Indiscreet Box Set

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2“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.”