If it hadn't been for irregularities necessarily taken for a renovation project, Nick Osbourne quite likely would have had to go longer getting me laid than he did. Maybe or maybe not. We were getting there anyway, him a vice president at the bank pressuring me and showing that he could do little favors for me, a lowly loan officer at the bank, in getting ahead because he wanted me to give him head and he knew I was a submissive who had done and would do that for other men.
Osbourne had been sent to Wilmington, Delaware, to attend an international banking conference. He was permitted to take a junior officer along as a "gofer" assistant and to give that officer experience in the business.
"This is your lucky day," he had told me when I was informed it was me. "Think it's about time you made it my lucky day," he added before wafting off. Osbourne wasn't anything if not self-confident and arrogant. It so happened he was a hunk and a half too.
He didn't stay around for my response, although I called out a "Thanks for including me in the trip" in his wake. He knew enough about the sexual harassment policies of the bank not to push me too hard and to engineer me into taking the initiative, and I was making it just hard enough to leave him uncertain of his powers over me. I think we both knew I would give in to him eventually--he was a handsome dude and in great shape for his age, and I liked taking cock. I also liked taking it from older men.
Osbourne liked traveling in style and the bank indulged him. He was just a vice president now, but there had been Osbournes at the top of the bank's management for over a century and no one doubted that Nick was headed in that direction. That's probably why those who could tell that he was a sexual predator of young men tolerated him putting selected young men in good positions at the bank. I had become one of those young men. We were still in the pursuit phase, though. He booked us in a boutique hotel near Wilmington, the Inn at Hadley Mills. Hadley Mills was the gunpowder manufacturing enterprise that had made the French-origin DuPont family's fortune from the time of the American Revolution and put them into the top drawer of American entrepreneur families.
In the mid-nineteenth century, manufacturers like the DuPonts established villages near their mills and factories for their workers to live in. Thus the workers were within walking distance of their work. Hadley Mills had such a village consisting of two streets of cottages. The cottages weren't built at one time to one plan, but had evolved over time as the workforce expanded. The mill was gone, now a museum, but a boutique hotel chain had bought up the village and renovated it into a hodge-podge of rooms and suites. They weren't able to unify the interior plans beyond meeting the needs of hotel suites--and they didn't want to, the differences being key to the charm and appeal of the hotel--but they did cover all of the exteriors in ochre-colored plaster and hang the windows with dark green shutters, both of which were favorite motifs of the DuPonts.
The result was that there were some irregularities in floor plans that would not have happened in a purpose-built project. It was just such an irregularity that got me in bed, at last, with Nick Osbourne. We had a grueling trip up the East Coast on I-95 from Richmond and Nick barely had time to show me to the two-story cottage he was in, living room and kitchenette down and bedroom, with, he pointed out, a queen-sized bed, and bath above when it was getting dark and time for dinner. We had reservations at the inn's restaurant, The Forge, and were seated in front of a large window overlooking a line of two-story renovated cottages. I was overlooking the window; Nick was facing me.
He was prattling at me about this and that after we'd ordered, and I was half paying attention to him and half to darkness descending on the line of cottages beyond the window. The lights were on in a second-floor room of one of the cottages and the blinds were down on a window that reached nearly to the floor of the room. It took me several minutes to realize that the room was a bathroom and that the side of a toilet was next to the window, the bottom edge of which reached nearly to the floor, and the stall of shower could be seen beyond that. This was where the quirkiness of reconverting old cottages into modern hotel suites came in--that there would be a toilet beside a nearly full-length window.
I was only sure what I was seeing was the front half of a white porcelain toilet--I mean who, I thought, would put a toilet in front of a deep window?--when a naked man appeared, stood in front of it, and began to piss in the toilet. What struck me was the crazy half-thought that the man was Nick Osbourne. From this distance I thought the two could be twins--middle aged, but trim and in fit condition, graying at the top and more so at the temples. I hadn't seen Nick in the altogether, and looking at his double increased my interest in Nick. The man was well endowed and his chest had an interesting pattern of salt-and-pepper hair swirling on it. He was thin but hard bodied. He actually was quite fit looking.
Was Nick like this? I wondered, looking across the table at him again, with renewed interest. Yes, I could go under a man as fit-bodied as that at Nick's age--especially if he had a cock as long as the man pissing into the toilet did. Also, of course, at the back of my mind was embarrassment of seeing a man doing that who must have thought he wasn't on display as he was. I was being a voyeur by chance. I shouldn't look.
But then it wasn't my fault he hadn't pulled down the shades in his bathroom. It was hotel. He probably had no idea what perspective had a line of sight on the bathroom. He probably was as unwitting as anyone else that builders would put a window there. He just needed to take a piss.
But then I discovered that he needed--or wanted--more than that. When I looked back at the window, there now was another man, also naked, in the bathroom. He was a bit taller than the guy at the toilet and a whole lot younger and more muscular. He had the body of a god--a blond god. He had long, blond hair, the fell at least to his shoulder blades. His body was perfect--muscular and perfect. He was in erection. That was thick and long--perfect too.
He had come in behind the man at the toilet as I was looking away at Nick, who was talking--shop I think--but perfectly fine that I just appeared to be looking. I caught enough to get the gist of what he was saying and to respond appropriately.
The young, golden god was embracing the other man closely from behind. He'd reached around the man's right hip--the hip that was away from my perspective--had grasped the older man's cock in his hand, and was holding the man's shaft as it pissed into the toilet bowl. Strangely, that gave me a little surge of arousal, and the look I turned then and gave to Nick must have conveyed that. He smiled at me and put his hand on my knee under the table. I imagined him naked, looking like the man standing at the toilet, and I suddenly wanted Nick like I never had wanted him before.
I looked back at the scene beyond the bathroom window. The man had finished pissing. The golden god was stroking the man's cock now and the man was arching his back, pressing the back of his head into the younger man's chest. He turned his face to the younger man's and they kissed passionately.
Was I really seeing this in actual life or was this a porn movie I could see through a window, or was this me fantasizing being with Nick Osbourne this week--at last--knowing he'd wanted to cover me for some time but being stymied by the bank's policy on fraternizing with subordinates and sexual harassment issues? It wasn't the same, though. In the action in the bathroom, the older man was being the submissive. It was clear in what was building between me and Nick that I was the submissive. And if Nick had a cock anything like either one of those guys did...
I turned my attention back to Nick Osbourne.
"So, I was wondering what you would think about me finding you a job that was as good or better than the one you have here--at another bank," he was asking.
"I like my job at this bank," I said. I knew what he was saying. This was his problem as a manager, not mine. I was willing for him to bed me--increasingly so. I wasn't going to file a sexual harassment suit if things went bad--no,
when
they went bad. I was a realist. I was in to casual sex, and he was a future president of the bank. Any sexual harassment suit would be dealt with in his favor. In fact, given his behavior, that probably had been the case more than once. That was fine with me. I wasn't a victim in sexual pursuits.
"Well, Citi Bank has a good upward mobile program in its Richmond operations," he said.
