Saving Blake's Chocolate

The farewell speeches and the final boss's handshake had been performed, but the booze was just then being broken out. Ken Blake gestured for the marketing manager, marketing being one of the only departments of Blake's Chocolates still functioning, to join him in his office. Then, with one last murmur of appreciation for decades of service by the production chief, Otto Merkel, Ken left the now-quiet manufacturing floor.

After a hundred and seventy-five years of providing gourmet chocolate in fancy boxes to New York and beyond, especially at Valentine's Day, the business was going out of business. The standards the Blakes insisted be maintained weren't profitable anymore on the scale they produced and sold product. If they were to produce more product, the exclusivity of the chocolates--and thus much of its sales appeal--would be lost. If they cut production costs by using cheaper ingredients and less-expensive packaging, their reputation would be scorched.

The departure--not really a retirement--of the production chief, Otto Merkel, was the "can't-go-back" point. He was the institutional knowledge of achieving the company's creamy product, something he'd learned from his father, who had learned it from his father. Without Otto, Blake's would be just another chocolatier. And chocolates at Valentine's Day--just like physical greetings cards--was no longer the routine gift of choice that it once had been.

"Would you please stay around for the partying, Tom?" Ken, the last of the Blakes and therefore the business CEO, said when they got to his office. "I hate to leave before Otto does, but I have a rehearsal I have to get to."

"Otto still won't say who is employing him now," the marketing manager, Tom Kline, said.

"No, he won't tell me either. But I don't think he's leaving disgruntled. I gave him an extraordinary bonus. He's sixty-six. I thought he just retire. But he says he has chocolate running through his veins."

"Isn't there a danger of him taking our formulas and methods elsewhere? I understand there's a bid to buy the company--that it doesn't just have to close. If so, our formulas and methods--"

"They are safe with Otto," Ken said. "He's family. His family has been linked together with mine in this enterprise for many decades. Plus, he's signed a nondisclosure agreement. If I found he was taking Blake's unique aspects elsewhere, I'd sue the pants off him and whatever company he went to. The NDA specifies that anything made with the Blake formulas and processes have to bear the Blake name. And, as far as a company having made a bid, yes one has. But it's big business with its hands in a whole range of companies, all of which I think are too commercial and gaudy for what Blake's is known for. And everything has the owner's name on it. Blake's success has always been its exclusivity and its name. No, I'd rather close it than sell it to a crass conglomerate like that. And I can afford too. There are no more Blakes to pass this on to. I don't have to leave inheritances."

"You don't think you'll ever marry and have children?" Kline asked. "You're not even thirty yet and you'd be quite a catch here in New York. Your family's been top drawer here forever and you're a fit and good-looking guy."

"No, I don't think I'll ever marry and have children," Ken said, picking up a heavy instrument case from the corner of his office. It was a signal that he was off for rehearsal and that that subject was closed. Tom Kline took the hint and headed for the direction from which the boisterous, liquor-lubed laughter was coming from. He wasn't as sure of Otto Merkel's loyalty to the memory of Blake's Chocolates as Ken Blake was.

But it wasn't his company, and he had his next job lined up too. All he needed now was to get the candy they still had in the refrigerators into the Christmas boxes. They could serve the market for Christmas but they wouldn't even attempt to for Valentine's Day next year. There were a whole lot of loyal Blake's Chocolates customers who would be disappointed come next February. But if there had been many more of them who were still locked into that tradition, the company would have been able to stay open.

I guess being the last Blake in line made it easier for Ken to shut down, Kline thought. But he was less than thirty. How could he say for sure that he was the last generation of Blakes? He was desirable. Both of Tom's daughters swooned over the young man. And he wasn't lazy. He had his side activities, but Tom couldn't see Ken going too long without a job. They weren't closing because he wasn't a good businessman. They were closing because they were too fussy about maintaining expensive quality in the face of a tightening market for high-quality chocolates for Valentine's Day.

* * * *

Ken Blake looked more than a little sheepish when he was called forward after performing the cello solo in Dvořák's Cello Concerto in B Minor in the first half of a New York Philharmonic concert at Lincoln Center and was handed a bouquet of two-dozen red roses. This quite definitely wasn't protocol at the Philharmonic afternoon concert series. It did matter that, even though he was only twenty-seven, he had done a divine job on the solo.

He looked over at the director, Jaap van Zweden, but the man looked as confused by the gesture as Ken was. As Ken walked over into the wings at the halftime interval, though, the mystery was solved. Susan Altman, the orchestra's manager was waiting there. "Here, let me take those and put them somewhere so that you can get to the interval. There's someone I'd like to introduce you to we'd like you to be nice to. He's a major patron of the orchestra, Gideon Mason. He's the one who supplied the flowers. We want to keep him happy."

"We do, do we?" Ken asked. "The flowers are a nice and unexpected gift, but I don't know what to do with them. Perhaps you can have them distributed among the box office staff with my compliments."

"That's a great idea. They don't get enough appreciation," Susan Altman said. "And the big donor? You'll meet with him?"

"Well, for the flowers... lead on."

Altman turned the bouquet over to an assistant and led Ken out to the lobby bar. He was recognized in route as the cello soloists and saluted by several of those attending the concert, causing him to blush. When they reached the lobby bar, Susan Altman signaled to a tall, expensively dressed, fit, graying man in his late forties or early fifties who was having an animated discussion in a group of other like men, and the man broke away and came over to them.

Ken was immediately impressed and intrigued. He thought he might have seen the man somewhere before--his countenance certainly was arresting enough for Ken to have taken note of him before. But he couldn't place he men.

"Ken Blake, this is Gideon Mason. Ken was our celloist in the Dvořák piece. You wanted to meet him."

"Indeed I did," Mason said as Altman backed away and left the two in isolated discussion. "The roses indicate how well I liked your playing. I hope you enjoyed them."

"They were a total surprise," Ken said. "Such gestures are not to be expected at afternoon Philharmonic concerts. But they were there soon after the piece ended. Surely--"

"The wonders of the Internet and delivery systems in the city," Mason said, with a smile. He had a very nice smile, Ken thought. "There's a flower shop nearby that delivers. I messaged as soon as I got carried away with your playing, and there the flowers were by the interval."

Ken didn't know if that was true or not. There seemed to be an angle here, but he didn't know what it was yet.

"I've actually seen you before and am intrigued by more than your cello playing," Mason said. And when Ken just looked a bit confused, he continued. "We belong to the same club and gym--the Apollo Club. You are a unique club member--a little hard not to notice and admire."

"Of course," Ken said. "Now I remember seeing you before." And this must be the basis of the man's interest, Ken thought. The Apollo Club was an expensive gay-men's gym and club. Ken belonged to it, and he was pretty free with his preferences there. He let his hair down there and engaged in gay activities that he didn't do elsewhere. Few outside of the gym knew or could tell that he was gay. So, this man was just hitting on him? This Gideon Mason. Mason. Wait.

"You aren't that Mason, are you?"

"Yes, guilty as charged. And you say it as if I am guilty of something. I admit that I am intrigued with you personally, but I do have another reason for wanting to meet you. You've been eluding me on this proffer to buy your family business. I wish to discuss that with you personally."

"I don't really think we have anything to discuss," Ken said. "I don't think our business models are compatible. I promised my father I would just close Blake's Chocolates before seeing it go commercial with lower standards." The lights flickered. It was time for the patrons to find their seats. And it was long past time for Ken to be back in his place on stage. He turned to leave, but Mason latched on to his arm and held him in place. Mason was a lot bigger--taller and heavier--than Ken was. The younger man felt a shiver go up his spine--one of arousal. He melted to older men taking command.

But this wasn't the time or place--and it quite probably wasn't the man. Ken didn't want to become involved with a man who would own big, flashy businesses with his name slapped on them in large neon-light letters.

"I must go. I should be back on stage now," he said, although he didn't have the will to break away from the man's grip.

"Just give me a chance to discuss the deal. Don't you want to know how sweet a deal I can make it?"

"OK, I guess so. Just let me go now, please." He didn't want a sales pitch. He needed to get back on stage and tune up his cello.

"Dinner this evening. After the concert. You don't have other plans, do you?"

No, Ken didn't have other plans. "OK, if you must. Just--"

Mason released his hold on Ken's arm and murmured, "Thank you. You won't regret it," as Ken turned and hurried back toward the side entrance onto the stage.

I already regret it, he thought as he went into a jog. Yes, now he remembered Mason from the Apollo Club. Quite a hunk he was. But under these circumstances...

* * * *

Ken didn't know how or if he'd hook up with Gideon Mason after the concert, but he told himself he didn't care. He'd leave it up to Mason to make it happen--if it happened. He didn't want to meet with the man to be pitched on selling Blake's Chocolates to him. He'd already decided he wouldn't. But on another plain, Ken found the man himself arousing. He was just the age and conditioning of the men he liked to go with--of the type of man Mason undoubtedly had already seen him go with at the Apollo Club. He'd just leave this up to Mason.

Mason sent him roses. That's not what a man usually would do for another man. Maybe Mason was making a point. He, in any event, was taking the initiative--and a dominant man taking command was something that aroused Ken. While he was putting his cello into its case, Susan Altman arrived at his side.

"Mr. Mason's driver tells me he'll pick you up at the entrance to the parking garage after you've stowed your cello in your car. Does this mean Mr. Mason is taking you to dinner?"

Ken could hear the hopefulness in the woman's voice. "Yes. It's a business matter."

"You own Blake's Chocolates, don't you?" she asked, and when he acknowledged she did, she said, "We love those. It's a Valentine's Day tradition in our family to gift those. I'm so looking forward to them again this Valentine's Day."

Ken just gave a little grunt. He didn't have the heart to tell her that wouldn't be happening this year.

"Just remember that Gideon Mason is one of our principle donors for this afternoon concert series," she said.

"Which mean not to do anything to upset him, right?" Ken asked, with a smile.

"Well, yes, of course."

"I'll do my best." Even with the promise barely past his lips, Ken grimaced when he found Gideon Mason's chauffeured car waiting for him. It was a late-model white XT5 Cadillac limousine. It wasn't so much that it was an ostentatious vehicle that put Ken on edge. It was because the word "Mason" was embossed in big, gold--obnoxious to Ken's sensitivity--letters on the side of the car. Ken came from a subtly rich and prominent family in the city, one from which New Yorkers had been taking their style and etiquette cues from for nearly two centuries. This display of personal importance was everything that Ken knew his father would not want Blake's Chocolates to become entailed with. This was big and brassy--completely the opposite of what the family brand tried to establish.

Gideon Mason was in the backseat, giving Ken a big smile when the younger man entered the car. The seat was so commodious that the two didn't come anywhere close to touching for the short drive to dinner. The younger man sank in one corner of the seat and the older man made no effort to intrude. Ken's foreboding didn't dissipate as they entered the hotel's dining room where Mason said he'd made dinner reservations. Mason had chosen the Gideon Dining Room in the Mason Premier hotel for their meal. The hotel was identified by a huge, garish "Mason Premier" neon sign on its roof.

No, not for us--for me, Ken was thinking as they settled into a premium table in the garishly decored room named after his host and were served by a gaggle of attentive waiters. Mason just smiled and acted the attentive host, apparently oblivious to the over-the-top effect on Ken of the bling that the older man was subjecting the younger one to.

What surprised Ken once they'd been served was that Mason didn't immediately go into a business sales pitch. He turned out to be a much smoother--and interesting--conversationalist than that. It was almost as if he realized that he'd drawn Ken here by another interest--a sexual one--and that he either was switching gears in the pitch he was giving or that sexual interest in Ken had been ascendent all along.

"I don't like talking business over a meal, so perhaps we can hold that off until afterward, with drinks."

"That sounds fine to me," Ken said. "What shall we talk about then?"

"Let's talk about cello solos in orchestral works and the talent you showed today in the Dvořák. I thought you played that divinely, and I would like to hear more works like that in the afternoon concert series--more that featured you on the cello. Is the Dvořák your favorite or have you played either the Schumann Concerto for Cello and Orchestra in A Minor or Menotti's Fantasia?"

The man knew his music, Ken thought, in admiration--and, in particular the aspect of music that Ken was engaged in. They had no trouble finding something to talk about for the rest of the meal.

"I'd love to play in any of those," Ken was saying over dessert and coffee, "but Van Zweden isn't much taken with the cello--or me. I'm surprised he selected the Dvořák and let me solo in it."

"I'll admit I had something to do with that?"

"You? You got the Dvořák on the program?"

"Yes, and I can get other cello solos on the program if you wish." The man was coming on strong. Ken gave him a scrutiny--a commanding figure, rugged, manly features. A healthy shock of graying hair, indicating as hirsute by the curling at his neckline and wrists. A well-cut body, which, now that he thought about it, Ken had seen in nearly the altogether at the Apollo Club.

Yes, Ken could go with such a man--as long as they kept business out of it.

"Perhaps we could go upstairs to discuss business," Mason said as he lowered his empty coffee cup to the saucer.

"Upstairs?"

"Yes. I'm sure you noticed that this is a Mason hotel."

"I hardly could avoid noticing that," Ken said, with a laugh.

"I have a penthouse hideaway here. Will you go upstairs with me?"

Ken paused, knowing that Mason was asking for a deeper purpose than a last drink at the hotel bar and the pitching of a business proposal he suspected--and Ken knew--wasn't going anywhere. "Yes, fine," the younger man said.

* * * *

"Well, that's a very generous offer, but I promised my father I'd just close the business down if we--or anyone buying us out--couldn't or didn't keep the highest standards of product." It was, in fact, nearly twice what Ken thought the business was worth. But he already had all the money he needed, and he'd made a promise to the family.

"And you don't think the name Mason would be keeping up the standards?"

"No, sorry, I don't," Ken said. "I'm sorry to be honest about that. I've found I like you and I don't want to make you angry. But you put your name on all your products and some of them seem substandard."

"You didn't make me angry and I like you too--very much. We can relate in separate contexts. But I'd like to have your company. All I need are the formulas and the production line. It wouldn't be economical to set up a production line in a separate factory."

"You've hired some of my people, haven't you?" Ken asked. "Who? Otto Merkel?"

"Yes, Otto is on board with us... and Tom Kline will join us soon. We want to be up and running for the Valentine's Day market."

"Tom Kline, my marketing manager? Shit. You know that there are nondisclosure agreements in place, don't you? The Blake name isn't going on any candy not owned and approved by the Blakes. And it's the Blake name that sells the chocolates. Frankly, I don't see anyone buying Mason chocolates."

"We would have workarounds, but I hear you. I see your drink is finished. Would you like to see the rest of the apartment? I have my own gym room here--nearly all windows, with good views toward Central Park."

"Yes, enough of this. Let me see the rest of this place. I was expecting just a hotel room suite. This goes on forever." This was a full apartment surrounded almost totally with glass-windowing that glowed of orange because the neon hotel sign was just above he unit.

"And this is my home gym. I have a house out on Long Island, but I admit I spend most of my time here."

"This is nearly as big as the gym at the Apollo Club," Ken said. "And it's as well appointed with machines."

"I haven't gotten to the club in a few days, and I've really enjoyed watching you workout there. You are a unique creature. Maybe we could... now..."

"Sure, I don't see why not," Ken answered. He knew what Mason was up to--what he wanted to do. It was a fresh approach. Ken had decided even before they'd come upstairs that he'd let Mason fuck him--as long as they could separate out business discussions from a sexual hookup.

They were both stripped down to their briefs--Mason in Calvin Kleins and Ken in a red satin bikini brief and spotting each other on the equipment as they looked out over the city through floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with the orange glow of the "Mason's Premier" permeating from overhead, when Mason made his move.

Ken was straddling a bench and lifting a barbell off a stand when Mason came in close behind him, sitting right behind him. He started with his hands on Ken's as the younger man lifted the barbells. Then he let his hands glide down Ken's arms and cover his breasts.

"Not much here yet," he whispered in Ken's ear and then kissed him there.

"That comes later... when I'm sure," Ken answered. It was then that Ken realized that Mason had slipped off his briefs. The younger man could feel the silkiness of the older man's chest hair on his bare back and, as well, now could feel the man's throbbing erection at the small of his back. Mason was moving slightly up and down, letting the underside of his hard cock rub against Ken's back. The left arm that was snaking around Ken's side, with the man's hand palming his pecs, was covered in a black and blue swirly design sleeve tattoo that Ken knew covered the man's left breast, the tattoo peeking out through the matting of salt-and-pepper hair on Mason's breast. The man's hair got darker as it moved down his body.