polite "sir" attached, even when he's ready to punch me. It means he wants to keep his job. "Then you can get back to work and resume chasing skirts. I'll need a fresh cup of coffee, Jordan," I say, and go back to my chair. "Yes, sir," he replies quietly. I point a finger at him before he turns around. "If I see you at that bar again, your ass is mine." Jordan's brown eyes go wide, and he sputters. "But my friends really like that bar!" he protests. "Mine," I repeat, and I start typing nonsense on the computer to make it look like I'm working. Jordan inhales sharply and turns on his heel. I watch his ass as he leaves. That itch might need some more scratching.