Ept Man

All characters are 18 or over. This story contains some bi-sexual content. If you're put off by MMF content, you might want to give this one a miss.

*****

At nineteen, I had stubbornly thrown aside my parents' dreams for me of a university education and a place in the family business in favour of making my way in the world on my own terms.

If I'm honest, things weren't going very well.

I had secured a low-paying job bussing tables and washing dishes at a high-end restaurant in the city's business district. I was on my feet from late-afternoon to midnights in a fast-paced working environment. The work was hot and dirty and I had to put up with attitude from chefs and servers alike.

The job kept me in a small two-bedroom, roach-infested apartment for which I needed a roommate to make ends meet. Madison and I were reluctant roommates at best; she had been looking to share the apartment with another female, but of all the respondents to her ad for a roommate, I was the only one who could produce my share of first and last month's rent in full on demand. A month after we moved in together, we had shared a little too much to drink, and we slept together. In the weeks since then, things had gotten weird between us and we each tended to keep to our own rooms while the other used the kitchen or watched the television alone in the living room.

As I rolled my trolley from table to table and cleared the dirty dishes and cutlery into bus pans, my thoughts were on how to break my lease and get into a new place of my own. I was willing to settle for a small one bedroom or even a half-decent bachelor apartment. It was proving difficult to save a deposit for a new place when whatever money didn't go into rent and utilities, seemed destined for groceries.

That's where my mind was at when the gentleman approached me.

To my nineteen-year-old thinking, the fellow was practically old, but in fact he was probably just forty-five or fifty, and more than fit enough for either age. He introduced himself as Darius Kingfisher, presenting his name on a business card. I checked him out furtively as I received the card. Having already gleaned his age, I observed the man was white, under six feet tall and handsome with brown, wavy hair. His face and voice reminded me of a young James Caan.

"How can I help you, Mr. Kingfisher," I asked politely in my best customer service voice, fully expecting some complaint about his meal.

"I have a very personal question to ask you, purely from a business perspective. Do you mind?"

I was on the company clock and the restaurant mission statement stressed customer satisfaction. I nodded, giving him permission to ask his question.

"Are you bi-sexual, son?"

I was taken aback by just how personal the question turned out to be. However, I didn't hesitate to answer because I had no hang-ups on the matter. I had been out since my school days and, though there were always trolls and gay-bashers, I was usually well-accepted and able to look after myself when I was not. However, in my experience, it usually wasn't a good sign when someone asked the question so directly; the question could be a challenge to a fight. I didn't get that vibe from this man though.

"Yes, sir, I am bi-sexual. May I ask why that matters?"

"Matters? Young man, when you can do something that not everyone else can, that's never to be taken lightly. It's like a gift, a talent that should be used productively."

That was reassuring. The restaurant greeter had turned an eye on me, perhaps with the intention of prompting me to resume my regular duties and stop chit-chatting with the clientele. I noticed her, but I was now somewhat intrigued with Mr. Kingfisher, who also noticed the greeter's eye.

"I don't want to get you in trouble at your work...."

I supplied my name. "Evan."

"Evan. Thank you, and it's nice to meet you." He extended a hand to be shaken. I had been handling dirty dishes, so I was reluctant to take his hand. He was not to be put off. He reached in and seized my hand in a tight grip, giving it three good shakes before letting go abruptly.

"As I said, I don't want your bosses breathing down your neck because I'm slowing you down. Keep my card and if you're intrigued with a possible new career opportunity, call me. My cell is on from eight a.m. to eleven o'clock at night; call any time during those hours, but don't wait too long."

Mr. Kingfisher smiled and said good night, before turning on his heel and walking out of the restaurant with the rest of his party. I pocketed the card and resumed my duties.

The rest of the night was shit. The greeter stayed on my ass every time I was out to clear the tables. In the back, the chef was having a tantrum at his cooks and his anger spilled over into the dish-pit, where I was washing dinnerware, glassware and cutlery as fast as I could. He shattered a rack of glasses I had just run through the washer and blamed me for putting it in his way.

My own temper was running high after listening to him berate my friends in the kitchen staff, so when he called me a stupid cunt, I punched him in the throat.

It was a foolish thing to do. I might have killed him, hitting him like that. Fortunately, he was alright and clambered to his feet with the help of a couple of his cooks. He was crimson, gasping and sputtering at me as I took off my apron and hung it on the front of the dishwasher. I knew what he wanted to say so I told him to save it; I was resigning. I turned and left and there was an end to it. The police never called on me and I heard from a co-worker at the restaurant that the chef was satisfied with telling the story his way. They didn't even stiff me on my pay, though I didn't get my share of the tips from that night.

So, there I was with a small, final paycheque that would not cover my full share of rent this coming month, no job and a roommate looking for any excuse to ship me out and one of her lady friends in. There was a recession on, and jobs were hard to come by, even in the service industry. Besides, thanks to my temper, I'd be applying for new jobs without a reference from a first-class restaurant I'd worked at for nearly a year; with my experience at nineteen, that was like having a blank resume. After our exchange, I could just imagine the chef's endorsement to my potential new employer anyway.

So, Darius Kingfisher's card in my pocket was like a gift from Heaven.

I waited a couple of days to call, choosing ten o'clock in the morning as the time to make contact. As his phone rang, I read the details on his card. There was a familiar corporate logo for a Fortune 500 company. The card gave Mr. Kingfisher's name and described him as Vice President -- Corporate Relations. I wasn't surprised when the executive didn't answer the phone; I imagined Mr. Kingfisher in meetings and interviews all day. I left a voicemail, hoping he would remember me as Evan, whom he had met a few nights before at the restaurant.

I went about an atypical day at home. I was stressed about being unemployed and knew I should be out pounding the sidewalk in search of work, but I had a feeling that I should give Mr. Kingfisher a chance to get back to me first. If I didn't hear that day, I intended to hit the streets the next day applying anywhere and everywhere, starting with McDonalds and going up from there.

In my anxiety, I tended to lose myself in work. I washed all the floors in the apartment, cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen and I was just about to vacuum the living room when my cell rang. I fished it out of a pocket and the call display read KINGFISHER D. Nervous as I was, I couldn't keep a vice-president waiting when he might be able to open up a new future for me.

"Hello?"

"Evan, it's Darius Kingfisher. How are you?"

We passed the first part of the conversation in polite pleasantries until Mr. Kingfisher took control of the conversation.

"We are hiring for a new position, one that requires your orientation and a special skill-set. We are having interviews, or try-outs if you like, to select the best candidate for this new role. Just from the way you present yourself, and from our subsequent conversation, you have been selected as a possible contender for the job. Would you like to know more?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. The nature of the work is sensitive and we will not discuss it over the phone. Can you meet me at my office tomorrow at, say, eleven o'clock in the morning? You have already qualified yourself as a preferred candidate, so tomorrow will be looked upon as a second interview. It will demand more of you than our conversation so far."

Given the brevity of our first conversation, that caveat didn't trouble me much.

"I will be there at eleven o'clock sharp, sir."

"Excellent, Evan. I will see you tomorrow."

The following day, I shaved and dressed for my interview, and I wore my best suit. My roommate, Madison, saw me and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that she was looking at me in my suit with approval. She wouldn't have looked on me so favourably if she realized I was going to fail on my share of rent in two weeks. I went downstairs and waited for my taxi.

I kept trying to do the math in my head. In our initial conversation, Mr. Kingfisher saw me and liked something about what he saw; he had asked only one question and I answered truthfully that I was bi-sexual. That, and the fact that I could bus dishes, was literally all he knew about me. How could that possibly qualify me for a position he couldn't discuss over the phone? Was this about hiring diversity or some bullshit like that, filling some positions with minority LGBTQ+ staff members?

My taxi arrived. I gave the driver the business address of the corporation, and he whistled between his teeth. Given my attire, he overlooked my youth and assumed I was already a corporate employee there.

"You're one of those movers and shakers, eh? A big-time business operator... what's it like to work in one of them glass towers? Good benefits? Dental? How many weeks holidays a year?" Some of these were questions I should ask at the interview; I had been wracking my brains trying to figure out how to prepare for an interview for a job I didn't know about.

I corrected the taxi driver, letting him know that I was not an employee, just a hopeful. He wished me luck. Our eyes connected in the mirror of the cab, remaining linked for several seconds before he glanced over the rest of my reflection. I had just been checked out; when you accept that you're gay, you realize male-to-male inspections happen everywhere and far more often than you ever would have believed. The taxi driver was a gruff forty and gone to seed, but he was handsome and had deep brown eyes you could lose yourself in. I could have fucked him, but I wouldn't have come near him without forcing him to gargle a gallon of Listerine; he was rank with the smell of onions and garlic.

Just the same, I was flattered by his attention and kindness, and when he let me off at corporate HQ, I tipped him fairly well, hoping I could afford the tip. I stood in front of the building as the taxi drove off and I looked all the way up. The building was fairly called a skyscraper; clouds were reflected on its giant panes of window glass. The base of the edifice looked to be made of solid granite. Living in the city, it wasn't the first time I ever saw a skyscraper, of course, but it was the first time I was ever invited to enter one.

I proceeded through the glass doors, walking through a security metal detector, before being ushered to the security/reception desk. Phones were ringing and everyone behind the counter was busy except a lovely, curvy, blonde woman whose name-tag said "Daisy". She had penetrating green eyes and an easy smile. She was probably twenty-five and highly fuckable.

If you can't tell by now, I may find too many people attractive.

"Hello, sir," she said. "Do you have an appointment today?"

I gave my name and told her my appointment was with VP Darius Kingfisher. She tapped her keyboard and looked at her monitor.

"Yes, sir. You are ten minutes early. I will have Security walk you up. Please have a very nice day."

Daisy spoke with a uniformed security officer, a handsome black man, and he came over to me and introduced himself.

"I'm Mike from Security. May I escort you to Mr. Kingfisher's office, sir?"

I thanked him and accepted his offer. The process of entering the building to see the vice-president proved very daunting, very intimidating. The office building seemed very secure; I never thought about the security precautions that must be taken by major corporations in an age of terror and corporate espionage.

Mike and I entered an elevator and began the long ride up to the thirtieth floor, home of Corporate Relations. Music played and I suddenly felt a little drowsy. Mike wore a familiar cologne and the scent filled the elevator; it was an appealing fragrance. I caught myself giving Mike side-long looks. His handsome black face stared straight ahead, so I looked him over. He had a nice bulge between his legs. I leaned back and checked out his ass as secretly as I could. I shook my head at myself, feeling slightly aroused. I was just as bad as that taxi driver.

When we reached our destination, Mike led me out of the elevator and through a set of glass doors, past a small waiting area to reception. He introduced me to Jennifer Gaetano, Mr. Kingfisher's executive assistant.

"Pleased to meet you," the skinny blonde woman declared with a smile.

Her curly hair framed a thin face with prominent cheek-bones and doe-like brown eyes. She was almost as tall as me. I guessed she might be thirty-five. She held out her hand in the old-fashioned way as if she expected me to kiss it. I took her hand and turned it gently so I could shake it properly. If she felt rebuffed, I couldn't tell. I poured charm into my smile to compensate. Jennifer dismissed Mike, who duly wished me well. She advised me I was seven minutes early and that was a good sign in a candidate.

Jennifer was not shy about looking at someone the way I or the taxi driver was. She looked me up and down very directly, taking the full-frontal view, including a few seconds dedicated gaze at the package between my legs. She locked eyes on mine and I didn't flinch. When she broke the contact, she seemed pleased.

"Very good, Evan," Jennifer said. "I can see why Mr. Kingfisher has taken an interest in you."

Once more, I felt odd. It did seem as if Mr. Kingfisher had taken special interest in me from the start. This was unlike any recruitment or interviewing process I had ever come across. I wished Jennifer would share her insight with me, but I decided to wait that one out. I should see soon enough.

At exactly eleven o'clock, Jennifer told me I could go into the office; she ushered me in through the door, said my name and left me just inside the threshold.

The corner office was magnificent. Two walls were glass, floor to ceiling. Bookshelves, bursting with volumes and display items, took care of another wall. The room contained a couch and a small bar. There were some personal items on the antique oak desk: an autographed baseball, a silver pen set, a family photo. Oddly, there was a stack of white towels in a laundry tub behind the desk by the window. There were two chairs in front of the desk.

"Hello, Evan," Mr. Kingfisher said. He stood behind the desk and gestured at the chairs. "Please, have a seat."

There was some small talk before Mr. Kingfisher leapt in to the reason for their discussion.

"I know you must be very curious about the kind of role for which you are being considered within this corporation."

"Yes, very."

"I'm afraid that I can't tell you that quite yet. Let me just say that you should take it as a compliment of the highest order that one of the world's richest and most powerful corporations should consider you a front-runner for such a position."

I blushed, feeling honoured by these shiny words, but still none the wiser.

"I must begin by asking you to sign a non-disclosure agreement. What is discussed in this room stays in this room forever."

He produced the document, explained it and I willingly signed it. I was too curious to back out now.

"Very good," Mr. Kingfisher said. "Now we begin with a series of questions."

What followed were countless wide-ranging questions relating to ethics, diversity, work performance, corporate loyalty, and even wage expectations. Most questions were one-word answers or short sentences. When inquiries began to probe morality and sexuality, I became really curious. The queries into sexual preferences and capabilities began matter-of-factly, but proceeded to details like favourite sexual positions and triggers for orgasm!

I was now pretty sure this interview wasn't about any real, ordinary job at all, but I was curious as all Hell and frankly, I was starting to get a bit horny. When the questions were done, I looked at Mr. Kingfisher curiously. He was adding up marks he had placed beside my answers as he graded them like a quiz. The silence was fortunately brief.

"You have scored very highly on the Kinks-Bates questionnaire, and I don't mind telling you that you are now a prime candidate for the position."

"Can you tell me about the position now?"

"It began as Project: Charm Offensive. We were finding that our rivals in business were beating us in contract negotiations in the Asian, European and African markets. Our investigations proved that those competitors were bending contract negotiators toward them by offering them sex. This is nothing new in itself, but they were taking it to new levels. In the modern world, the use of sex as leverage may be questionable policy, but it is not strictly illegal in most jurisdictions, if it is presented in the proper way. I will be blunt: the position we are discussing entails winning male or female clients and negotiators over to our side with sex and special handling, or using them to obtain important business information. The job title is 'Corporate Relations -- Special Assistant.' Just as bluntly, the main work in this position could be described as a form of legal prostitution and corporate espionage. Under the terms I've described, do you feel this is a position you could do or would want to do?"

I had never considered a career in sex work before, but I do possess some of the necessary assets, in no particular order: a large cock and the ability to come often and keep rising; endurance and stamina; a strong stomach (important if one is dealing with a client with bad body odour, for instance) and a mercenary view toward partners. I was not looking for Mr. or Ms. Right out there; Right Now was all I was interested in, but collecting money for it made it hotter and dirtier to my mind.

I nodded, and then realized that Mr. Kingfisher wanted more than a gesture to confirm I was willing to sex people of the company's choice for money.

"Yes, I could do that." I blurted out most of my thoughts on my qualifications.

Mr. Kingfisher didn't ask me again, but said instead that all that remained was the final phase: try-outs.

I was pretty sure I knew what that meant.

Mr. Kingfisher stood up on his side of the desk, and I stood up to face him.

"Pleasing me is the next stage of the interview process, Evan. Are you comfortable doing that today or should we schedule a separate appointment?"

I had a hunch this was another question that would be scored. If I said "no", I would be saying that I lacked the spontaneity required of an on-call corporate hooker.

"Here and now is fine, sir."

In fact, watching Mr. Kingfisher showcased in front of one of his great windows, I was feeling quite fine about doing this. He took off his suit jacket and pulled at his tie, before telling me in no uncertain words to "get naked."