I Heard a Strange Call from My Boss - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 1

I don’t live in Rafael Vargas’s house.

I just never seem to leave it.

I’m twenty-three. I do his calendar, his house, his life. Flights between the dealerships. Which villa gets cleaned on which day. Which driver picks him up from which lot. He owns a fleet — four mega stands in the city, two more on the highway, a warehouse that smells like new rubber and coffee that tastes like a wrench. He pays me more than the advertising agency did and he lets me work from the kitchen island with my laptop open next to his mail.

I get there around four. He gets home from the main lot around six, goes straight to the gym he built in the garage, and I start dinner because that’s how the job grew a second job nobody wrote down. I like cooking for him. I like the house when it’s only his shoes in the hall. I like that masculine quiet he carries in from the lot — tall, forty-three, dark beard, short hair fighting a widow’s peak, the body that sits between lean and thick because he runs and he lifts and he doesn’t talk about either.

Hairy arms. Hair at the open button of whatever shirt he wore to sell a car. I wax everything I have. That’s not his business. It’s mine.

My last boyfriend ended it because I was always “at work.” He wasn’t wrong. I was always here.

Tuesday had been a long one before the garage. I spent the afternoon at the island with his week open in three tabs. North stand needed a closer to cover a sick day. The highway lot wanted the new SUVs moved before the weekend promo. His sister had emailed twice about a lunch he was going to cancel and wanted me to be the one who sounded kind about it. I called the cleaning crew for the villa on Thursday. I confirmed the driver for Friday’s airport run. Rafael came through the kitchen at 6:10 in the shirt from the lot, already pulling the tie, already heading for the garage without sitting down.

“Don’t wait dinner on me,” he said. “Forty minutes. If I’m not out, start without me.”

“I won’t start without you.”

He almost smiled at that. Then the garage door shut and the music went on low and the bar started clinking. I browned the steak. I grated the cheese. I thought about the year he’d gone without anyone — not because he’d told me. Because the house told me. No second glass. No overnight bag that wasn’t his. No name on the calendar that wasn’t a lot or a lawyer.

I went to the garage door to tell him dinner was twenty minutes out.

I heard the phone first.

He was on the bench, gray tank dark with sweat, black running shorts, trainers still on. Hairy legs planted. The garage smelled like his workout — iron, rubber, the heat a man makes when he’s been at it forty minutes and hasn’t showered.

“Yeah. I wanted prices. Tonight if you can do it.”

I stopped with my hand on the frame.

“Anal. That’s the interest. I haven’t had sex in almost a year. I won’t last. Half an hour should cover it.”

My boss was calling a whore.

I should have backed into the kitchen. I didn’t. I watched him palm himself over the shorts while he listened to the rate.

“A hundred. Can it be raw? I’m not used to condoms.”

He was getting hard in the nylon. Thick line. No shame in the empty garage. Only the small frustration of a man who’d been told no about the condom and was already negotiating up.

“You don’t do raw? I’ll pay extra.”

That was the sentence that moved my feet.

I went back through the house on quiet socks. Bathroom. Quick rinse. I fast during the day; the rest was fast. Lub. A finger just enough to open what I wanted him to take. Sports leggings. A thong underneath that was not for running. I looked at myself in the mirror for one second and decided I was either about to get fired or I was about to get what I’d been cooking toward for months.

When I came back to the garage door he was still on the phone.

“Rafael. Dinner.”

He was still calling hookers and asking prices. The shorts were still tented. He looked like a man who’d been caught stealing and was going to joke his way out.

“Jesus, David. You move like a ninja. I’m coming. I should start paying you a real extra salary for the food. Even my ex-wife never did this every night.” He laughed too loud. Awkward. The laugh of a boss who still had a hard-on a woman on the line.

“I like doing it.”

The call hadn’t disconnected. I could hear a woman’s voice, tinny, still selling the hour.

“You should get back to your friend,” I said. Irony. Jealousy I didn’t hide well.

He ended it. Flustered.

“Telemarketing. We eating?”

“It’s still in the oven.” I lied.

I had the whole speech in my mouth and none of it was elegant. I pulled the leggings down. Thong. Garage light on my ass. His eyes dropped and stayed there.

“I heard you,” I said. “You’re looking for someone to fuck raw in the ass tonight. You don’t have to pay. Use mine.”

I got on all fours on the weight bench and spread myself with a hand because if I didn’t do it ugly I was going to lose my nerve and put the leggings back on.

“David.” His voice went lower. A stutter under it. “What the hell is this.”

I looked back. He was still hard in the shorts. Sweat on the tank. Hungry in a way the lot never got.

“It’s already prepped. Lubbed. You wanted raw. You’ll save the money and the risk of whoever you were about to book.” I laughed once because my heart was trying to leave my chest. “It can go very wrong. I’m still offering.”

“You’re serious.”

“I’m serious. I run your house. I run your week. If you need a hole, you have one in the garage. Put it in. I already did the work.”

He came up behind me. Hands on my ass — smooth, because I keep it that way, and his palms were rough from the lot and the bar. He exhaled like he’d been punched.

“I only fuck rough. That’s not a warning for show. If I get in I won’t stop until I finish and it’s going to probably hurt. I haven’t had anyone in a year. I’m going to lose it. You sure.”

“Use it how you want. Dinner’s in the oven for after.”

“This is going to be quick,” he said. “Fuck it.”

He shoved the shorts down. Pulled the thong aside. I craned my neck and saw him — big cock, veined, a heavy head, already shiny with pre-cum. He lined up with my hole.

“Ready.”

Not a question. A last door.

“I’m ready.”

He shoved in all at once.

The lub saved me from tearing. It did not save me from the noise I made. He was thicker than my ex and he didn’t wait. He started hammering like the year of nothing had been sitting in his hips.

“Fuck. Tight pussy. I needed that.”

Sweat dropped off him onto my ass. I yelled because the house sits alone on the plot and nobody was going to call the cops on the boss getting what he wants from his gay assistant. He gripped my waist and used the bench. Short. Mean. The nylon of his shorts slapped the back of my thighs. The tank was soaked. He smelled like the garage and the run and a man who had been about to spend a hundred dollars on a woman who wanted a condom.

He didn’t talk like a lover. He talked like a boss.

“That’s it. Hold the bench. Don’t go soft on me now — you offered. You opened it. You take it.”

I took it. Every thrust shoved my chest into the vinyl. The chain on the cable stack rattled. I could still hear, somewhere in my head, the woman on the phone asking if he wanted the hour or the half. He chose the half in my body. His cock dragged raw even with the lub, thick head punching deep, the hair on his thighs scratching the back of mine. I pushed back because I wanted the year out of him. Because I wanted that number to die here instead of in a whore’s apartment across town.

“Take it. I told you how I fuck. This is going to be fast. I’m going to fill it.”

He got there faster than the half hour he’d tried to buy. His rhythm broke into ugly short punches. Fingers hard on my skin. He roared into the last stretch — no poetry, just a man finishing — and I felt him go, pulse after pulse, a huge load from a desperate man, the thick head kicking inside me while his fingers left red marks on my hips. I came against the bench without a hand on me, sloppy and surprised, and he felt that too and swore like it had been an extra he hadn’t paid for.

He stayed in for the aftershocks. Then he pulled out. I felt it run.

“Christ. I filled it.” His voice was wrecked and almost embarrassed and not sorry. “Shower. Then you serve dinner. I’m not talking about this over the steak.”

He stepped back, shorts still at his thighs, tank stuck to the hair on his chest, looking at what he’d done like the job had just grown a third column nobody wrote down.

I got off the bench on shaky legs. Thong ruined. Dinner resting in the oven. The phone dark on the rubber mat where he’d dropped it.

“Yes, sir.”

He almost smiled.

“Don’t sir me in the kitchen. In here you can. Not in front of a plate.”

I went to the hall bathroom because using his felt like a line I hadn’t been offered yet. I cleaned up enough to walk. I plated the parmigiana with hands that still smelled like the garage.

He sat at the island in a clean shirt. Hair wet. Wedding band long gone — the divorce was a year old. He cut the steak. He asked about Thursday’s transfer between lots like his cock hadn’t just been in his assistant.

I answered the calendar.

Under the table I was still open. Still wet with him. Still hearing the woman on the phone say the price.

He didn’t look at me until I set the water down.

“You don’t tell anyone about this, David.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

He nodded once, the same nod he gives a closer who just moved a car.

I did the dishes.

I drove home to my own apartment at ten thirty with his cum still a fact and the extra key to his place burning a hole in my pocket.

I didn’t call my ex or opened Grindr.

I set an alarm for the north stand.

I thought about the gray tank and the phone and the way he’d said raw like it was the only word that mattered.

I already had a plan for next time.

The job had a third column now.