“Yes, that’s why we are in the private dining room. While I may not think twice about you dropping to your knees to take me deep down your throat out there amongst other diners, I get the distinct impression you might be a little embarrassed.”
The blush suffusing her neck and cheeks proves my theory correct. No sooner has her complexion returned to the alabaster patina than a server glides in to scoop up the plates and utensils. “How was the scampi, sir?” he asks, balancing the crockery on his wrist while he assembles the cutlery and smooths down the pristine linen.
“Exceptional, as always, Mateo.”
“Very good, sir.” With a succinct bow, he’s back through the door, the slight glimpse of my security still standing sentry on the other side of the door a comfort, as always.
“Sabrina,” I begin, glancing at my Patek Philippe timepiece after sliding the shirt cuff aside.
“Yes, sir?”
“There are precisely thirty-five minutes between entrée removal and delivery of the main course. I suggest you come over here now and start sucking my dick. I’ve had women take longer than that with no climax, yet some take mere minutes before I’m coming down their throat. What category you put yourself into will determine my next steps. Either way, I suggest you begin. And quickly.”
“Thank you, Ms. Broe. Mr. Hynd will be in touch.”
Just like that, I’m dismissed. One moment I’m sucking his velvety shaft into my mouth and eliciting a slew of curse words and moans before he pumped me full of salty cum. The next moment, the main course is served, consumed and cleared, along with my required presence. His candor seems as distant as the initial interview. Once he’d climaxed and all evidence licked from his shaft, I was required to stand, regain my seat, and wait for the main course. Just like that, as if I hadn’t just provided fellatio on a man who oozes as much wealth and power as sex appeal and sinfulness. Not that I was expecting athanks for the blow job, babecomment out of his mouth of polished privilege, didn’t my ministrations warrant something more than “The car is en route”?
This aloof separation of act and attraction is an allegory I’ll never get used to. Mason had been concerned I would continue to link sex with emotional intimacy, rather than an act of mechanics he spouted off as if the reference was one of rote explanation. Could I separate the two? I’d have to if I were to get the job, and I’d need to steel that resolve further if my tenure were to be long enough to earn enough money to support Cait through her treatment.
As far as oral goes, I went in hot and hard, just like I always have. If Mason was disappointed with my lack of sexualpartners, I wanted to leave nothing on the table, or in his balls, with my oral skills. From the moment I sank to my knees on the plush dining room carpet, undoing his suit pants and freeing his engorged length, it was my last chance to win him over. The only way to stop the scroll, so to speak, was to pull the breath right out from his lungs in one of the most explosive orgasms he’d ever had. So that’s what I did. I used my hands to measure his girth and length crudely at first, the rough mathematics computing in my head. One glance, one touch of his heated velvet and he was humongous. What I also knew was how to work him to the best of my ability to have him cursing gods and seeing stars. Every lick, suck, and sweep of my ardent tongue had him grasping at handfuls of my hair or gripping the cloth-draped table for purchase. All that did was encourage me further, my hands cupping and squeezing his heavy balls while my hot, wet mouth continued to worship him, then with a furious pace resulting in a torrent of his thick, creamy cum shooting to the back of my throat. I’ve sucked enough dick to realize the importance of a variation in pace, but not to the task at hand. Or mouth, if we’re being anatomically correct. Mason Mercer was coming within seven minutes of the lowering of his zipper. Stamp that on my curriculum vitae, sir.
As the town car winds its way through Jersey City and Newark, I’m reminded of a parallel journey days ago. Where exclamations of glorious weather had tears pooling on my lashes and hope evaporating like the jet trails from the aircraft exiting Liberty International Airport. This time, not wanting to continue the unimportant conversation with my driver, I opted to press a button and raise the partition between driver and client, cocooning me with my doubt and incredulity.
Almost three months ago, I was in a car coming home from a romantic dinner with my boyfriend after a day spent with editors and authors at a job I never thought I’d leave. Lifecouldn’t get any better, or so I’d thought. Hours later, it had all come crashing down when my boyfriend's wife had come to the publishing house ready to confront her brother-in-law about a gut feeling her husband was cheating. Her husband was cheating.With me!Mere desks away, fingertips tapping at a keyboard to drown out her plaintive cries and his remonstrations, my future took a leap off the fucking cliff. On her way out, she’d stopped by my desk to admire a plush smiling flower hanging off a shelf at the back of my cubicle, telling me she’d like one for her baby’s nursery now that she was convinced she was carrying a girl. My gut had eaten itself, the acid consuming the flesh from the inside out. Not knowing how to appease the woman I had unknowingly wronged in the cruelest way, all tear-stained and creating new human life, I tugged it down from the shelf and offered it to her as a metaphorical olive branch.
The following day I called in sick. On the Monday following, I’d resigned, but not until I’d chewed out my co-worker and his soulless twin for misappropriating the feelings of two women who deserved more. During the weekend when I’d drowned my sorrow and obvious stupidity in the bottom of a vodka bottle with Pen, Ed, and Jaspar, I learned of a decline in our grandmother’s health, as well as the increasing difficulty with Cait’s eyesight. The bloom of jellyfish was heavier, and vision in her left eye was restricted to less than half of her usual range of vision. Whether the universe was punishing me for the sins of unknowing adultery, I’d never know. But I was well aware that Caity needed help, and fast. Mom and Dad had tag-teamed a seven-hour wait at A & E, only to leave with instructions to take her to a specialized optician. The bloom of jellyfish was also the bloom of an unyielding set of shitty fucking dominoes that continued to fall at the feet of my sister.
My ringing cellphone dances across the surface of the tiny kitchen counter just as the pouring coffee ceases its dirty waterfall into my mug with a hiss. When I swipe at the screen, I see the words Mercer Group and freeze, my limbs seized by a torturous gelatinous vice. My thumping heart mimics a thundering stallion traversing a paddock at speed, only to be confronted by the constraining fence of a ribcage. By the fourth ring, and not wanting the message service to kick in, I hit accept and answer with the sweetest “‘Hello, Sabrina speaking,” I can manage.
“Good morning, Sabrina, it’s Trystan Hynd from Mercer Media. I hope I didn’t wake you.” As it’s 8:47 a.m. according to the wall oven clock display, I’ve only been awake for mere minutes, not that he needs that nugget of information.
“Of course not, Mr. Hynd, I’m just back from a run after some morning yoga. I’ve been up since the sun.” The lie rolls off my tongue with spectacular ease. Why do I feel the need to be something I’m not? Because fit, rich executive types would be up to salute the sun, personal trainers in tow, before downing a green smoothie with their egg white omelet.
“Fantastic. Well, your beautiful day will continue. I’m pleased to inform you that Mr. Mercer has selected you as the successful applicant, and pending satisfactory medical results from your testing earlier in the week, everything is set for a start on Monday, if that works for you? The email contains all the appointments you will need to attend prior to beginning.”
He wants… me? “That’s wonderful,” I agree. It’s all I can manage from the fog of sleepiness that won’t leave me after last night’s $18,000 wine and the blow job of my life.
“Perfect. Helen has sent you an email with all the detailsyou’ll need on your first day. Congratulations on your successful appointment, Ms. Broe. I look forward to welcoming you to the executive team at Mercer Media. If you have any further questions arising from the email, please give Helen or me a call.”
“Thank you, Trystan. I’m looking forward to joining the executive team too. “How was your evening at the opera?”
I hadn’t planned on throwing that last question out there. The man is probably inundated with his usual work, plus the additional logistics of a new hire, and informing unsuccessfulreceiving partiesofthe bad news. I’ve never been to the opera either.
“The opera, Sabrina, isalwaysspectacular. However, my night, as breathtaking as it was, pales compared to yours and Mason’s. Have a great rest of the day. We’ll expect you bright and early Monday.”
Holy fucking shit.I got the job.
Only once the line goes dead do I dissect his words about the evening Mason and I shared. My cheeks heat at the thought of Mason discussing technique among other details, like hyped-up locker-room talk at some overpriced country club. Of course, Trystan knows all about it; he’s the right hand to the CEO. While Mr. Mercer was on a conference call, Trystan guided me to Sercio’s opulent bar and began briefing me on the mechanics of the Mercer family and what made Mason tick. As he sat almost regally on the heavy leather stool, his impeccable shoes peeking from the bottom of his tuxedo pants rested on the footrail. Most of the females in the room had eyes on Trystan, and many of them weren’t discreet about it either, yet he paid them no mind. His perfunctory notes covered rules like not bringing up his family unless he mentions them first and being open and honest. Mason values honesty above everything else. The way his almost melancholic tone delivered the words mademe think of it as a bad thing. In a world with billion-dollar acquisitions and a constant stream of actors playing a role, honesty and integrity should be important. They should be paramount in any tax bracket. Up with the sun and out for a run? I hadn’t even started, and the untruths were already pouring from me like that wine. For two and a half thousand dollars a day, I would spray myself green and sing show tunes if that’s what he requested of me. But no more lies. Now that I was once again employed, I had nothing to shield my mother from, other than the finer details of my job description. If the lies stopped for her, they would stop for Trystan and Mason too. This money was important for Cait, for Mom and Dad. I’d be the best damn EPA Mason Mercer had ever employed. Receiving party? The party was raging inside my head, the syncopated beat contesting that of my pulse. ExecutivePersonalAssistant.
Onemilliondollars. No more flabby Sabby now, bitches.
From:[email protected]
Subject: Required appointments and documentation. Private and confidential.
Dear Ms. Broe,
