"The Boss" is a story by Hugh Mili8 exploring the nature of authority. (See also the novel-length story "Humiliator" by the same author.) Not for the faint hearted or those who like their sex stories to be romantic and "nice"!
Contact me on Questorius@yahoo.com and tell me how much you liked it - or hated it!
"THE BOSS"
I sent off my Work Plan for the following week on Friday morning as required and when I checked my emails that night I found a message from Roger Knight the new Sales Manager. He announced his intention to make a field visit with me next Tues/Wed and would I pick him up at Dublin Airport from the 09.20 flight, returning him there for the 18.00 flight to Belfast on Wed. evening.
I smiled to myself reflecting that he had been in the job for nearly six months and would have met all the UK salesmen in the first couple of months and only now was he getting round to an Irish field visit. Well that was par for the course, the English always tended to treat Ireland as an after thought. Not that I minded, it meant that Ireland was effectively my own fiefdom with minimum interference from Head Office and that suited me fine. I liked being my own boss.
I flicked back through previous copies of the Company mag to find a photo of Roger when he took up the job. I wanted to be sure and recognise him at the airport. It wouldn't do to miss him, after all he was my boss! He looked a pleasant enough man as far as you could tell in the photo. But his visit was a bloody nuisance all the same because my work plan required me to make my regular monthly call on Wexford on the Wed. morning and then I'd have to haul all the way back to Dublin for the 6pm flight instead of going on to Waterford. Typical of the English not to realise the distances involved. They never seemed to realise just how big Ireland is. Worse still, I'd have to find him accommodation in Wexford on Tuesday night and how the hell was I to do that with the International Opera Festival in full spate with every thing booked up for miles around. I could hardly expect the Big Boss from England to stay in Mrs O' Flaherty's rooming house where I always stayed, even if she had a spare room.
I phoned the two best hotels, both were fully booked. I phoned some scruffy ones. Same story. In desperation I called Mrs O'F. "Oh sure, Finn, I like to help you if I could, youse know that, but I'm booked solid too." she hollered. She suggested I might share my room but I didn't think that a good idea. I explained my problem: your Man himself arriving from England, need to make an impression etc. The marvellous Mrs O'F shrieked "Now Finn, isn't it like a son you are to me? And wouldn't I help you if I could? I tell you what I'll do, I'll put him up in the attic in Major Flynn's room, for isn't it Drogheda he's gone to for three days for his auntie's funeral God rest her soul." I thanked her warmly but sent an email to Roger at H. O. explaining the problem and asking if he'd prefer to cancel?
Of course he didn't get it till Monday morning and sent a reply "All arrangements stand. Mrs. O' Flaherty's place sounds a lot more fun than a Holiday Inn!" I warmed to the man for that.
I met him as planned at the airport, no problems, and made several calls in Dublin with him before heading south for a couple more in Wicklow and then on to Wexford where we arrived at 6pm. Roger seemed a very pleasant fellow, easy to get on with for an Englishman and with no attempt to come the heavy handed boss.
It was October and already getting dark and Roger was impressed by all the festoons of lights in the streets for the Festival. We drove to Mrs. F's and she and Roger got on famously from the word go. She snatched his bag from my hand and swept him off up the stairs to his room, chattering like a starling. I called out to him that I'd come up to him at 7.30 and we go out for a drink and then dinner in a great little sea food retaurant I knew.
I had a leisurely shower and shave, changed, watched the TV news and, at exactly 7.30, tapped on Roger's door. No answer. I knocked again, more loudly. After a moment he opened the door. He was wearing only his slacks and his shirt, hanging loose and open. I could not help but note the handsome body under the open shirt, smooth and brown, not hairy like mine. He was rather flustered and apologetic, explaining as he took me in to his room that he had lain on the bed to read a report and had dozed off.
"Just give me a moment for a quick wash and I'll be with you" he said, slipping his shirt off. I assured him there was no rush and to take his time. (I was happy to observe his very attractive body!) I noted he had an odd, free-standing shower cubicle alongside the huge, old-fashioned wardrobe. It stood like an improbable, white enamelled time machine in the gloomy spaces of the large attic room. "Have a shower" I urged him. "There's really no rush as long as we get to the restuarant before the opera mob turns out"
He agreed it would be nice to freshen up and pointed to the Brownlea Report he'd been reading and suggested I might like to read it while waiting. "Sit on the bed" he said. He fished out his toilet gear from his bag, turning a truly splendid back on me, then casually dropped his slacks and slipped off his boxer shorts with "locker room" unselfconciousness and stepped into the shower capsule. It had a frosted glass door but a light in the ceiling, so there, in this large gloomy room was this surreal, bright, shower unit with a half-seen naked man within. Hugely erotic!
I started fantasising about mounting him and entering him and taking a long, slow, leisurely fuck on that handsome body. Inevitably I got a terriffic hard on. Hey, steady on, I warned myself. I'd spent the whole day with this man without any hint that he might be gay. And dammit, he was my boss and misplaying this situation could seriously damage my career! But oh God, that fine male body moving in the steamy confines of the shower pod, half seen but FULLY imagined! My cock had its own priority, independant of any sensible warnings.
I heard the water turned off and he threw open the door. "Throw me that towel, will you?" he said and there he was, magnificently naked, spotlit in the cubicle, the droplets of water spakling like diamonds on the brown skin of his shoulders and bright rivulets of water snaking over his chest and belly. And his rather surprisingly small cock - surely that was bigger? Still unimpressive, but had the sensuality of the shower stirred the beginnings of an erection?
He started towelling himself with a vigorous lack of self-awareness, but then (perhaps he had noted my rampant hard-on?) I became aware of a subtle change. He was displaying himself to me! The sexy bastard! Rubbing the inside of his thigh, his leg splayed out provocatively, towelling his back, chest thrust out, stomach taut. I gave up any pretence of not noticing him and blatantly ogled the display.
I gaped my thighs and stroked my crotch, settling my rod along my thigh and blatantly holding the fabric of my trousers taut across it, outlining its bulk with my fingers. Well, I might not be able to match his fine physique but the Good Lord had been kind to me and my cock trumped his by several inches. No doubt about it, my cock ruled in this roost! He stopped any pretence of towelling and just stood there in his nakedness, gazing openly at my swollen member. Slowly his gaze rose up to meet mine and our eyes locked. The atmosphere fizzed with erotic tension and challenge. I snapped my fingers and pointed sharply to the floor between my feet. For an agonisingly long split scond he stood irresolute and then slowly knelt before me in his nakedness.
Unhurriedly I reached out and slipped my hand behind his neck to gently pull him down and scrub his face into my trousered crotch. He snuffled and nuzzled and breathed my man-smell eagerly. Rubbing his face against my rod he gently gnawed through the fabric at it with his teeth.
I leaned back on the bed, supporting myself with my arms. "Get it out" I ordered. With something like reverence he unzipped me and scooped out my cock and my balls, but instead of immediately sucking my shaft as I expected, he lay his cheek on my thigh and gazed at my manhood at point blank range with open admiration. He stroked the tips of his fingers up and down its length very lightly and began to lick my testicles in what seemed to be an act of homage! Then the tip of his tongue made the same slow journey up my shaft as if he were climbing up it. A bead of bright fuck-juice sat atop my bared helm and he scooped this up with his tongue with devoted care. Having expected the sort of robust and enthusiastic cock-sucking I was used to, I found this slow rite of shameless worship to be powerfully erotic.
Finally he moistened his lips and slid them down to engulf my meat while his fingers softly massaged my balls. A powerful rage of fuck lust swept over me and I longed to fuck his mouth and shoot my load down his throat there and then but I forced mself to exercise self control because I wanted the even greater pleasure of mounting him and fucking his body.
I got to my feet and stood over him, my legs splayed, and let him continue sucking me for a bit because I wanted him to remember how he had knelt in his nakedness at the feet of a dominant male - and a still fully clothed dominant male, at that - degrading himself as my submissive cocksucker. I could see our reflection in the door of the shower cabinet and it was a picture I liked. So, who's boss now? I mused.
Again I fought off my desire to shoot my load into his mouth and instead pulled out, remembering my hot fantasy of fucking him as I watched him in the shower. I grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanked him roughly to his feet and fairly threw him across the width of the bed, his feet still on the floor. I wanted him to feel he had been crudely used.
He looked so exciting with his fine male body sprawled and vulnerable, awaiting my pleasure. I kicked his ankles apart to open him up for me, spat on my fingers, wiped them on his ring and without ceremony I covered him and entered him and took him. Nothing fancy, just a quick, brutal rodgering and within a minute I was shooting wads of spunk deep into his body. And Oh God it was GOOD! Safe sex? Forget it. There just wasn't time. And anyway, I wanted to ride him bareback and to lodge my semen deep in his body as a sort of marker that he was mine, like a top dog marking a lampost.
After a moment I jerked my cock out violently to make him grunt, heaved myself off him and went to the wash basin to clean up, using his face flannel for the purpose and making sure he saw what I was doing. He rolled onto his back and started beating his meat in a rather desultry way. "Stop that" I snapped. "I'll tell you when you can cum. Now get dressed. We're going to eat". He dragged himself to his feet, looking exhausted and defeated. He went to his bag and pulled out a clean pair of boxers. "Put those down" I told him, "you are not allowed any underwear. I want to keep you feeling randy till we get back."
He glowered at me and for a moment I thought he might challenge my authority, but he sullenly dropped the shorts and pulled on his slacks. He took a clean shirt off its hanger in the wardrobe and slipped his arms in but before he could button it, and remembering that sullen, rebellious look, I decided to spell out our roles in definitive terms. I took his left nipple in a fierce grip that made him suck his teeth, but he made no attempt to pull away. I slowly pulled him up onto his toes. He had no option, where his nipple went he had to follow. I held him teetering there for a few seconds before letting him down onto his feet. He breathed a sigh of relief thinking that was it, but I continued dragging downwards. He bent at the waist but still I pulled down, twisting his tit as I did so, til he dropped to his knees. I was still not satisfied but pulled down further til his cheek was on my shoe and held him there. "Nine to five you are the boss. Outside those hours, I am". I snapped. And do you know what he said? "Yes Sir" he said! Yes SIR, and I knew I had him. And oh, but there is much satisfaction to be had from the power to make a man grovel at your feet with just a pinch of thumb and forefinger, especially when he is three inches taller and 20 pounds heavier than you. When he is supposedly the boss, that satisfaction is sweeter still, but when it is an ENGLISH boss down there with his face on your boot and whimpering in your grip, then for an Irishman that is a power-rush like no other!
I let go of his tit and told him to get up. As he did so, I saw he had a hard-on poking at his trousers, trying to get out. Here was a man turned on by humiliation - and bejaysus wasn't I the very man to give him what he needed?
I had booked a table at Donan's Sea Food Bar, a place I'd only been to once before as it was too expensive for my expense sheet, but what the hell, he was paying. But before going to the table I took a seat in the little bar area, tossed a fiver to Roger and told him to get me a pint of stout and something for himself. Well, my expenses would cover that OK!
Of course, being English, he didn't know about the long, slow ritual of drawing a pint in Ireland, the putting of the first draw aside to allow the glass to settle for several minutes and in a place like this they spun the performance out to demonstrate they did things "properly". He had ordered a pint of lager for himself which the barman drew off straight away and set on the bar, almost scornfully it seemed. I could see Roger was embarrassed to have his drink but not mine and he shuffled awkwardly while waiting til my glass had its second fill and the head carefully sliced off with the spatula with surgical precision. He brought both glasses to the table and set them down, but remained standing. I nodded to the chair beside mine, giving him permission to sit. Oh, but this man played the servile role with dedication and I liked that. "You don't care for a drop o' the black Guinness then?" I probed. He said it was too bitter for his taste. I nodded understandingly and commented that sure, it was a man's drink. I swear he flinched at the implied insult as he sipped his thin, pale lager.
In due course we were led to our table and over dinner we enjoyed a relaxed conversation talking "shop". He started telling me about the strategic aims of the Dutch group that had taken us over six months back - the group that had brought him in as Sales Manager - and here was the voice of Management again, quiet and confidant, bringing a member of staff, out on the fringes of the operation, up to speed.
It was a very pleasant, relaxed meal and I found him more and more likeable - and more and more attractive. It was time for a sharp jerk on the lead to remind him of our true after-hours relationship, so as the waiter set down the coffee cups I leaned back and casually asked "How's your crotch Roger?" He blushed! Actually blushed and cast a quick glance at the waiter who, of course, showed professional unawareness of anything amiss. As he withdrew I leaned across and in more discreet tone cruelly demanded an answer. He muttered it was OK. "NO damp patch showing? No leakage?" I probed. He shook his head, still clearly embarrassed. I considerately explained that I feared that without undershorts he might be feeling concious of his cock, concious of his nakedness? Randy, even?" He shook his head miserably but confessed he felt damp "round the rear". "Oh , that'll be semen leak" I informed him blithely. He glared at me with real venom. "You are a bastard" he snarled. "Yes" I agreed, "aren't you lucky?" I told him to pay the bill as it was time to get to a bar pretty smartish before the opera lovers turned out and decended on the town.
We went down to the dockside to one of my favourite bars. There were two chaps on fiddles, an accordion and a bodhran player thundering out his accompaniment on a huge instrument, the stick fairly flying over the stretched vellum - a great, stomping gig in full swing. Again I sent poor Roger to the bar with some money and we were only just in time before the opera lovers started pouring in in their full evening dress, the men in compusory black tie and the women in all their glittering finery, German, American, Italian, English, happily mixing with the locals and fishermen in their jeans and knitted jerseys. That is the magic of this little fishing port that the international Beautiful People mingle shoulder to shoulder with the boyos, all enjoying the same music after the high culture up at the Theatre.
Roger was bedazzled by the heaving, noisy scene, was grinning happily and chatting to a very stylish woman who turned out to be Argentinian! Time to knock him down again with a bit of judicious abasement! I swigged down the last of my stout and told him to come with me and to bring his still half- full glass. I led him to the gents, poured his thin pale beer down the drain and took a long piss into his glass, gave it back to him and promptly led him back into the press of bodies. The look of horror on his face was a picture!
I got myself another drink (eventually!) and rejoined him where he stood, trying to wrap his hand round as much of his glass as possible to conceal its suspiciously yellow contents. I got chatting to some locals and we had another drink but Roger still stood there miserably clutching his glass of piss. He kept giving me covert glances of appeal and I realised he wanted me to ORDER him to drink it! But oh no, that was too easy and I studiously ignored his appeals. He was going to have to drink it voluntarily. He had to know that he had degraded himself in public not because he had been forced to do so but because he knew what was required of him and did it.
I leaned close to him and over the noise of the music I yelled in his ear "You know you are going to get fucked again when we get back to Mrs. F's? Not like last time. This time it's going to be long and slow and hard. Very long. Very slow. And very hard!" He gave a sheepish grin and raised his glass to his lips. He wanted to show me, wanted me to see, but I made a point of not noticing. There was just him and my piss. It was up to him to do the right thing.
Back at our B&B I took him to my room. He began to strip as soon as he entered, seeking to please, but I stopped him and made him stand passive and compliant like a tailor's dummy while I handled him and explored him and fingered his flesh as I slowly, very slowly, stripped him naked. Most enjoyable! The humiliation of having to submit to being gripped and groped and stripped and probed for another man's pleasure obviously turned him on, for his rock-hard little cock jutted out from his body dribbling a long stream of fuck-juice down to his knee. I too stripped off and put him on his back at the end of my bed. I hooked his legs over my shoulders, lubed him with his own cock-slime and, bending him double with his knees pressed to his shoulders, I entered into him deep, deep, deep, til my balls hung against his body. And I fucked him as I said I would, very long, very slow and very hard in an entirely selfish, greedy, self-indulgent way.
When I had finished I got off him and went to clean up in my bathroom and when I returned he lay where I had left him, sprawled on his back on the bed, apparently exhausted, but he heaved himself up onto one elbow and said "God, but you're an animal. An animal! A fucking, hairy, ANIMAL!"
I don't think it was a complaint! I sat beside him and he twisted round and buried his face in my chest, kissing me and licking my nipples. My hairyness seemed to turn him on.
I made him kneel before me and told him to toss himself off. He seemed rather put off by having to perform under my scrutiny and his cock had gone soft. He yanked and yanked at it furiously, clearly shamed by his failure.
"Come on, come on" I said, deliberately twisting the knife of his shame, "we haven't got all night" and to help him I leaned forward and grabbed his tit in a vicious grip. The effect was dramatic. Suddenly he was hard again and close to orgasm. I cupped my hand in front of his his cock and told him to give me his cum. All of it. Every last drop. I gave a sharp twist to his tit and he seemed to explode, shouting aloud as spasm after spasm shook his body. I had never seen so much semen! Jet after jet squirted into my hand, thick white wads of man-fuck.
As I released his nipple he seized that hand and covered it with ecstatic kisses, mumbling "Thankyou Sir, thankyou" over and over. Pathetic!
I waited til he quieted down and then said "You are kissing the wrong hand." He sat back on his heels and looked at me blankly and uncomprhending. I nodded to my cupped hand with the cum puddling in its palm. A look of horror came over his face and he started shaking his head and saying "No Sir, no, please no." I just nodded a silent affimative and proffered the mess to him. "Please Sir, I can't do that. Not now. Please, don't make me."
I held the back of his head with my other hand and slopped the mess onto his face and spread it around - none too gently. I ground the wet heel of my hand into his eye sockets, I scooped my palm up over his nostrils, I anointed his closed lips with my sticky fingers, I smeared his cheeks. Then I ordered him to lick my hand clean. Tentatively, he touched it with the tip of his tongue. "Not like that you useless bastard" I hissed " scour it with your tongue. Scour it clean." I made him lick my palm and lick between my fingers. I pushed my thumb into his mouth and demanded he suck it clean. Then, gripping his jaw in a fierce grip I bent his face up to mine and sneered "You are a contemptible bit of spunk-faced filth. What are you?" Miserably he repeated the words of his abasement. I had trampled him as low as I could for the time being and disgustedly thrust him away so that he sprawled in abject misery on the floor. I kicked his clothes to him and ordered him to get out. He scrambled into his clothes as quickly as he could and then, instead of slinking away, he surprised me, rather, by kneeling at my feet and saying "Thankyou Sir, thankyou" while kissing the backs of my hands. "Get out" I repeated and he left.
Next morning at seven a.m. I went up to the attic and hammered on his door. I pushed through the tentatively opened door, put him down on all fours and took a brisk, morning fuck, doggie style. As before I wiped myself on his face flannel, threw it down on him and as I stepped over him to the door, said "Breakfast at eight" and left.
At eight he came to the breakfast room looking very smart - and, yes, handsome too. "Morning boss" I greeted him. Sleep well?" "Very well" he replied, "but then, after all the dashing around yesterday, I felt pretty fucked" and grinned.
Mrs F came in and he ordered coffee, orange juice and toast. I smiled, knowing he'd never get away with that. "Lord love you" she shrieked "and you a big strapping feller as needs his vittles. It's one of me famous breakfasts you'll be havin' and no mistake." So, in due course he got the two fried eggs atop fried bread with Cashel gammon, white pudding, Clonakilty black pudding, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes and baked beans, toast, marmalade and copious coffee. And he ate the lot! Well, no one messes with Mrs Flaherty!
It was an odd day. A busy day. And as I'd promised, nine to five he was the boss. No mention or reference to what had happened between us was made. He even chided me for failing to offer Fergus Malloy our Customer Service Contract after I'd closed the main sale. I knew that a mean, suspicious old batard like Fergus would never go for that but Roger was right, I should have tried and I accepted his rebuke.
By 17.15 I delivered him back to Dublin airport in time for his Belfast flight. He thanked me courteously for looking after him for the last two days - especially for introducing him to the amazing Mrs.F! He said he would be back to see more of Ireland, pehaps the West? I told him I had a little cottage over in Connemara, very primitive but right on the water's edge and that if he came on a Thursday night next time, we could spend a day working in Galway and the the week end at my place. He looked at me intently and said quietly that he'd like that - very much, and held out his hand. It was the first reference however oblique to our extra curricular activities. It was time to reassert my control. I took his hand and gripped his upper arm with my left, pressing my thumb hard into his bicep. "Good" I said, "But it will be different next time"
"Different?" he queried, attempting to withdraw his hand, but I wouldn't let go.
"Yes. There'll be bondage." His eyes opened wide in surprise. I ground my thumb still harder into his bicep (he'd have a bruise there tomorrow to remind him) and added "And punishment too"
His eyes opened still wider. "Punishment? What for?"
"For being spunk-faced filth. What else? OK?"
He dropped his eyes and murmered "Yes Sir".
I let go of him, gave him a dismissive jerk of my head, turned on my heel and stalked away. I didn't look round. Why should I? He'd be back...
END