Mergers & Acquisitions

The recruiter let his eye rove up and down Christine's body and said: "You'll do, honey." It would have been offensive, but he said it in his best Harvey Fierstein voice. It was the one discordant moment in her interview process.

The offer, when it came, was reasonably lucrative, given her good-but-not-stellar grade point average and middling mid-Western university. The consulting company was decent sized, but not a big name. Their clients appreciated the lack of limelight and consisted of mainly mid-sized, somewhat conservative companies.

Christine joined Mergers and Acquisitions and volunteered to join the international group. She had a passport but had barely traveled. It seemed exotic.

It was a drudge.

Junior associates did all the research, interviewing employees, digging through records, assembling data and writing reports that disappeared into the greedy maw of more senior supervisors--minus their names. She would find herself spending long days in cubicle farms that looked and smelled the same no matter where they were.

--

London

Her first assignment was in London. Stepping off her red-eye coach ticket to London, she trudged through immigration and then had to catch a crowded Tube into the City.

"I might fall asleep standing here", she thought, as, with no seats available on the train, she struggled to manage her rollaboard while being jabbed repeatedly by some fat guy's briefcase. The busy and confusing Tube station disgorged her onto a rainy gray street and two blocks later she went into an office building to meet the team.

She was the newest team member. Some tall guy, Jasper, stepped in front of her in the opening meeting, so she couldn't see any of the leaders giving the briefing. Other, older team members scooped up the plum assignments.

"Looks like I'll be working with you, pet," said a lecherous, bald, short, fat guy with a Cockney accent. He was a liaison with the company they were doing due diligence on. She had to slap his hands away every five minutes all day.

She stumbled into the hotel bar at 10:30, wiped out from the massive effort. All she wanted was a cocktail before heading to well-deserved rest.

There were no other women in the bar, unless you counted the cadaverous old walrus drinking scotch and soda with her one-eyed pug in one of the booths.

There were plenty of men though. Having defended her honor all day, she wanted nothing to do with being pawed over now, let alone any intention of anything more than going off to bed--alone.

There was an older guy, there, though. Mark, one of the team leads. He managed to remember her name. She sat next to him to be social and maybe scare off some of the competition for her attention. He was maybe fifty, if she had to guess, medium height, short salt-and-pepper hair. Assessing him, she saw that his suit was off-the-rack, but he wore one of those ridiculous status watches. Trying to be Somebody, but not fully succeeding. He was a boss, though, so: schmooze a bit.

He was married, from Baltimore rather than New York, and more interested in what color her panties were than what was going on in her head. She started calculating how to extricate herself. But he surprised her:

"Look," he said. "I get it. You're tired and this is clearly not what you want. You've worked hard and the last thing you want is..." he waved his hand around. "Probably no one has given you jack for feedback or rubbed two nice words together all day. You're jetlagged and you wish you'd volunteered for domestic--all of this joy without the jetlag, eh?

"Let's do this. You come up to my room for thirty minutes--not for sex, unless... anyway, not for sex. Just to chat. In return, you get a mentor and a 'get out of meat market free' card tonight." She looked at the other men around the bar.

Which was how Christine found herself in his room twenty minutes later. As promised, they'd discussed her career goals and he'd given some minimal feedback (he'd seen nothing, not even the creep making his moves). The key thing was he'd put her on his team next time. She was getting up to go and he made no move to stop her. And she thought, mischievously, why not give him a reward.

So she kissed him. He pulled back, surprised, but she added, "I know, you were being a gentleman. It's not a trap or a trade or anything. I just need you to push me down on this bed and do me."

Which Mark proceeded to do. His mouth skills between her legs were amazing and once she was moaning, he kissed his way up while lowering his trousers. She tasted herself on his tongue as he started to mount her.

"Hey, wait, you gotta wrap up!"

"It's okay, I'm clean."

"But I'm not protected and, well... I'm a good girl."

His mature cock was thick and meaty. The feel of skin touching her was somehow different, more electric, than the feel of latex. He was "in-control" and she wavered. She was taking it anyway, inch-by-inch. His thickness filled her pleasantly. It was so inappropriate, her potential boss, married, getting his willy deeper inside her.

"... as long as you pull out," she granted. He didn't slow. Her stomach was finally starting to buzz with a little arousal. It didn't feel quite like she was going to get there. "I'll fake an orgasm when he cums. That'll set me up well. It'll make him feel manly."

He swelled bigger. His breath became ragged. "God, not so soon," she thought. "I'm getting something going." Then he came. Inside her. Hard.

All through high school, all through college, she'd been a good girl. A well-prepared girl. She'd never had a man cum inside her before. It was warm. She could feel the fat invader twitching, feel his muscles tensing. She didn't have to fake the orgasm after all.

She pulled on her panties and, after he'd apologized again, made her way back to her room. Sitting on the toilet, she marveled at the icky new feeling in her vagina. Putting her finger in it and pulling some out, it triggered some intense primal feeling. She shoved her finger back in and rubbed herself until she got off again, thinking all the while of his cheating sperms swimming up inside her, alive inside her.

--

Tokyo

Being on Mark's team turned out to be a good thing. She didn't sleep with him again, but he took her on as his lieutenant. She got to see everything going on, top-to-bottom, end-to-end in each project.

Tokyo was a city made in every color of concrete. A weird juxtaposition of normal and alien. They were negotiating the sale of one of their customer's brands to a Japanese company. The meetings were long and highly structured.

This was where she started to notice Daniel. Daniel was billed as an "efficiency expert". He didn't have a team. He wore a collarless shirt instead of having a tie and his suit was not the usual charcoal black. Unlike other senior staff, he would call on junior members and play up their contributions when they answered. He... didn't seem to be playing the posturing game everyone else in the firm was wired into.

Mr. Fujiyama was the Japanese lead. The Japanese referred to him as "Fujiyama-san" or "Fujiyama-samma". The Americans called him "F-san" in private. He treated his own employees like dogs and the (male) American leads like old friends. He was like a parody of a mob boss. At the end of the first day he announced: "We must make ourselves into a single team. We will treat you to dinner tonight."

Mark pulled her aside and handed her a brown paper bag. "Make sure everyone has protection. Be sure they have more than one. You'll see why." It was weirdly awkward to sidle up to each of the team leaders and slip them a couple of Trojans, but, indeed, it was clear soon after.

Each of the leaders, and especially the married ones, had at least one if not two "office girls" sitting with them, ostensibly as interpreters and cultural liaisons. As the night wore on, from drinks, to dinner, to karaoke, team members slipped away. Pretty soon it was only Mark, Daniel, Christine, two confused office girls who weren't used to being ignored, and F-san.

He was an awful singer. The office girls were increasingly desperate not to fail in their mission of seducing the obviously uninterested white gentlemen, until the big boss came over and dismissed them in Japanese.

On the cab ride to the hotel, Mark told her about the condoms: "we'll probably be here a month. It would help them a lot if one of the married men got an office girl in trouble. The office girl would be taken care of by the keiretsu and get promotions and we'd get taken to the cleaners."

"Too bad I didn't go after F-san," she joked. "We could return the favor."

On the last day, Daniel and their customer's representative, a tall black man named Tim, went in with the overall leader, Sam, to work out the final details. Nobody else went with them.

Then it was over and the two teams were going out to celebrate success. First there was some sort of bar with open charcoal grills for meat. Food and sake just kept appearing.

She sat at the table with Fujiyama-san. As the evening wore down, people took their leave. Soon she was alone with him. Seeing her confusion, he asked "Do you wish to go so soon? Come, I will see you to your hotel."

He steered her out to where a car was waiting. As the driver zoomed them towards the Hyatt, he tried to get his hands between her knees. She pushed the hand away, saying "You understand, I'm not an office girl, yes?"

"No. You are Mark's lieutenant." His English was crisp and precise. "You did a good job keeping the office girl's from succeeding."

"I'm glad you noticed. We'll go to my room."

When she kissed him, it woke butterflies in her stomach. The suit coat unbuttoned nicely and, running her hands over the white Oxford shirt, she could feel toned chest muscles. He removed her coat with equal precision and put his lips into the hollow of her jaw. Her pussy was moistening as he carefully opened her white blouse. He lifted her bra to free her breasts and his warm mouth sucked in her left nipple, tongue swirling and sliding around it.

She opened his belt and fly. His cock was maybe a little disappointing in size. Together they worked off each other's clothes before she pushed him back on the bed. He wanted to be on top, to take control, but she was in her element now. She was insistent: "Do what I want. You've been boss man long enough."

She took his cock in her hand. He wasn't circumcised and she pulled the foreskin back. His glans was exotically dark in color. She worked the loose skin back and forth over the tip, watching as moisture started to leak from it. He wanted her to go down on him, tried to move her head with his hands... so she denied him.

"Huh-uh. You do it my way, salariman."

She pushed him back onto the bed and climbed up, thinking maybe to ride his face instead, but...

"I will get a rubber," he said. She remembered the feeling of Mark's cum inside her.

"No, you will not. You will fuck your sperm into my bare pussy. I want you to think about me when I'm gone, wondering if you made my belly round." She shoved herself down and felt him slide home. Not so big, but still good. She worked her body to please herself on his cock, his eyes as big as saucers.

"You're a married man. What will it feel like to breed my gaijin pussy? I want you to shoot your honorable potent sperm all over my eggs." She slid up and back, letting the feeling build. He cried out something incomprehensible and twitched and twitched inside her. She kept riding until her climax carried her to join him.

When he'd gone, she let her fingers slide up and down, feeling the loose oozing wetness seeping out of her. "Hmm... I'm going to have to take better precautions." It wasn't a really dangerous part of her cycle, but mistakes could be made. She picked up her phone and used the app to book an appointment with her gynecologist.

--

Paris

Dr. Spielbrecht gave her options after warning her that no-barrier sex meant all sorts of nasty germs. She checked out a few before having him fit her with a diaphragm. She could use the sponge or take a shot or get an implant. Modern medicine gave so many options. Having the diaphragm, though, felt old school, with a kind of tactile pleasure. When she picked up "the appliance" she bought some spermicide and then a box of sponges too "for emergencies".

Paris was a merger, three weeks of intense negotiation including a plan for post-merger reorganization. The company's leader was an obnoxious Frenchman, Guillame, who initially got under Christine's skin by calling her "Chrissy" and treating her like a servant. He found a way to get under everyone's skin. By the end of the first week the team was a snarling pack of rabid dogs. Even Mark seemed particularly surly.

Except Daniel. Everywhere he was having a bit of praise or shining a light on someone's effort or asking the One Question that seemed to resolve tension. Two weeks in and it was Bastille Day. Everyone would get one day's respite.

"What'll you do?" Mark asked.

"You mean after I sleep for like 9,000 hours? I don't know. Probably go see something."

On the way up to her room, she found herself with the intriguing peacemaker.

"You have plans tomorrow, Christine?" Daniel asked.

"Not really. I've never been to Paris before."

"Then you should come out with me." Then he pointed at her shoes: "But wear tennies if you've got them. Paris is pedestrian."

She laughed. "I've never heard it called that before."

"11 am, say?" he asked, stepping off at his floor.

He took her on the metro into Paris. After a change, they got off a small station "Oberkampf". It was her first time "inside the portes" in Paris. She didn't recognize anything nearby: no museums or big stores or art galleries. Christine was still a little fascinated by the buildings. Each building seemed to have a little personality. An old wood door, elaborately carved here, a corner with a water fountain carved with lions there.

Daniel led them back into small, almost nameless streets. Sirens and bicycles and pedestrians were passing on all sides, not too fast for the holiday.

There as a boulangerie with a long line, but he passed it to go into an alleyway where there was a store selling, oddly, wine and ice cream. "Folderol is the best ice cream in Paris and more accessible than Berthillon" he announced.

The dainty scoops, one of pear and one of cardamom opened her eyes. The flavors were intense and magical. They wandered past the street market and stopped to watch a mix of older and younger men playing boule on a street corner. Then they strolled up the Canal Saint Martin.

Twenty-something Parisians were enjoying the sun, picnicking, walking dogs of all sizes, making out, or meeting friends. It was relaxed and slow.

They stopped for lunch at a sidewalk bistro, the Hotel du Nord, apparently famous for an old movie she'd never heard of.

"You have beautiful eyes," Daniel said.

"What??" Was he coming on to her?

"It's the famous line from the movie. I'm more of a Casablanca fan--'here's lookin' at you kid'"

"He's... nice," she thought.

After lunch, he got them onto a small boat that sailed down the canal--and, unbelievably, beneath the streets of Paris to the Seine. Alighting there, he lead her back from the river and into a quieter district. Then into narrow streets and finally what could only be classified as an alley.

A tall, thickly muscled African man in a dubaku shirt and kufi hat was reading a beaten copy of the Islamic suras beside an unmarked and beaten wooden door.

Daniel said something in some patois of French and they were admitted. The room was dark and a bit crowded. There was a tiny stage, not raised, just gray linoleum flooring instead of the stained carpet found elsewhere in the room. An older French guy sat with his guitar. He had a slight smile, thick gray hair, a days growth beard. He nodded to Daniel, but kept playing a jangly tune while a very tall, very black man was keeping time on an upright bass.

Daniel and Christine found chairs in a corner. Then a very short, rotund French woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, came in from the back, carrying a saxophone about the same size as she was. A ripple went through the audience and conversations hushed. A few people clapped.

She licked her reed a couple of times and started to work her way into the stream of music that had never stopped. The sax and the guitar wove around each other brilliantly. And then she sang.

A huge voice filled the room. Christine understood not a word of the French, but she heard heartbreak and joy and sauciness and a life well-lived in every note. The whole room seemed captured in the spell.

When the show ended, they caught a cab to the hotel. It was, she thought, like returning from the moon. She felt a connection to Paris unlike anyplace she'd been before.

That night, she cried "Take me. Take me, Daniel. Deeper. Cum in me!" The sudden orgasm woke her up. She was alone, her panties soaked. He wasn't there, had made no move, wasn't making her shudder.

In the morning, she smiled at Daniel in the lobby, but work kept them apart. The grind resumed, but somehow it was bearable. She smiled at Guillame when he condescended to her for the third time that morning, shooting back, "Sure thing, Billy." It was like she'd slapped him. Instead of sucking up to him, the rest of the week she always gave back what she got, always just this side of insolence.

On the next to last night, Daniel and Guillame went into a hotel room hammer out the final report. The resulting document was nothing like what went into the room--she'd seen "Billy's" original. What came out was brilliant. The whispering in the halls is that it would finally be his breakthrough to partner.

In the bar that night, after the presentation, she wanted to sit with Daniel. Instead she was isolated with Guillame.

"Why don't you like me, Christine?" It was the first time he said her name that way. There was a wary respect there. "I can be good for you. Better for you than Mark."

"He looks after me, Billy. You going to scratch my back better?" she challenged.

"I can see to it, if you know how to, er, play your cards," he said.

"C'mon, Billy, you've got a wife and a mistress. You don't have room for me in that slate."

"This is strictly business." She was sitting up straight and he looked her up and down. "I appreciate good posture."

"All hat and no cattle, Billy."

"My room is this way," he said. They rode up to the top floor, overlooking the city.

Guillame had an impressive head of hair, thick and dark, with only a light dusting of gray. That and his shoes made him as tall as she was. When the door was safely closed behind them, he leaned in and tried to kiss her. She ducked him.

"Why do you call me Billy?"

"Guillame is French for William, so Bill, so Billy. I think a different part of you would be properly 'Willy'"

"This is true," he laughed and renewed his assault.

"I can stay strong all night, Billy. What do you want to do about it?"

"I want to take you in that bed and we will play a little game. And in the morning, you'll be a team leader. No more of this after tonight."

"That's right. We have to keep Mrs. Billy and her stunt double from cutting off your balls. That'd interfere with your efficiency. Why'd you pick me?"

"You know Mark's section in the document?"

"Yeah...?"

"You and I know, or rather, Daniel knows that you wrote that. Did you notice that he didn't change any of it the final report?"

"I had actually."

"I like talent." She let him kiss her neck and put his hands on her waist. "I like it very much when I can promote talent. Talent benefits me." She put her hands on his waist. They were standing close now, and she could feel that Willy might enter the conversation soon. She seemed, at least, to have his attention.