Indiscreet Box Set

Chapter 6

“What in hell’s name?” Donald bellowed as he stepped out of the washroom holding a hand towel. He stopped. His ability to speak vanished. He could neither howl nor whisper. Donald didn’t believe the evidence of his own eyes. A replica of the boy who co-starred in his most erotic fantasies lay sprawled on his rug amidst a rapidly spreading burgundy stain, which could only be his bottle of Bordeaux.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll clean it up immediately,” the boy said in a panic. “Sally said I shouldn’t come in, but they told me to make sure you had this…” He pointed his shaking hand in the direction of the large heavily taped parcel, which had replaced the bottle on his desk. “I have to do whatever they tell me…down there,” the boy babbled.

Donald was happy the boy became so flustered. It gave him some time to recover from the shock of discovering his boy existed in the physical world. For a moment, Donald felt his mind caught in the loop of desire and fantasy. He looked down again. Yep, the entire bottle of 1985 Bordeaux stained his eight thousand dollar, hand woven, hand-knotted, antique Persian rug. What little wine that did not make it to the rug splashed back at the boy.

“I tried to catch the bottle, Sir, but the package obscured my vision and I tripped over the fringe and landed on…eh…I think there is at least one glass left.” The boy turned and reached for the bottle at his left knee. His knee moved and almost did an encore. He anxiously looked up at Donald while holding out the remainder of the Bordeaux. His face flushed with embarrassment, he said, “Maybe you should take this bottle, Sir, before I knock it over again.”

Donald silently reached over, grabbed the bottle by its neck, set it in the middle of his desk and almost sent the crystal glass over the edge. He had long ago trained his face not to show emotion, and inwardly Donald grinned. He didn’t give a flying f**k about the rug, the wine, or the interruption. He didn’t even mind his own apparent momentary lack of coordination. The boy sprawled before him was not an illusion, before him lay his fantasy in the flesh.

Donald judged the boy’s age at early to mid-twenties. He stood about five-foot four, a nine-inch difference from his own six-foot three-inch frame. Donald had the physique of a linebacker under his Savile Row suit. The boy looked lean, sleek, built like a runner or a swimmer. His platinum hair fell to his shoulders where he confined it in a queue with a simple black leather tie. Several silken, unruly curls escaped to frame his face, giving him a look that said, “I’ve just been fucked.”

He wore a pair of beige Dockers and his well-worn Oxford shirt spilled halfway out of his pants. The left side of the shirt bore the brunt of the stain. He had a white plastic pocket protector with about three or four pens attached to the pocket on the right. The kid’s belt was black, but his shoes were brown. His tie went askew and the clip showed along with the black elastic fastener. He wore huge horn rimmed glasses held together at the nose with a Band-Aid that hung from a croakey. When the boy wore the glasses, Donald knew the sparkling blue eyes with long, light brown lashes would remain hidden. Donald shook his head to make sure he was not projecting some kind of waking wet dream. It seemed real enough, as the kid knelt attempting to clean wine up from the rug in panicked frustration using tissues from the holder on his desk as Donald enjoyed the outline of his well-shaped ass.

Donald looked down again.

Jesus Christ, could this get any better? He is sporting a hard-on I can see through his Dockers. Christ, he’s gorgeous.

He filed the boy’s reaction away for later examination.

“Stop,” Donald ordered. The boy went motionless and assumed a submissive pose an experienced Dom would interpret as “Attention,” his legs parted, ankles crossed, back straight, and his hands clasped at the small of his back with his head bowed. Donald helped the boy up. He felt the slender but well-developed build. He led him over to the sofa. The boy shook.

“Hold on, kid. Take a minute to breathe.”

Donald walked over to the far side of his desk and picked up the phone. “Sally, call Maintenance and have them come to pick up my rug for stain removal.” Then, turning towards the boy, said, “What is your name?” Donald asked in a tone of voice commanding an answer.

The kid looked up, squared his shoulders into a pleasing line, and answered Donald as if trained to submission for years. “My name is Brian Murphy, Sir. I work in your mailroom.”

Donald didn’t listen to the kid’s answer so much as watch his body language in fascination. He crossed back to the couch and sat in close to test the waters. Donald’s gaydar never failed. The kid was gay, thank God. Did he have the submissive tendencies Donald suspected? Was Brian the type of boy he sought? Could his Master train him to absolute obedience? Donald knew he needed complete control in order to trust a boy again. Maybe Brian would have the strength to train if he felt strong emotions for his Master. Could Donald engender strong emotions in Brian Murphy?

A natural submissive would look downward and become agitated if any man other than his Master got this close. It would be an instinctive behavior not unlike a beta wolf exposing his neck to his alpha. The kid looked down and away from Donald’s eyes as he edged away from his thigh, which Donald had placed almost close enough to touch his.

“Sir…Sir, you need salt, Sir,” the boy babbled, again. “My mom says for a wine stain you sop up the wine, dilute it with soda water, then follow with salt, uh…Sir.” The kid was almost incoherent.

Interesting, Donald would peg him as sassy and loquacious, in control of himself and his environment most of the time.

Therefore, what made Brian lose his concentration?

“Sally,” Donald shouted out the door, “also bring in a bottle of seltzer and a container of salt. The lunchroom should have both.” He said to pacify the boy. Donald watched as the boy jumped up to attempt to mop up more of the spill and to furtively move himself out of Donald’s intimate space.

Donald commanded, “Sit, now.” He attempted to sit almost as soon as the words left Donald’s mouth. It was unfortunate his ass was over the arm of the sofa rather than the seat. He grimaced and did a semi-slide onto the seat cushion straight into the boss’s lap, landing on Donald’s recently acquired hard-on.

The kid’s pale complexion flushed a delightful shade of pink.

Donald moved over to give the kid room but remained close to Brian’s personal space. He had a hard time holding back another chuckle.

Covering his gaffe, Donald said, “I gather you work for me?”

“Yes, Sir,” the kid said, as he gave him a strange look.

Fuck, Donald thought, now he was the one caught wool gathering. He decided to ignore his own faux pas and continue.

“In what capacity Brian?” asked Donald.

“I’m an intern in the mailroom, Sir.”

“I was not aware Mavis put interns in the mailroom. In general, we place interns where they can learn something new and rise in rank.” Donald’s last remark was a question although he presented it as a statement. The kid played possum and ignored his query.

Donald was intrigued.

Donald edged closer. The kid tried to move away subtly.

However, Brian was running out of sofa space. He noticed the kid was desperate to hide his nervous giggle. He put a hand in front of his face and attempted to disguise it as a cough. Donald’s laugh boomed up and out from the bottom of his diaphragm. It had been a very long time since he last tried to bury a laugh. Still skittish, but encouraged, his eyes slid over to Donald. Brian gave in and let out a laugh. Donald let the breath out of his lungs, unaware he held it in as long as he had. Brian rose up from the sofa, trying to fuss at the wine stain again.

Right then, Donald’s Bear wanted Brian in a bad way. This cub had possibilities. He would have to plan this and proceed as a Drummond. The Clan’s motto was Gang Warily-Go Carefully.

He would go on warily and carefully, but go he would. Maybe, just maybe, he had finally met his match. Donald patted the sofa seat, indicating the cub should sit. Brian nervously sat on the edge of the sofa, looking like he wanted to move closer but was afraid to do so.

“So, Brian Murphy, what brought you to Drummond Realty?”

Donald asked, silently willing Brian to answer all his unasked questions.

“I graduated in January from Monmouth University with a double major, accounting and information technology, summa c*m laude with an MBA,” Brian replied, as if he was speaking in code. “I had other offers, but applied to Drummond due to its benefit package and its atmosphere of tolerance toward minorities.”

“Why are you in the mailroom instead of Accounting or IT?”

Donald asked.

“I’m sort of clumsy at communication, Sir. I guess they figured I would do less damage in the mailroom…I do try to follow um…rules to the letter, but my communication problems get in the way, Sir.”

“I don’t remember poor communication skills being a problem in Accounting. Sales maybe, but not Accounting.”

Donald laughed. Brian returned a weak smile.

“Well, what is considered clumsy communications skills may not pertain as much to what I do as it does to who and what I am, Sir,” Brian answered him. In an afterthought and in an effort at perfect honesty said, “Although I do babble when I’m nervous.”

Donald, as a Master, was very good at soliciting information from a potential sub, while making the process as painless as possible. He needed to know his sub’s strengths, weaknesses, what kind of pain gave pleasure and which caused a sub to use his safe word. Obviously Brian was attempting to give him information, feeling his way around the issue to see if Donald would be the one who would listen. Donald’s job was to let Brian know he would not only listen, he would also help. He raised his voice.

“Why are you up here? I told Sally I was not to be disturbed.

Didn’t you hear her when she told you not to go into the office?”

“Uh, Mr. Robbins, Sir, my boss, he came down to the mail center…”

Donald’s brain worked at two levels as he listened to Brian’s story. Robbins was a known bigot and bully whom he wanted to fire with cause for years. Unfortunately, he and Robbins shared a history. They were enemies since childhood. Robbins beat up Donald so severely that he had to go to the Emergency Room where Donald had to talk the doctor out of pressing charges. As Donald explained, the bullying would only become worse. The doctor suggested karate lessons. Donald listened.

When Donald started hiring semi-skilled labor, Zeke presented himself to Human Resources. Since Donald gave his executives autonomy, Human Resources hired Zeke. As much as Donald wanted to dismiss Zeke Robbins the moment he was hired, he knew that their personal history would land him in lawsuit hell. He resisted the urge and tried to ignore the man completely.

Zeke worked his way up to manager of the mailroom. Even so, the rumors flew. Zeke was a card-carrying member of the worst element of the Christian right wing. He was a racist, a bigot, and a well-known homophobe who was not shy about stating his views. In the five years since he was hired, Robbins’s feet edged closer and closer to the line, but Zeke managed to stay just shy of stepping over. If Donald was right, Robbins may have crossed his Rubicon, and Donald, finally, may have found cause.

He had let his mind wander again; fortunately, it seemed as if he had missed little of note.

Brian continued, “And gave me a package. He told me to bring it up here and make sure I gave it to you and no one else.

My kind is forever on his bad side, so when Ms. Tierney said not to come in, if I listened to her, I would have disobeyed Mr. Robbins and lost my job. I really need this job, Sir. As I said, he has a problem with me anyway.”

“Hmm,” Donald mused, he noticed Robbins lurking in the reception area outside his private office suite when he arrived. He knew his voice carried and frustration always raised his decibel level from bellow to roar. Robbins had heard him tell Sally ‘no calls’, yet, he had thrown this cub into the Bear’s cage.

Interesting, Donald thought.

Donald knew Robbins hated his low-end job at Drummond.

Moreover, he is rabid in his hatred of me, but well-paying jobs are not close to the ground around here, so Robbins stays where he is and takes his innate meanness out on his co-workers. This kid is gay to boot.

Mavis, his Director of Human Resources, called Robbins an unexploded s****l harassment suit. She had complaints on exit interviews, but no one would put it in writing. Office gossip portrayed Robbins as one vindictive son of a b***h. However, if Robbins set Brian up, it was a completely new ball game.

Donald had been out of the closet for years, but he did not flaunt his s****l orientation. Most of the senior employees had been with the company since the beginning. They knew which side of the fence Donald played. He never gave a thought to what his employees felt about his s****l orientation. Since he owned the company, he didn’t care.

Drummond Real Estate had a reputation in the surrounding communities as being a place that encouraged minority employees and gave benefits to live-in partners, whether they were same s*x or heterosexual couples. He insisted on generous maternity leave for both mothers and fathers.

Donald surveyed the surrounding area and made sure he paid a wage at least equal to, if not higher than the competition.

He subsidized a pension plan, not a 401K, and promoted from within. Few employers in the area gave anything comparable to Drummond’s liberal benefits, vacation days, holidays, or work environment. These policies, he felt, brought him the best and the brightest and if he lost a few good employees because he was gay, he gained many more because he was fair and generous.

He was right. Most employees thought Drummond was a great place to work. The majority of Drummond personnel didn’t give a damn about the s****l orientation of the boss, because he wasn’t tight-fisted with the help. However, there were exceptions and Robbins was one.

“Brian, I am going to ask you something. You do not have to answer me. If you refuse, you will still have a job. Do you understand?”

“Uh…yes, Sir.”

“Look up at me, kid. I am not going to bite, at least not yet,” Donald joked to break the tension. The kid was frightened and he didn’t look like a young man easily led to emotional excess.

Donald had caught and filed the hints Brian threw his way without acknowledgment. He already knew Brian was in this situation due to his s****l orientation. Donald was unable to do anything with a hint.

Brian looked up at Donald. Those huge navy eyes were over bright with worry. Master Bear overtook Donald and he did not think, he acted. He brought his big paw up and held onto the right side of Brian’s face, thumb working at light calming strokes down the smooth jaw. The kid shivered and Bear thought for a moment he was about to nuzzle his hand. “Cub,” Bear asked in a very gentle tone, “Are you gay?”

The kid heaved a sigh of relief. Bear had asked. He had not accused.

“Uh…yes Sir. I did my job in Accounting, and I did it well.

Mrs. Mueller wrote up my clumsy communication skills. I may be better with numbers and code than with people. Even if I misspoke, I always made it a point to apologize. I was fine in Accounting, and hoping for a promotion to IT. I had my own cubicle and didn’t get in anyone’s way. Mr. Blake over…”

Blake was Donald’s Vice President of Information Technology, which included Accounting, Systems Integration, and Data Coordination. Commercial Real Estate in the MidAtlantic Region of the U.S. had to rely heavily on the instant exchange of information, if John Blake took notice of the kid, the kid was a star…

“…in IT commented on a report I prepared for Mrs. Mueller and told me I had potential. Mrs. Mueller…” he stopped for a moment and took a breath.

“Brian, anything you say to me here, in this office, will remain confidential, unless I have your permission to do otherwise.”

“Mrs. Mueller didn’t care too much for me after Mr. Blake asked to review all my work. He said he liked my succinct style and wanted me trained for a better position.”

“Why, Brian? Please feel free to give me your opinion as well as the facts.”

“I believe Mrs. Mueller was seeking the same promotion. She had been taking credit for all of my work and she wanted Mr.

Blake to continue to give her the credit for any exceptional work done in the department.”

“Refresh my memory. What does Mrs. Mueller do in Accounting?” Bear asked, still stroking Brian’s face. The kid was beginning to calm down.

The adrenaline shot of fear dissipated at a slow pace, his boy almost purred under Bear’s hand. Yet, he forged on attempting to explain to the Big Boss what happened. Whatever it was, it was evident the kid was desperate to keep his job. Bear made a decision, this boy was his boy and the sooner he got him in his life and in his bed, the better.

“Do you smoke?”

“No sir, why?”

“I don’t like the smell,” Bear replied.

Brian gave him a strange look.

The next thing Bear needed to know was why the kid was in such a dire need of funds.

“Mrs. Mueller is the Administrative Assistant to Mr. Bartolomo, he manages the junior accountants.”

Bear put his hand up signaling Brian to quiet. Brian’s babbling took the story on quite a circuitous route, showing Bear Brian’s compassion, but not giving him the answers he needed. With his curiosity at its peak, Bear asked, “And how is Mrs. Mueller related to Mr. Robbins? I can’t seem to understand how you wound up in the mailroom?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Sir.” He was blushing again. “Mr. Robbins and Mrs. Mueller go to the same church. Well, she was my boss…”

The same Church—Alarm bells went off in his head. Bear put up his hand again and Brian went silent. Very well trained, he thought.

“I understand that the Manager of Junior Accountants is Mr. Bartolomo.” Brian squirmed.

“Mr. Bartolomo is getting a divorce, Sir. He stayed in his office and Mrs. Mueller ran things the last few months I was in the department.”

Bear was impressed. Brian felt sorry for Bartolomo, even though it looked as if his negligence put Brian in harm’s way. Yes, definitely a good heart, Bear thought.

“Continue, Brian, what happened when she became your boss?” Bear growled a little. The kid squirmed at his change in tone, unused to Bear’s decibel range. Bear boiled with anger, and not because one of his employees dared to damage a boy he was about to claim. Employees at Drummond were not doing their job. Bear paid well and expected his employees to perform.

He understood things like divorce, sickness in the family, and that is why he made sure to hire an empathic but competent HR manager, whom he was about to promote to VP. But now, Mavis’ ass was in a sling and her promotion might be in the wind. She was not going to be playing happy families with the miscreants.

The kid continued in almost a whisper. Bear’s brows furrowed and a few deep lines stretched across his forehead. The street kid in Bear knew what he looked like when he was on the verge of violence and the boy picked right up on his mood. He took a breath, and remembered he and those he protected were no longer defenseless against the likes of Mrs. Mueller. He c****d his head to encourage Brian to continue.

“Why do you want a job in a mailroom when your degree can get you a better job elsewhere without the hassle?”

Herein lay the tale, Donald thought.

Brian sighed. “Medical insurance, Sir, my mother is on Social Security Disability. It is not enough to live on, never mind pay medical expenses. Medicare covers most illness but Mom has special needs. Your insurance plan allows me to claim Mom as a dependent, so her medical bills and prescriptions are covered and what’s more, the policy took effect the day I started work. I still get a decent salary, and I can give a lot of it to her. I would not get as much somewhere else. I am saving so I can get enough to put up a down payment for an assisted living facility for Mom. I can handle the monthly fees. I need to get together enough for the down payment. I should have it by next month.

“Mrs. Mueller saw my earring and asked if I was gay. I didn’t think anything of it and said, yeah. Next thing you know, I was in the mailroom with Mr. Robbins. I’m not stupid, Sir. I pretty much got what happened. However, as I explained, I need my salary.

The job is mindless and Mr. Robbins is…well he doesn’t care too much for gays, Sir. He makes downright nasty comments.”

He always had, Donald thought, remembering the old days when Robbins spoke to Donald with his fists. Robbins now found a different way to claw at his gut.

Bear looked at Brian with his eyes aflame. “What kind of comments, Brian?”

“The usual, Sir,” he responded. “He never calls me by my name, he says ‘Hey faggot.’ He tells me to bring my own water because he doesn’t want his staff getting ‘those homo diseases’.”

Bear noticed the distressed look flicker across Brian’s face. The look told Bear the kid was more upset by all of this than he let anyone see.

“I think he’s trying to get me to give up and quit or provide him with cause to fire me. That’s why even when Sally, err, Ms.

Tierney, said I shouldn’t disturb you, I knew I had to give you the package directly, or Mr. Robbins would use it as an excuse to get rid of me.”

Or, on the other hand, have me do it for him, Donald thought as he became all business. Aloud, he said, “You stayed and consented to be harassed for your mother’s sake?”

“No, Sir. I am gay and out of the closet. I earned the right to be whom and what I am. Drummond is a minority-friendly company. Most companies say they are minority-friendly, but extend privilege only to the popular minorities. If you are African-American, Hispanic, Jewish, Muslim, whatever, you are it’s fine and you can work in peace without harassment. Nevertheless, if you are gay, you have no benefits and no protection. Drummond was reputed as being gay-friendly and outright supportive of life-partner benefits, everything we are denied for not being ‘regular folks.’”

Donald looked at Brian. He seemed resigned to his fate.

Donald wondered as to what fate he felt himself resigned and didn’t care for the path his brain was taking. Zeke Robbins would no longer victimize this boy. He had to be very careful here.

“Brian, I don’t make a big deal of it, but I’m also gay, I’ve been out since my teens. With your permission, you and I are going to rid this company of Mr. Robbins and his cohort, Mrs.

Mueller, and put the rest of Drummond Real Estate on notice.

We won’t stand for harassment of any kind.” Donald buzzed Sally from the phone on the table next to the sofa. “Sally, call Mavis and tell her I want Brian Murphy’s employment file on my desk in two minutes.”

“Yes, Mr. Drummond.”

The light in those bright blue eyes seemed to dim. Bear came out to roar. The boy was no more than twenty-two or three. He was much too young to look so defeated. Bear wanted to kiss that look off his face and bring back the sparkle in those bright blue eyes. He also wanted to see those eyes when he first stuffed his nine-inch, fist thick member into his boy’s well-lubricated ass. He wanted to watch them glassy with ecstasy, shining with mischief and desperate to please his Papa, only his Papa. He wanted his ass red hot with strokes from his hand until his cub’s d**k was leaking and he was begging to come. He let go of Brian’s chin and put his arm casually around the back of the boy’s shoulders and pulled him closer in a gesture of comfort. Bear then rose and crossed to his desk. “Relax, Brian. You are safe. You have a job here.”

Bear looked out from under his eyelashes at Brian. The boy’s relief became obvious. His face lit up like a Christmas tree.

Clumsy or not, he remained a beautiful man. He wanted him. His c**k was tenting his pants. He felt the pre-c*m leaking from the tip. Bear was glad he wore a dark suit. The small stain would be less obvious.

Once he straightened this mess, Bear was going to concentrate on how to get Brian Murphy into, preferably tied to, his bed on a permanent basis. He smelled it. Brian would be a perfect sub.

Brian was squirming on the sofa like a fish on a hook. Bear was quite pleased, because he intended to begin to reel him in. A hesitant knock sounded. Mavis Moore, a short, curvy woman with a dark chocolate complexion stood in the doorframe, a paper file folder in her hand. Bear stood and mentally shifted over to a business mode.

“Don, you asked for Brian Murphy’s file? Has HR screwed up? I thought it was a bit strange such a promising intern would request a transfer to a dead end department like Mail, but Iris Mueller and Zeke Robbins both assured me he wanted the transfer, something about having more time to take care of his mom.”

“I looked at his record. When he was hired, Brian stipulated we transfer sixty percent of his salary to Mrs. Murphy’s account. Since we do the split for child support, I thought, why not for parental support. He also listed her as a dependent for insurance. With the insurance request in his file, I figured it was the truth, she was going through a bad patch and the kid needed time.”

Mavis moved toward Donald’s desk, agitation showing in the staccato beat of her heels on the planked floor.

“And you never thought to ask the employee the extent of his problem or to look and see if Drummond could find a solution other than take a valuable, trained Accounting and IT professional and put him in the mailroom with an IT professional’s salary?

Did you speak to either Blake or Bartolomo about it? Damn it, Mavis,” Donald boomed, “you figured wrong. I have Brian right here. Why not ask him what you should have asked before the transfer?” Donald watched as Mavis’s face set in ire.

Donald also watched Brian’s reaction. He saw that the HR director’s obvious anger distressed his boy. Nevertheless, he could not reassure him right now, he had to act as Donald, not Bear. Mavis would reassure the cub soon enough and any damage would be recoverable. Mavis Moore didn’t like to be wrong and seldom was. Donald moved behind his desk, taking the file.

“Are you telling me Iris Mueller lied to me? Witch,” Mavis fumed, her hip c****d with her right arm crooked at the waist, body vibrating. An angry Mavis looked like a wasp circling in for the sting, Donald mused as he sat down at his desk, flipping pages and making notes.

“Yep, looks like,” Donald replied easily. “It also seems Mrs. Mueller is running Bartolomo’s group since Bartolomo’s brain went on vacation when his wife left. He signed this and I doubt he even looked at it.”