Beg Me-Sold to My Dad's Boss

And oh god, that package. The big man was wearing board shorts, the kind that looked like regular shorts, coming to his knee. But even through the loose canvas material, I could see a hard edge, an outline of something massive, a promise so hard, hot and hungry that my pussy began to tingle, responding to the call of this male animal.

And as if reading my mind, Mr. Jones grinned at me through the window, winking before turning away to talk to someone, nonchalant, like nothing was wrong. I snapped back to reality. Holy shit, he had seen me, I hadn’t been imagining the eye contact, those blue eyes had read my desire, how I’d grown flushed with heat, needing him, my breasts heaving with excitement. My mind went crazy, spinning into various scenarios, imagining being with him, on him, in him, in all sorts of illicit, crazy positions.

But real life struck. I was a nineteen year old college girl whereas he was an experienced, dominant alpha male. What did I have to offer him? Chris could get any woman he wanted, any female would be happy for a few minutes alone with that hard, male body. So I snapped myself back to reality. What had felt like a slow-mo scene to me, a fantasy sequence complete with flashbacks and flash forwards, had probably been two seconds of real life at most. I’d probably imagined the whole thing, it’d been nothing but a daydream, the fantasies of an inexperienced girl. Because of course, Mr. Jones was already chatting up some middle-aged woman, a skinny blonde chick with an orange tan who looked him up and down hungrily, eyeing him lasciviously while licking her lips, hanging onto his every word, devouring him with her eyes.

And embarrassed suddenly, I turned away, head down, grabbing my towel before making my way outside, going over to sit over behind a tree, making myself inconspicuous. Mr. Jones had so many options, the world at his fingertips, women dying to meet him. And as for me? I was a teenage girl, a complete nobody, and absolutely, utterly out of my league.

CHAPTER TWO

Chris

I’ve known Lindy a long time now. The first time we met was when she was sixteen and she’d come to a company function. Back then she was rail-thin and mousy with huge clunky glasses, and I hadn’t paid much attention except to say hello to my employee’s family.

Because Lindy’s dad, Jim, works for United Electric. We’re a small construction outfit, doing jobs all over Long Island, both residential and commercial, and Jim was a great guy, talkative, outgoing, like a friendly golden retriever always ready to do your bidding.

But there had been some anomalies in his performance lately, some things I couldn’t overlook and I’d had to take it up with him.

“Jim-boy,” I said casually last Friday, leaning back at my desk. “What the fuck is going on? What the fuck happened with that last job?”

Jim got really red, made all the worse by the fact that he had blonde eyebrows. He looked like a red potato with golden whiskers, fresh from the oven. I almost felt sorry for him, the dude was so uncomfortable and fidgety, but I steeled myself. I was the boss and this was business, nothing more.

And he hemmed and hawed, making excuses.

“Costs got out of control, the supplies were more expensive than we thought and you know Danny over with Kamco, he was supposed to extend us credit, but he didn’t,” the man babbled nervously.

But I shook my head slowly, the drivel running through my ears. These were just shady half-truths. Jim was our controller, he was supposed to be on top of the numbers and the problems didn’t stem from supply issues or cost overruns. It was far more serious, a rotten inner core from deep within.

So ignoring the other man’s chatter, I leaned over my keyboard, tapping a few times and pulled up a spreadsheet before turning the monitor towards my employee.

“These are the books from last month,” I said casually, “Your job is to keep on top of them, make sure they reflect United Electric’s daily revenues, our spend, our take from each job.”

The blonde man nodded miserably, so nervous that he was beginning to sweat, and I could see a shiny slick on his forehead. But I was going in for the kill and this was no time to back off.

“And this,” I said pointing to a column numbers, “is less than it should be.”

Instead of denying it, Jim just looked down, nodding, twisting his hands in his lap.

“I know, I know,” he babbled, “I’ll look at it again, I had a feeling something was wrong, the numbers didn’t square up, didn’t meet our estimates …”

I cut him off.

“This has nothing to do with estimates or projections,” I drawled smoothly. “The numbers don’t add up because you’ve been taking from the till, helping yourself to some extra, Jim-boy. Why? Why did you do it? Do I not pay you enough?”