The Intern
Kids these days, they just- I don't even know what, really. I end up twisting my tie in my hands with any of the interns they send into my office, doing God's know what, hell if I know whose department they even come from. They come through my office with a sense of bemusement, as if they want to be nonplussed by the trophies on the wall. They take pride in every cup of coffee they bring you, and when they look you in the eyes you know they think your job will be theirs. It's maddening, and it flusters me, the raw earnestness of it. It was the first thing to make me feel old, because I would say "I don't remember anyone acting like that when I was their age," and I'd catch myself using that phrase just one more time. It's dispiriting, really. I'm a bigshot, I'm in charge, yeah. I know how I look. I'm this lion sitting behind this oak desk with a pinstriped suit and a severe look on my face. And people just imagine the things I did to get where I am, and how I seem so proud and proper in the big leather chairs. I can see it in their faces. But I look at these kids in these suits they took out loans to get and I think I never wanted anything as bad they want to climb the next rung, and the next, and so on forever. I never could've clawed my way up around these people. I think they'd have eaten me alive, they just can't be reasoned with. Not a one of them ever joined a fraternity.
I spend half my day talking to these kids. They think it mighty impressive to just shoot the shit with the CEO. They tell their stories like they've polished them a little too much, like they don't even want you to believe it's all true. But they want to impress you. They never think it would impress me to just bring me those documents and leave, but I always feel the bind of some non-contemporary politeness that prevents me from simply shooing them away. I find it embarrassing. They cow me over sometimes, they really do. I don't let them do it where anyone else could see, but in the intimacy of my office I'm a little more reticent, I little less beholden to enforcing my image. Whatever these kids think, they won't be around long anyway, and it's not worth the effort it'd take to make sure each maintains some reverent image of me.
But it's an indulgence, ultimately. Because I kind of like it. I might not have before Aaron started bringing me my coffee. This chubby little mutt with hair that burned red like the tip of a cigarette, and this infectious, constant grin. I liked him at first because he did give me what he had to give me and walk his plump little ass on out, his hips bopping from side to side with almost ridiculous affectation. He put as much into that walk as any of the others put into their longwinded anecdotes, but that ass got my attention much quicker, to my surprise. All he wanted was for me to enjoy watching him come and go. And I did, I really did.
So I appreciated it, for once, when he started making a habit of staying to chat. He dressed much more modestly than the other guys, and exuded all the more confidence for it. I liked him, and in my more condescending moments I thought of him as a protege, or pet, even, but ultimately I had to admit that for once I just liked the kid. I didn't trust him any more than I let myself trust anybody in the business, but there's only so deep the designs an intern makes on you can go. At best they want to hit you up for a job when the internship's up, and finally having the right to really boss them around is just what you want. But I didn't get the impression he wanted anything from me. Aaron made me feel secure, even. He'd never compliment me directly, but he'd rave over a guy's body and, finding himself short on the words to describe, compare it to something on me. It made me blush, it really did. I've been plied with crystal plaques bearing my name but no one ever thought of telling me I had a nice ass.
The last day of his internship he sauntered into my office, he sat up on my desk, swung his chubby little legs over to my end, and asked me if for his last day in the offices I wouldn't accompany him to lunch. And the only thing I thought to ask was, "Is this a date?" And it sounded silly the moment I said it, like a presumed joke that comes off painfully serious. He gave me a coy look and said "Are you my sugar daddy?" It stung dully like a rebuke, but it was playful. He let his legs sway easily in front of my desk, the bulge in his slacks drawing the attention of my eye.
I was past, at that time, hiding my admiration for his physique. It was an admiration he'd kind of wrestled out of me. He wasn't cut, like I had been, and still was in many ways. His plain pride in his body won me over. Every so often I'd seen him in the office gym, where my presence only seemed to make the other men beneath me uncomfortable. But he stepped out of a steaming shower, amber hair fluffed dry, and paraded in front of me with his towel draped over his shoulder. It was men his age who had really started looking after themselves, and he made me feel like my generation had missed something. I was openly jealous of him, sometimes. Guys my age had never trimmed their pubes. Looking at the red-headed mutt, his body so perfectly maintained that you knew every inch was pored over, I felt like a victim of fate. My eyes caught his and he smiled in a way he never had in my office. As if he felt that in this sphere, we're equals.
I don't know how the first button came off, but each one after that came undone quicker than the last, and before long he was posing before me, his paunchy body proudly displayed, my oak desk his pedestal. I put my hands on his body, my burly paws digging gently into the generous flesh. I chuckled with simple pleasure, exchanging looks with the intern, neither of us deluded to the deviousness of the moment. I think I liked it, too. I chuckled nervously with him, my grin twisted back, my tongue flicking out to wet my lips between soft, satisfied rurrs. He seemed to use my static guilt against me, taking over for me so that he could guide my hands down his body and into his pants and cup his proud package. I felt awkward sitting there with my hand buried in another guy's pants. I'd never done it before and had no idea how to comport myself, really. But he clasped his hand on top of mine, through his slacks, and licked his tongue over his teeth as my fondling made his fat cock stiffen. He knew how to make a man comfortable.
Aaron unbuttoned his slacks and let them fall to his shoes, and beamed immediately with pride as he flopped his cock out of his briefs. And I woud've been proud, too. We were about the same size: his girth giving the more immediate shock than his length, but impressive in both respects. But I was a lion, he was just a mutt. I'dve swung that thing like King Dick if I were him, but he didn't seem to take any certain pride in it. Nothing more than what emanated from him generally. I was stroking him without quite realizing it because his body begged to be played with. He felt like something new, something improved. Maybe men really had changed in the last twenty years. Maybe they did make them differently. Maybe I only figured these things because the way he puffed out his chest and kept his chin pointed to the ceiling a steady dribble of pleasured sighs trickled down to me, but what did it matter. He seemed exceedingly exclusive, postured on my oak desk, and anyone in my tax bracket knows the best things to be gotten only ever seem like the best things.
I felt like the only person in the world with a fat dick in his hand. It made me blush, and while I'm not sure he could see my blush, something tells me he got it in the facial expressions anyhow.
The mutt grabbed me by the mane and yanked my head down onto his cock. I gasped a little when he did it, the shock of it making my fists clench against the mutt's thighs for a moment, but the aggression seemed so sporadic, and as soon as it had passed I found myself so marveled by the dick now pressed up against my muzzle that the anxiety spilled from me. I looked up at him from his crotch, and he was smiling. I think I would've been offended at it all, would've thrown him right out of my office, if his grin weren't so wide, so unshakable. But it was fast on his muzzle, as if peeled back. My tongue lolled with reverence against his thigh while I was looking up at him, and I couldn't resist some wide, knowing smile. I didn't know what I knew, but I conveyed it all the same. I smiled, and when I chuckled, the intern chuckled, too, like whatever I knew, he knew it too. He yanked my mane again, and I got the message clear enough. I lapped my tongue under his stiff cock, and when I reached the head, I wrapped the mutt's big prick in my lips.
I hit the buzzer on my desk, "Rebecca, please hold my appointments until further notice."
The mutt scratched at the skin deep under my fur in the short moment it took her to ring back, "Yes sir." He made the back of my head tingle, the way his fingers sunk right past the thick, wiry fur that had always given me such a stately appearance, and scratched me like a docile lap pet. Docile, yeah. I was tame and timid. It felt good. I felt at the time incredibly indulgent, as if the intern had been some ripe fruit only I'd been tall enough to pluck from the highest branch, as if I was the one who'd done the plucking. I'm sure as hell he felt the same way. And so I lavished on his dick. My inexperience dawned on him as he made correction after correction, telling me in a low reassuring voice what to do, where to lick, how to pace the bobbing of my head. When I gained a little confidence, I took my lips off his dick and gathered his bulbous balls in my wide mouth, handling them gingerly with my tongue like my fingers might handle Faberge eggs. He seemed pleased by it, and I saw his digits dig into the edge of the oak desk as I rolled his balls on my tongue. But when the thrill passed, he yanked me off by the mane again and, with a casual gesture of the hand and a single word, told me: "Strip."
Of course, lions don't strip. Neither do CEOs or middle-aged men. We, myself included, get undressed. But semantics didn't really fit the scene. I leaned back in my chair for a moment, fumbling with the first button of my shirt, before giving in and standing up. I tried to avoid striking any kind of pose, but only fell naturally into a humble sort of one, my shoulders slumped forward as I peeled off the layers until my body, kept meticulously taut in the office gym, was bared for him. If it was stripping, then I guess it was stripping. I got a certain pride myself in being naked in front of him, in seeing the crude excitement on his face as he measured every inch of me, calculated just what value he was taking out of me, or at least I figured that's what he was doing. He got himself comfortable, too, slipping off his shoes and slacks, though the unbuttoned shirt stayed, making a poly-blend frame for his husky body. He leaned forward, beckoning me to come close enough for him to rest his hands on my body. His hands traversed my body like greedy explorers, taking in every squeeze and fondle they could. When he let my manhood rest in his palm - my cock stirring slowly, now that I was so naked and he, in just his shirt, seemed so respectable - I whimpered. I'd always done it at my physicals, too, when the doc would grasp my package. I had the presence of mine then to at least turn it into a cough; with the chubby redhead I just whimpered.
He hooked a paw under my shoulder and begged me to stand up out of my chair, then he turned me around and put me back in it, so that I kneeled on the soft leather cushion, my arms draped over the back of the high chair. He stood next to me like a officiant, sucking his fingers purposefully, like a clerk inking his stamp. One hand groped my body gratuitously, and the other wedged a couple fingers with respectful force into my hole. I was startled, I mean, I imagine that's how you ought to feel. I didn't feel uncomfortable whimpering, but I was surprised at myself nonetheless. My cock just twitched and stiffened as the mutt fingered me, myself sitting there with a certain lost expression. I figured I must have some responsibility in this moment, but I eschewed it, whatever it was. The tips of the mutt's fingers prodded and teased spots he must have expected to be there, and all the while his other hand took measure of my biceps, sunk themselves into my age-softened gut, traced the outlines of my taut chest, sunk deep into the fur of my mane, scratching the skin of my neck so that it seemed almost more intimate than the fingers in my ass. My tail whipped back and forth with indecision, unsure whether to get out of the way or slap the mutt's hand aside. I didn't feel as if I could control it. Whatever it did, it did.
Maybe I'd gotten a little loud, because Aaron hit the button to turn on my office stereo system. Powerful classical music boomed through the expansive office. I was never sure of the composers, but the composition was syncopated and powerful. The intern spread my cheeks, plied the generous mounds in his skillful hands, and stuffed his muzzle in between them. It was a pure shock. I don't like to play ignorant, but this was a genuine surprise. The tingling sensation snuck up my spine for a moment, the pressure building in the first few confusing moments as I tried to piece together just what the mutt was after. Then I loosed a dulcet howl as if venting it all, and when I fell silent again, the redhead's slick tongue had wriggled itself into a comfortable rhythm.
My cock strained from it. My cock leaked and twitched because of it. I'd been expecting to get fucked by then. That tongue had interrupted it all and my body went into a pleasured panic. I dug into the worn leather of my chair, my toes curled, and pushed back against the mutt's tongue, loving every inch and every writhe of it until he stopped, slapped my ass, and told me to bend over the desk. I looked at him, my brows furrowed. I hadn't pouted since my teens. But he gave up his order, manhandled my ass with his aggressive hands, and skewered me with his tongue again. This time I begged for it, I didn't want him to stop, and he fucked my ass with his tongue until I'd left on the chair a puddle of precum connected by a thin strand to my trembling cock. That's when he told me to bend over the desk again, and though I pouted again, he was resolute.
And so I did. I got out of my chair, I bent over my big oak desk - sliding papers messily to the side, files falling to the floor - and the mutt lost no time. He pressed the fat head of his dick under my tail, his breath hot and loud against the back of my ears. He grunted and spread me open, and I was surprised in that I didn't grunt too. I let out a drawn-out huff of air and let the cock settle in me, sinking slowly, by some unseen but even force, into me. The moan grew just as steadily in my throat, a scratchy, raspy groan of reserved pleasure. I wondered if I looked composed - the mutt's own pleasured breaths drowned out my own - but for a guy as used to a stony countenance as my own, I felt like a screaming slut. "Oh, get that," I pleaded. I figured I could at least keep up an image of directing him, if I tried, though the language all sounded uninspired, unforceful. "Right there, keep it right there," I'd plead, but he'd shift his body, get a new hold on me, and start plowing me from a different angle, as if just to spite me. I figure now if I'd been shouting "fuck me, fuck me," he'd have listened. I just didn't have it in me, so I maintained my false composure, and the mutt thankfully ignored it.
And a false composure was all it was, underneath my skin, every nerve lit up with raw stimulation. I buzzed like an Operation game board, the mutt's fat cock spreading me open. I could feel his dick deep in my ass, and the visceral nature of it slayed me. Big guy bent over a big desk and some-seven inches of meat made me feel like I were a fluttering leaf. I clung tight against the desk to compose myself, each heavy rut flooding my gut and bearing against tender spots inside me that exposed themselves like hidden passages. He bent over me while he fucked me, his generous gut resting on my back, his chubby arms wrapped around my shoulders as if he needed to anchor himself for each deep drill.
The oak desk proved sturdy, and when he started laying into me, plowing his hips against me so that his balls slapped my ass, I felt solid despite my vulnerability. I clenched my teeth and made sure he had something solid to plow, too. My whimpers were respectable, quiet. My moans were muted, detached, as if my head were in a completely different place entirely. The mutt ate it up, I think, this big stately lion maintaining his composure as he's railed by a fat cock. It was the only way I could have thought to take a dick, really; with the same grim, respectful determination of a gravedigger.
"Damn that's a tight ass," he mused in my ear, a non-sequitur. I think he knew it was my first time, and I'm pretty sure he delighted in it. He broke my ass in like a pair of new leather shoes. Each thrust seemed to wear down the tension of disuse, broke down the toughened bonds, until his dick fit in my ass like a hand in a glove. With every rambunctious thrust those powerful legs drove his fat dick into my rump with indefatigable relish, every muscle in his body working like a set of intricate gears to wind his hips and bring them crashing repeatedly into my ass. His body fell into rhythm with the music, the driving, frantic composition begging him on to fuck me deeper, and soon he wasn't just fucking me, he was using me, and that was when it dawned on me. He was using my ass in the very real sense, like anyone might use a tool. My proud mane was there for him to hold onto and yank. My stout trunk counterbalanced his small but bulky frame. My beefy legs, the pride of my workout routine, kept me propped up where he can drill me. But my ass, my ass was all that he really needed of me. And he buried his cock in it with a sense of ownership, a sense of victory. He stuffed his cock into my ass with the dutiful sense of purpose of a judge. My balls drew up tight against my body, my eyes lost their focus, and I found myself concentrating simply on the fact: He's fucking my ass, he's fucking my ass, this chubby little redhead brought me a coffee than bent me over my own desk. He was fucking my ass, and he loved it. My body seemed to float forward, as if carried by a rolling wave, and I burst hot cum all over the oak desk. I couldn't have helped it, I couldn't have expected it or figured on it. I groaned through gritted teeth and burst generous fountains of thick cum onto my desk. It didn't even feel like the end, despite the pulsing waves of pleasure that shot through my body like a stray bullet, lighting up nerves almost at random. The back of my neck tingled as I shot my load; a lump caught in my throat to cut off any complaint as he fucked my increasingly sensitive ass; my stomach seemed to tie itself up, my gut bursting with fireworks of sensations as the mutt pumped every last drop of cum out of me.
I waited on him to blow his load, too, but he didn't. He rocked back and forth on my ass then, the tender spots inside having now become ablaze with sensation, almost burning with every prod of the fat cock against them, and now I really couldn't help moaning. I moaned like a bitch. I took short, startled breaths through my teeth, and whined with plaintive sorrow as the mutt bore into me still. It didn't hurt. It had never hurt. But oh God, it was too much. I mewed like a little kitty, I whimpered like a broken slut begging for me. Then he pulled out, rested his cock between my cheeks for a few moments, as if deciding whether to burrow himself again - and he did. Slipped his fat cock easily back into my abused ass, made me whine and fuss, and then he pulled out again, slapped my ass, and started putting his clothes back on.
He didn't say a word as he stuffed his stiff cock back into his nice white briefs, and he didn't remark on how I turned around to watch him, curious, fulfilled, but still worried if I ought to await more. It didn't take long for him to dress back up, though his belt was still undone, and he hadn't found it fit to tuck in his shirt after buttoning it back up. Dressed, he leaned against the desk, looking at me. Admiring me, I think. I think.
I got dressed, too. I took the time to fix every detail. The belt pulled to the right loop, the tie tied with a perfect, compact knot. I looked professional again, thought I could still feel the dirt underneath. I could see where my shirt clung to gobs of cum on my stomach. I turned off the music, suddenly, and it seemed then as if they papers strewn about the floor gave the only testament to what had happened.
We had a nice lunch, the two of us, and when he said goodbye it wasn't like he was saying goodbye at all.