DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the result of my imagination or are used within a fictitious context. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, places, or incidents is entirely coincidental.
WARNING: This story contains graphic descriptions of male-male sexual relations and acts. You must be of 18 years of age or older to continue. If you are offended by the material suggested herein, DO NOT read any further. You have been warned.
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--text-- = thoughts
*text* = emphasis
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Biggest lie on the face of the earth, if you ask me.
Maxwell James Becker IV is perfect. Mr. Perfect. Perfection must run in his family. There's no way three previous generations of Maxwell Becker's would approve of yet another bearing the same namesake if *defectiveness* were hereditary. He was probably born perfect, too. No, more likely *spawned*, because you can't possibly be a marketing savant with a net worth of $1.2 billion AND own a multi-million dollar mansion in Santa Monica and a penthouse on a prime lot in Vancouver, without carving your name in Satan's family tree.
6'2, two-hundred-plus pounds of brown-haired, green-eyed, 27 year-old muscled perfection. He has a state-of-the-art, spared-no-expenses sports car for every day of the week. I consider myself to be quite the ladies' man, but Becker... he can walk into any convent in the Northern Hemisphere and be out in five minutes with a nun on each arm. Un-*fucking*-believable.
Yep. Maxwell James Becker IV is *fucking* perfect.
But he still needs an intern.
* * * * *
He might be the CEO of a billion-dollar marketing firm, but Maxwell Becker IV is shit with names. At least, if he knows mine, he never uses it. I'm either "you" or "boy". Since my internship began, he's said all of five words to me: "You. Coffee. Cream. Sugar. Now." He doesn't take me seriously enough to give me any important jobs.
--I'm an ant at Becker Advertising, Vancouver, and Becker is the little twerp with the magnifying glass.--
The other interns are long gone, either driven away by his aggravating egoism, or fired at his whim. I've only stayed on this long because I've been lucky. If it weren't for some divine intervention, I'd probably be dividing my days between my construction job and sitting on my ass at HMV instead of working for Becker. I've got family to take care of—Becker wouldn't know anything about family. From what I've heard, he practically lives at the office. I have to take care of my grandmother; we're all each other has.
And until I find a better paying job, or Becker gives me a raise, we're all each other has.
* * * * *
"...up by seven point oh four percent this week, and the DeSoto's are proposing a merger between our international SEO and their RMO divisions, which promises double the return of last month's sales with interest, splitting profits sixty-forty..."
Becker held up a hand.
"Sixty in our favour?"
Just like that, I watched as yet another member of the esteemed Becker team break into hysterics. A month ago, I would've protested the injustice of his decision, and would've been promptly fired, but I've learned a few things since coming to work for him. Lesson the first: breaking money isn't making money.
Mr. Perfect reclined in his chair and busied himself adjusting his black pinstripe Armani suit—which probably cost him more than I made in two months—while security escorted the poor girl off the premises.
"If anyone else wants to know what 'running this company into the ground' looks like—" Becker pointed at the newly vacant seat "—there you go."
I'd never seen him look so... calmly pissed. I didn't think Mr. Perfect was capable of emotion. For twelve minutes, he had sat silently while the girl gushed over her brilliant plan to expand the company, maximize profits, and make Becker Advertising a household name.
As if he *needs* the money. Becker Advertising has managed to bounce back after two recessions—one during the late fifties and the other in the mid-seventies—and one near-miss filing for bankruptcy in ninety-two. The firm is pulling in more money now then when it was first founded by Maxwell Becker, Jr.
--If Mr. Perfect is short a few fucking dollars, he should start selling himself.--
The boardroom had gone deathly silent, with all the employees looking hastily away from myself and Becker, who'd turned his murderous glare towards me.
--Oh. Fuck. Did I say that out loud?--
I tentatively met Becker's stare, which he immediately dropped to the sheaf of papers littering his end of the boardroom table. Gathering the papers, he addressed the room in a quiet voice.
"Try again. Try harder."
With that, he left the room.
* * * * *
When I was sure Becker hadn't planted a bomb in my dilapidated Toyota for revenge, I turned the key in the ignition.
I looked around the underground parkade of Becker Advertising—*empty*. No one would stick around after *that* conference.
Annoyed, I got out of my car and trudged towards the main elevators. Waiting alone as the little orange light lit up the floors, I considered my options. I could hop a few buses, the Sky Train, and then walk the rest of the way home—but it seemed so much more effortless to call a tow truck.
The ding of the elevator jolted me from my thoughts, and in my rush to board the elevator, I collided right into the 6'2, two-hundred-plus pounds of brown-haired, green-eyed, 27 year-old muscled perfection of Maxwell James Becker IV.
"What's your rush, Michaels?" he asked indignantly.
I was too shocked by the fact that my boss—Mr. Fucking Perfect—was standing partially undressed in the elevator, his expansive suit jacket in a pool at his feet, his tie loose around his neck, crisp white shirt unbuttoned and open revealing the smooth expanse of his muscular upper body, to notice that he (a) indeed knew my name, and (b) used it, while addressing me, in a sentence.
"You-your shirt..." I started.
"I spilt coffee," was his curt reply.
I tried to remember that I hated this man...
--He has you by the fiscal balls, Michaels.--
...but I forgot why. I couldn't look away, mesmerized by the rise and fall of his hairless chest as he breathed. All I could do was gape openly at his... I hate to say it... perfection.
Suddenly, I felt myself growing hard. I squeezed my eyes shut and hastily averted my face, rushing past him into the elevator.
--You're not gay, you're not gay, you're not gay! Fuck, Alexander! You're great with women. You have—had—a fiancée—almost. You're. Not. Gay.--
Becker must've noticed.
"Like what you see, Michaels?" My eyes shot open.
"Huh-wha-no!" The rush of denial escaped my lips as quickly as red flushed my cheeks.
His eyes flicked down towards the tent in my pants, and returned to give me a sultry look from beneath his black eyelashes that plainly said, "Liar" and "I want to fuck you" all in one.
His body backed me against the far wall of the elevator. Taking my wrists in his large hands, he pinned my arms at my sides. I kept my head stubbornly turned away from his naked torso; it didn't help the elevators of Becker Advertising were walled with floor length mirrors. I saw how helpless my body looked, dominated by his.
He moved so quickly I would've fallen over had he not been there to support me. Twisting me around, he forced his body flush against mine, settling his erection firmly into the seat of my pants. He was breathing heavily. We both were. Grinding his steel hard-on into my ass, he mimicked the thrusts of sex as he palmed me roughly through the fabric of my slacks.
--Oh. Oh! Oh, fuck!--
I moaned and bared my neck to his teeth as he nipped and sucked at my throat. Never stopping the thrusting motion for a moment, he worked his hand down the front of my pants and took hold of my throbbing member. Gently, he smeared the drops of pre-cum that had gathered at the tip of my cock up and down my shaft. He continued his motions to perfectly time the hand-job with his thrusts. We both moaned in ecstasy as he sped up his thrusts. I felt the telltale signs of my orgasm approaching, moaning heavily and as loudly as he did. On the brink of pure pleasure, my balls contracted suddenly and string after string of frothy cum flowed from my cock and into his hands. I exploded into his hands shouting his name. Sparks of white-light pleasure light up my eyes, and I collapse against the elevator wall.
Becker's movements stilled as he continued to stroke my semi-hard member, milking the final drops of cum from my cock.
I hadn't even noticed the elevator had already started moving until it jolted to a stop. What caught my attention more was that Becker's body had pressed flush against mine, and the firmness of his erection rubbing up between my ass cheeks. Somehow, in the recesses of my mind post-orgasm, I noticed he was still hard as steel. He hadn't come.
The elevator doors dinged as Becker grabbed the hem of my shirt, dragging me into the wide open space of a penthouse foyer. And it hit me. I knew about his penthouse in Vancouver, but I didn't know where. And the rumours about Becker living at the office were partially true. Only, he lived above the office. Eleven stories above, to be precise.
I was about to say something—I don't know what; it probably didn't matter anyway—when Becker pulled me roughly to him and crushed his lips against mine. He ground our erections together, his hands splayed across my ass and pulling me into his frame. His tongue invaded every corner of my mouth, conquering. In retaliation, I stuck my tongue into his mouth, and we waged a pointless little war over who would come out on top—
—no pun intended.
Frantically, my hands gripped at his shirt as his reached for mine, and we wrestled each other out of our shirts. Fabric tore. Buttons scattered. Becker smirked, tossing aside the remains of my shirt.
"I really liked that shirt."
"I'll buy you a new one."
Hooking his fingers around my belt, Becker dragged me across the open floor plan of his penthouse in an informal rushed tour before shoving me roughly onto the black sheets of his king-sized bed. Black silk sheets.
Before I could move, I was pinned to the mattress. Straddling my hips, our raging hard-ons causing a delightful friction, he bent over to kiss me roughly. His body overpowered mine, and I no longer felt the stab of fear at the thought of being gay. This felt as natural as being with a woman felt: only more solid, hard, wild. I was hopelessly aroused by Becker, and what's more is I liked it.
Becker's hands returned to wander across my chest, pausing to tweak at my nipples while his tongue continued the vicious assault against mine. He worked his way down to my waistline, slowly, teasingly unbuckling my belt while nuzzling my hardening cock through my pants. I groaned in frustration and he laughed.
--Fucker. You won't make me beg.--
Clenching the zipper pull between his teeth, he unzipped my pants and slowly took them down to my ankles. Gripping the waistband of my black boxers, he slid them down to expose the head of my throbbing penis, taking it into his mouth.
--Oh please! Becker, please!--
I nearly exploded again at the intense warmness of his mouth surrounding my cock. Slowly, he enveloped the shaft, inch by inch, and deep-throated my entire length. I was frozen in silence as he fondled my balls while working his mouth up and down my cock. He took his mouth off of my member and engulfed it again to the back of his throat. His throat contracted again and again around my organ, and I felt my balls begin to tighten in his hands.
"Oh, God, oh! Becker," I said breathlessly. "Oh, Becker, I'm gonna cum. I-I-I'm cumming! Becker!"
I howled as for the second time that night, I came hard. Jets of my white cream ejected forcefully into his mouth, and his throat contracted again as he swallowed it all.
Almost paralyzed, I lay spread-eagle on his bed, absorbing the shock of what had just taken place between me and my boss. Cupping my face in his hands, Becker languidly slipped his tongue into my mouth. I tasted the saltiness of my cum on his lips and tongue.
We lay entwined like that before Becker withdrew and propped his head on one hand.
"I've wanted to do that since I hired you. Over and over. So many times, you have no idea."
I mumbled incoherently in response.
"But, what I really want to do, what I disabled the ignition to your car for..." I bolted upright.
"It's a bona fide POS. Probably a write-off. You can have my BMW Roadster instead if, Alexander Michaels, you just. Let. Me. *Fuck*. You."
"Jeez, you're fucking sexy as hell, but no brains whatsoever. I want. To *fuck*. You."
He claimed me with a deep, ravishing kiss--he thinks I'm sexy?--and I rolled on top of him to straddle his hips and give him a ravishing kiss of my own. He laughed.
"You think you get to be on top, Michaels?"
Gripping my arms with his hands and snaking a foot around my calf muscle, he flipped us over again, back to the middle of his bed, manoeuvring himself onto of my waist and pinning my hands above my head.
Becker stripped himself of his clothes and reached over into the nightstand. Retrieving a tube of KY lubricant and a small silver packet, he coated his fingers in the slippery substance before turning his predatory gaze to me. Before I could protest, Becker flipped me onto my belly, with a pillow for support below my waist, and gripped my hips in his slippery hands. Raising my hips to present my ass, he coated the area around my tight virgin entrance with the lube. Cautiously, though not too gently, he prodded my entrance with a finger before he roughly entered my ass with it. With a gentle sawing motion, he began to apply more lube inside my ass, pausing briefly to let my muscles adjust to the intrusion.
A second finger made me cry out sharply in pain. I'd expected this to be uncomfortable, but the pain was more than I'd thought. Becker stopped his intrusion, leaning forward to encircle my cock with his free hand, and began to pump my firmness. Slowly, my ass muscles began to relax, and Becker inserted a third finger. Then a fourth.
Soon, he stopped pumping my cock, and I realized I was getting more pleasure from his fingers than from his hand. One particularly deep stroke struck a nerve deep within me—quite literally—and my cock was at full hardness. I tried rubbing myself against the pillow at my waist, but Becker pulled my hips up and away, towards his cock. I heard a soft pop as his fingers exited my ass. The small silver packet had proved to be a condom, but as he moved to open it, I grabbed his hands. He looked at me, puzzled. I stared at him, wanton.
"No—condom—please. Want you—all of you—in me."
Becker met my eyes, his gaze sparkling.
"I only thought I'd offer."
He mounted me from behind, kissing me roughly, as he drove himself into me. My gasp of shock was silenced by his tongue on mine. Another hard thrust and he was in me fully, his chest flattened against my back. His balls nestled between my ass cheeks; gripping my hips with his fingers, he pulled out slowly, inch by inch, until only the head of his massive cock remained lodged in my ass. Suddenly, he lunged forward, burying himself in my ass again. With his teeth at my neck, he bit down. Not hard enough to break the skin, but the pain was just enough to send sparks of pleasure up my spine and set off fireworks behind my tightly shut eyes.
He gripped my hips tightly as he pulled out, thrust in, pulled out, and thrust in again. In no time he worked up a steady rhythm, ramming my ass with his steel cock. He snaked a free hand around my waist to grasp my cock and timed the stroke of his hand to his thrusts. I moaned in pleasure and instinctively clenched my muscles, eliciting a moan from Becker. He gripped my body harder and began thrusting violently into my ass. The head of his cock began brushing my prostate with each thrust, and in no time, I came forcefully, my hot cum spewing all over the sheets; the creamy white in stark contrast with the ebony silk painted an erotic picture.
My ass muscles clenched around Becker's cock, and the pressure of the contractions from my orgasm clenched his steel rod. Becker exploded, and I felt the hot jets of his seed flood my asshole. He continued pumping as my ass milked his steel velvet member of every last drop before collapsing onto my back.
The room smelled of sweat and cum and sex.
Becker's softening member slid out of my ass with a wet plop! as he wrapped his nude body around mine. He eased us under the sheets, spooning me from behind. One arm was thrown possessively over my waist and the other entwined in my hair.
"Mine," he growled possessively.
"Who said I belong to you, Mr. Perfect?"
"Mr. Perfect? Hmph. Whatever. You're mine. You got a problem with that?"
"Fucking right. 'Cause I wouldn't give a good goddamn if you did."
* * * * *
There've been many more nights like that since then, but we'll save those stories for later. That was only our first night together, so long ago, and I can remember it as if it were yesterday: being taken on all fours by my boss, Mr. Perfect, who gave perfectly good hand jobs, perfectly good head, and was a perfectly good fuck.