Samantha Moore scared Wade. Rock chicks never really attracted him. She was closest in age to him, mid-twenties to his nineteen.
She’d probably bully the crap out of me in high school.
She looked like she wanted to bully him now. Samantha Moore had dismissed him like the others, but not so much from his low status or age. The vibe she gave was disinterest, and a part of him was glad for that.
Sam looked at this nude young college boy. Wade’s assessment was partially correct. She disliked straight laced nerds. Too dull, too timid, and too judgmental in some cases.
She figured her dislike was a product of her upbringing; too many of Wade’s type (at least clothed) in her small Milwaukee suburb, in school, and home, including her father and older brothers. She was the rebel in her family, exasperating them, including her mother and two older sisters. She hadn’t spoken with any of them since graduating high school.
Wade, the office boy, with his light blue, short sleeve Studio 91 shirt, blue denim pants, and sneakers (also blue, “Blue! Blue! Blue! What is it with this guy?”) he wore every day, with no variance, emitted such and aura of dullness as to be invisible to her. More fool me.
Sam was really anxious to know how his body would feel under her hands, but made sure not to display it.
Ms. Welles was the tallest and most intimidating. She was also the chief quant in the Firm. She was taller than Ms. Parilla, not by far, but the way she carried herself made her seem that way.
She dressed conservatively and, with her glasses, reminded Wade of a few no nonsense teachers from high school. She had an IQ of 185, so he heard. She never flaunted it, but Ms. Welles was the smartest in the building. Everyone knew it, especially Wade.
Next to Ms. Parilla, Ms. Welles’ beauty equally stunned. Her skin like polished dark mahogany. Her hair, close cropped, like a cap of black ink. She reminded Wade, very much, of Grace Jones. The cool assessment on her face, once again made Wade feel like a misbehaving student.
Odetta assessed and calculated. The boy was well put together, that was obvious. He wasn’t an Adonis by any means, nor cut like the Statue of David. The cute boy-next-door image he exuded came right out of Norman Rockwell.
She didn’t see many like him back in Baltimore. The boys were cute, yes, but many not quite the next door types. The brains that got her out of West Baltimore, and into the better schools, contained a lot of survival instincts.
The better schools may have contained more next door boys, but only on the surface. It mattered not the color or background, many wanted something or another from her, not all of it brains.
Many boys had expectations, or made assumptions based on her background, and acted on them, or tried, to their regret and often painful. Predatory behavior knew no color, and Odetta honed ways to deal with that.
“I guess I’m calling the kettle black,” she thought, looking at Wade. She’d barely noticed him on the floor. He seemed like a nice enough kid. Even as he stood in the suite, nude “nice kid” radiated from him like a halo.
“This kid is the genuine article,” she thought. The question was whether his “nice” would hold after she and the others fucked his brains out.
Ms. Robinson, the lawyer, was the curviest woman in the room. “The curviest woman ever,” thought Wade.
He’d heard people called her Double R. Robert snarked, “Double D.”
Wade rarely saw her. His fetch and carry duties kept him on different floors. Besides, Robert was on the legal floor often, and where Robert was, Wade wasn’t.
Ms. Robinson was supposed to be the best. Office scuttlebutt tapped her to take over as Chief Legal Counsel when the current one retired.
She dressed conservatively like the others, excluding Ms. Moore, but the curves shone through.
Ms. Robinson was extraordinarily put together, all her curves just right. Her curly, reddish-brown hair, with black highlights, beautiful round face, pillow lipped, amber eyed, skin like mocha coffee, drew Wade’s admiring eyes.
She looked back with an intense interest, and a hungry but mischievous lick of her tongue, that brought a familiar blush to his face.
“Mmm, mmm,” thought Double R, “To think we missed a boy this fine in the building.”
She’d never noticed Wade. That spoiled little shit, Wentworth, worked on the legal floor most often. He was handsome, but gave her the creeps. She’d dealt with more than her share of toxic frats in Harvard and Yale law. Encounters, sidesteps, dodges, and sparring with the Robert Wentworths often made her question her choice of law, rather than the family business.
Her family ran one of the oldest, most successful funeral parlors in Atlanta. The Robinsons were an institution, prominent in the city, and one of the small group of black families to acquire and hold long term wealth.
Going into law was a break with tradition, but other Robinsons had gone in different directions before. The list included a well-known actor, several politicians, and a Tuskegee Airman.
She doubted her family would approve of her plans for young Wade.
I guess the frat boys, and some colleagues, looked at me the same way. Good thing this is the Executive Suite. What happens in the Executive Suite, stays in the Executive Suite. “So girls, how do you want to do this?”
“Or him,” chuckled Samantha.
“Well, I don’t want to start on the table, at least until the Cleanup Crew deals with it first. You know I like to start my fucks on clean surfaces,” Odetta said.
“You did notify the crew, didn’t you?” asked Tilde.
“I put them on standby,” Nicki said. “I told them they’d probably be busy today . . . and tomorrow.” She winked at Wade, who blushed a self-conscious pink.
“You can’t tell me you’re embarrassed after what we just did?” smiled Anne.
“I . . . um . . . can’t help it, Ms. Parilla. I . . . don’t really . . . uh . . . know how to . . . uh . . . deal with this . . .”
“Wow, you are a shy one,” laughed Double R.
Wade blushed again, a mild smile on his face.
Naked, in a penthouse, just fucked by two hot milfs, and four more showed up. They’re going to fuck me. It’s so crazy. I’m going to wake up in the dorm with creamed sheets.
“Why don’t we take him in the shower, and let the Cleanup Crew reset the table while we do it?” Samantha suggested.
“Good idea,” Anne agreed.
Tilde smiled at her assistant. Sam’s suggestion was about more than taking young Wade, obviously. She’d had reservations, initially, about taking aboard the young rebel. Instinct told her she wouldn’t regret it. Sam’s performance, in the office, and elsewhere, proved her right.
Here’s hoping young Wade doesn’t take too much of her attention.
How is everyone going to fit in the shower? The question flashed through Wade’s brain for a split second before, “Geep!”
Anne, once again, had his cock in her hand.
“Come along, Young Wade. I’m sure you want to get clean for what’s coming.”
Anne led the very tense, and hard, young office boy up the stairs.
Nicki took her iPhone, typed a few messages, and followed, along with the rest.
The suite was quiet for a few minutes. The elevator doors opened. The people, five in all, who walked out, went immediately to work.
A person viewing them would first think, Crime scene cleanup, or decontamination squad. The next thought would be, Special forces assault team.
Such thoughts wouldn’t be far from the truth. The employees of the agency involved were heavily recruited from those professions.
Such training as they represented was repurposed by the Agency, for tasks such as the one currently being performed: discreet cleanups and sanitation for very wealthy clientele.
Employees were very closely vetted, and carefully trained. They were to be quick, efficient, and thorough, plus quiet, and concealed when possible. It couldn’t always be helped.
Crime scene cleanup (post evidence gathering by the appropriate law enforcement organizations) and freelance work for various clandestine agencies, were also included among the tasks offered by the Agency.
The best money, though, came from rich and powerful corporations like Jansonn and Berkshire . . . along with the people who ran them.
The Agency kept strict rules: no cleaning, or tampering, with evidence of a crime. If new evidence is discovered in the course of the cleaning, it is to be turned over to the authorities immediately (exceptions were given to clandestine agencies, as such activities were related to national security. Besides, the founders and director of the Agency were former operatives, and somewhat biased).
Any request by clients to the Agency and/or its members to conceal, or tamper with, evidence of a crime would be refused and reported immediately to the authorities.
Employees were trained to ignore all activities in the designated area, unless an active crime was in progress.
As it stood, the five individuals exemplified the Agency’s professionalism.
They swarmed through the suite, in their filter masks, decon suits, and carrying cleaning equipment.
Leave a Reply