Hard at Work

I swear, COVID was the best thing that ever happened to capitalism. Wealth had flowed like crazy to the 1%, while waitering and barista-ing barely covered food and rent. My girlfriend Melissa and I weren't exactly getting rich. Discussing it over dinner one night, we agreed something needed to change.

"But what?" she said.

At that second, just like in a movie, the doorbell rang. I jumped for the door. Who knew what genie was standing outside, what scrolled prophecy I'd find on the doormat promising untold riches?

It was Dorcas, our next-door neighbor, rolling in on a gust of icy air. We all know March 31st is technically spring, but that day had been positively Arctic. Hence my observation of Dorcas's nipples, tiny and dark, striving for the finish line inside her thin white blouse. She wore that blouse an awful lot when she visited.

Dorcas placed her iPad on the table. She wanted us to join her in drooling over a deluxe new wheelchair she found on the internet. We spent an hour drinking sangria and checking out its gazillion features. Melissa said it was like a Tesla, only with faster acceleration and a higher price tag. None of us came even close to making that kind of money.

The tart scent of citrus, the clever edge of the Cointreau, and the nefarious Pinot worked their wiles. Once the pitcher was gone, Dorcas proposed a bit of group masturbation. Melissa jumped from her chair and stumbled to the bedroom to change into a miniskirt and heels. I followed Dorcas's meandering tracks to the livingroom.

I lifted Dorcas from her decidedly non-Tesla chair to the purple folded-futon sofa, stuffing pillows here and there for support. Dorcas hubba-hubba-ed while I undressed. Only when I had made myself hard did she slowly unbutton the white blouse, pulling both sides open. Those nipples. I stroked myself while Dorcas unzipped her denim cutoffs. I espied her diaper, which shouldn't be sexy, but she had used a red marker to write 'pussy' on the front with an arrow pointing down into the dim recesses of her crotch. It worked for me. The penmanship was terrible, but writing upside-down is hard.

Melissa traipsed in, playful, gorgeous, topless, and four teetering inches taller. She fell to her delicious kneecaps to help Dorcas slide her shorts down for enhanced digital access. I sat on the rug, my back against the overstuffed chair, my legs out and spread wide so the ladies could see. My dick stood taut and proud. Melissa slouched down on the Queen Ann chair, a favorite pleasuring spot.

The three of us got to business. We put on a good show, for real. I loved when the women's eyes lingered on my junk while I played. Within half an hour, we rubbed out four beautiful orgasms, the double going to Melissa.

My girlfriend, always theatrical, crawled to me on all fours in those fuck of hot heels. She licked my hand and penis clean, then crawled, her face a slick mess, across the carpet. She gave Dorcas a long kiss, full on the mouth, then listed off to bed.

The rule is, Dorcas and I can make out, just nothing more serious than that. We began necking like teenagers on the sofa. Lying on top of me, her breath smelled of alcohol; her lips tasted of cum; her nipples rooted about the hair on my chest.

Around midnight, Dorcas practically fell asleep with her tongue in my mouth and decided to roll on home. I stayed up scrolling through job postings on craigslist. Ideally, something half-time that paid a million dollars a year. You see why my eye was drawn to the listing, "Five hours a week, best pay in the city."

I clicked. The short post informed me that I had to be available between noon and 1pm five days a week. I had hoped for remote, but the posting was very clear that it was in person. "The ideal candidate," the ad said, "will start immediately. Reply for details."

Curious, I followed the link, gave my email, and received an auto reply:

Thank you for your interest in

Veni Press, North America's premier

publisher of artisanal cookbooks.

Job title: Staff Head

Hours: noon to 1pm, M-F, non-negotiable

No employee benefits.

Compensation: $1000/hour.

I smiled. Obviously a typo. And since nobody in their right mind would work for ten bucks an hour, I concluded that the actual hourly must be a cool $100.

A thousand dollars sounded awfully nice, though. I took a moment to indulge the fantasy of not sharing Lyfts anymore, taking Melissa out to the Four Seasons for our anniversary, that kind of thing. Hell, why not toss in a bespoke suit for me, cuz Melissa once said the "star attorney" look transformed her into a whore. Which had to be true, as we never used the w-word in our house.

For thoroughness' sake, I then imagined making ten dollars an hour, in case the typo was two erroneous zeros. This featured me eating from the discarded take-out containers in Dorcas's garbage, which Melissa and I took out to the curb for her every week.

Still, $100 an hour? There must be a catch. Only bosses made that much. Also, what head of staff worked only five hours a week, and at a time of day when most people were on their lunch breaks? Finally, no actual duties were listed, no necessary education or experience, no "motivated self-starter" bullshit.

The email closed by requesting a head shot and a 250-word statement detailing my life's mission.

Me: For Pete's sake.

Sangria: Why the fuck not apply?

I snapped a selfie and typed a couple paragraphs about my intention to bring peace, love, and happiness to everyone on Earth, or at least the West End, where the email said Veni was located. In seconds, a new email requested my presence at noon the following day, along with a link to venipress. cum, which made me snort out loud. Maybe the job was for a competent typist.

The street address for Veni Press actually existed. Street view showed a small 5-story brick office building, maybe a hundred years old. Where your dentist might be, or your accountant.

It was only then that I looked at the time stamp above the job posting: "Posted 9 minutes ago at 12:01am."

I facepalmed my face with, well, my palm. At least Melissa and Dorcas hadn't seen me. 12:01 am, April 1st.

Me: April Fools' prank.

Sangria: Come on, buster, companies post jobs when they come up, irrespective of idiotic holidays.

I crawled off to spoon my girlfriend, still in her skirt and heels.

* * * * *

Of course I went. I was free til 4 that day. Plenty of time to look like an idiot at Veni Press and still get to work on time.

Stepping from the elevator onto the fifth floor, I beheld a glowing heavy-set young Asian woman in a baby blue tank top. Her white-on-black desk plaque read "Wenda". Wenda's nipples must have punctured all the bras she owned; she plainly didn't have one on now. It was an unusual look for work, but apparently kosher at Veni.

Wenda had a side nose ring, and her tattooed left shoulder showed a squid boxing a radish. She radiated acuity and self-possession. Hooking you up with Dorcas, I thought.

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

"At noon, but I'm a little early. I can just have a seat."

A chime sounded from the elevator, and Wenda glanced past me. "Hey, here's your Official Orienter trademark trademark copyright copyright." Publishing joke, I guessed.

"Oui, c'est moi!" said a definitely not French voice. I turned to see a white woman stepping from the elevator, maybe forty-five, strikingly tall and pale. A tight pink turtleneck, turquoise pencil skirt, and maroon leggings hugged her body. Her angular face and prematurely grey bun suggested android invader, but her smile lit up the room. Active, amused lips hinted at someone constantly on the lookout for innuendo. My eyes wished only to rove the wavy outlines of her legs.

"I'm Jenn, the Box Manager here at Veni," she said. "You're gorgeous. You must be the new Staff Head."

"Well, I'm interviewing," I corrected her, chuckling nervously at the comment and the mistake. I shook Jenn's outstretched hand, cool to the touch. The immaculate fingernails were short and painted deep green. I had zero idea what a Box Manager was. Something in shipping?

"Oh, you're a shoo-in," she said, bending her wrist in an oh, you, kind of way. "Unless you're terrified of proofreaders or something. Let's show you around."

So the job is real? I thought. And I'm a shoo-in? I didn't know which surprised me more. We'd need to nail down the pay, obviously.

"Suis moi!" Jenn said, spinning around and exiting the waiting area. I quickly thanked Wenda and hurried to catch up. Jenn had a rear end to die for, and muscular legs, not skinny. She wore two-inch platform red Chucks. Her crimson leggings were semi-sheer, with dozens of little anarchy symbols picked out in black thread. The outline of boyshorts stood out through the skirt. Ah, me.

Over the next twenty minutes, we toured the entire fifth floor. Jenn addressed everyone by first name, and we were greeted warmly. They all seemed to share the delusion that I already worked there. Many expressed relief that I would start soon.

I learned that Veni's printing facility occupied the bottom two floors. The third and fourth floors housed the art department and marketing. Five was editorial and contracts. Jenn said my duties, like hers, would take me to every nook and cranny of the 60-person company.

Jenn pointed out the restrooms, copiers, vending machines, and staff lounge.

"You may never use those," she said airily. "but you never know."

"The bathroom could come in handy," I said brightly.

"Au contraire," she said, placing her pointer finger in the air and cackling like a witch. We continued down the hall, Jenn's elevated, narrow steps bouncing her rear end far more than I'd have predicted.

Jenn turned right, then left into a narrow stub of a side-hallway. She strode puposefully to the door at the end and turned the knob.

"Voilà! La pièce de résistance!" She tossed the door open and pressed my back to shoo me inside.

I gaped, for the modest door concealed a room twenty by twenty feet. It was nicely warm. Could this be some elaborate company-wide ruse? The room smelled of fresh cotton, coconut lotion, and roses. Its burgundy flocked velvet wallpaper reminded me of a bordello parlor in an old west movie. The springy carpet made me want to kick off my shoes. Subdued light from wall sconces caressed the raspberry ceiling.

To my right stood an entirely unenclosed toilet and a roomy glass shower, its one glassless side facing the room. The entire wall behind the sink was mirrored, making the room look even bigger. Just right of the sink stood a vase of maybe two dozen red roses. Fresh terry towels filled the four towel bars. A thick robe hung from a hanger.

Opposite lounged a day-bed suitable for Cleopatra. Its frame was carved wood covered in what sure looked like gold leaf, and it was upholstered in what sure looked like tan sueded leather.

"Magnifique, non?"

"Oui, oui," I said, my voice cracking. There was zero echo in the luxuriant space. I backed out, closed the door and asked, "Does everyone get such nice digs?"

Jenn rolled her eyes. "Of course not. It's for your own personal use. I get one, too, as Box Manager. We're special. On account of our superpowers. Everybody else uses the plebeian bathrooms." Her lips quirked in the cutest ironic smile.

Rejoining the main hall, we turned left and stopped outside the third office on the right. Its stout oak door framed a wavy-glass window with EDITOR painted on it.

"Tiens," Jenn said, glancing at her wrist. "Midi pil. The boss appreciates punctuality in all things." She gave the door three raps with her knuckles.

"Come," a voice said.

I must have taken a nervous breath, because Jenn lay a kind, cool hand on my forearm and said, "You'll do fine." She turned the knob, pushed the door open, and turned to go.

"Au revoir," I called over my shoulder. I stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind me.

Everyone who has ever entered a potential boss's domain for the first time suffers from either excitement butterflies or anxiety wasps. This felt different. You might say my stomach contained half amusement dragonflies, half bemusement moths.

"Welcome! I was hoping you'd come," the man behind the desk said, rising.

It was a kind voice, with an accent like Melissa's mom. He was fifty-ish, dark-skinned. He could have been from almost anywhere. He skirted the desk and held out a hand, but before I could shake it, his watch chimed. He withdrew his hand momentarily to read the text.

I took him in, looking for clues. His uncorraled, medium-length hair was jet, grey at the temples. He wasn't trim, but had a little belly, and wore a nice jacket of light grey wool over a beige shirt embroidered with little pineapples. His trousers were creased well, and his shoes looked uncommon, maybe handmade.

He dictated a short acknowledgement to whoever had texted him and addressed me again.

"Sorry, I'm a bit flustered today. Wonderful to meet you," he said, with genuine enthusiasm. His eyes were the mellow brown you would get if you could melt saddle leather. "Thank you for starting on such short notice."

"If I get the job," I said. "You don't know anything about me."

"Is there something untoward about yourself that you'd like to share?" An anxiously knit brow belied his playful eyes.

"Sadly, no," I said, a little disappointment in myself. "Ellis, by the way."

I held out my hand, and he took it warmly in both of his. It was more of an old-friends kind of hand-hug than a macho job interview vise.

"Renard," he offered. "Senior editor here at Veni."

I was having trouble reconciling the bizarre job posting with these entirely normal, down-to-earth-seeming people.

With a sweeping hand, Renard indicated a large armchair. It was mahogany leather, and so low I practically fell into it. And boy was it comfortable. He pulled a normal rolly office chair out from behind the desk.

"You could fall asleep in a chair like this," I said with a smile, my voice unusually low in pitch.

"Oh, I know," he said, sitting and facing me. I found the arrangement comical, because my low chair put my face at about the level of Renard's navel.

"Let me tell you a bit about Veni, and then I'll answer any questions."

What I said was, "Sounds good." What I thought was, Like what actually is this job?

Renard went on.

"We're a small publishing company that is cooperatively owned. Sixty owner/employees, each with an equal stake in Veni's profits. Everyone is paid equally: me, Wenda at the front desk -- everyone."

So everybody made a hundred dollars an hour?

"Except the Box Manager and Staff Head," he said. "Those positions pay one a thousand dollars a day."

I struggled to lift myself forward on my chair to seem like a motivated self-starter, but he held up a hand.

"Why, you ask?" he said, his bright eyes smiling. "Because it's an extraordinary amount of work in a very short time. In an average week, you will help 25, maybe 30 people. Is that too many?"

He paused, awaiting an answer.

"Too many for...?" I prompted, completely in the dark.

"Why, for you!" he said, laughing. "You won't see everyone every day, of course, but no-one should ever have to wait more than two weeks. Overtime is permitted, but never required, and isn't paid. Let's say, on average, 6 people a day. That's only ten minutes per. Seem doable?"

"Maybe, I guess, depending on what I'd be doing," I said. He was the one giving cat-and-mouse non-answers, but seemed to think I was being evasive.

"Of course it depends on what you're doing, absolutely!" he said with excitement. "A person who needs twenty minutes of your time one week may only need two minutes each of the next five weeks. But, talking average," he emphasized again. "Is that about what you'd expect? Jenn thinks you're good to go, and her work is as demanding as yours. Her judgment carries a lot of weight."

His gaze plumbed my eyes. Renard leaned forward, forearms upon his knees, and interlaced his fingers. It was an unusual posture for a boss interviewing a prospective employee. His benevolence beamed down upon me.

"Please," he said, "say yes."

On the one hand, I still had no idea of the duties of the Staff Head. Was it collecting time sheets? Vacation scheduling? Benefits management? Planning office parties?

On the other hand, for five thousand dollars a week, I'd gladly stand naked and have rubber bands shot at my genitals all day. What wouldn't be worth that kind of money?

"Sir, I -- "

"Please!" he interrupted. "Just Renard."

"Alright, Renard. I would very much like to say yes, but I'm still not sure what the Staff Head is expected to do."

"Only that. You'll work it out on a case-by-case basis, naturally. But nothing more," he said, cheerily. "So, Ellis, do we have a deal?"

I tossed my hands in the air. "Sure," I said, surrendering to his enthusiasm. I laughed, still completely at sea. "Why not?"

"Terrific. Could you start tomorrow? We've been without someone for two weeks. Things are pretty backed up, haha."

"I can start right now if you want. What do I do? Head to HR for some paperwork?"

"You're funny!" Renard said with a huge grin. "You're considered a contractor. You'll get a 1099 in January."

"Okay," I said. I actually giggled. It was all so opaque, so crazy.

"Alright," Renard said, standing. "I'll take your chair."

Thinking the interview was over, I stood and sidestepped towards the door. He plonked down into the leather cradle, leaning back in a totally relaxed pose, knees far apart.

"Now," he went on, "come kneel between my legs."

Wait, what?

Oh.

Staff Head. Just that.

30 people a week.

5 hours on my knees. Every week.

My mouth started watering like crazy.

I knelt at Renard's chair.

"Good boy," he cooed.

The smell of Renard's tooled leather belt made me dizzy. I unbuckled and unzipped him, my face hot, heart pounding, sweat breaking out all over my face and back.

I opened his fly, threaded my way through his boxers, and pulled out his balls and soft cock. My head throbbed with the forbidden thrill of touching a stranger, and joy sung in my chest. I breathed in the arousal on his skin.

His penis hung, lovely and a black so deep it was like some precious mineral. The foreskin shrouded his tip and ended in a little snout. I placed my tongue gently under his tip. The rounded cap of his cock slithered forward inside the foreskin, which widened like a mouth. The otherworldly sculpture of his want slid out and climbed my tongue. The last inch of his dick, and the entire tip, were the pinkest pink imaginable. His eyes cast blessings down.

His dick was on the short side, and I noticed Renard's little slit wasn't located at the very tip, but half an inch back on the head. He would ejaculate dramatically, spraying up into the air rather than straight ahead. Suddenly, I was desperate to witness it.

I pressed the warm rigidity of his shaft to each cheek. The temperature of his sex penetrated my face, and I felt the vitality of him in regular pulses. With my lips I pulled salty precum from him and kissed it up.

For a better look at his glory, I backed away and saw obstinate veins standing out along his length. I stared and panted. Renard's scent alone would make me say yes to the job. Hell, I'd have sucked him off for free. Would once every two weeks be enough? I definitely saw myself working some overtime.

His pleasure trickled toward my hunger. I caressed my face with his crown, painting nose, eyelids, my chin and forehead. Renard moaned. I let go. His dick strove for the ceiling, majestic, optimistic, the head bouncing with his heartbeat.

His dick was dense as stone, and as hot as a scrape on the knee. I enveloped his cock with my mouth, slid down and back, pulling at him. When I let go, he glistened and dripped. In my mind he sat in the driver's seat of a summer convertible, and I had all the time in the world.

I am vain about my nipples so, while I sucked him ever so gently, I unbuttoned my shirt. He let out a grateful "Oh" when he saw my darlings, greedy dark pink and rigid as rivets. I annoyed the tight pricks on his wool trousers

My hands pressed into Renard's inner thighs while I sucked the bright head of his dick. I was gentle and assertive. With a full mouth, I used the vibration of my voice to saturate his blessed erection. Each plunge, I took more, until at last I entered the profound rapture of deepthroating him. I was down on him for only a second, then came up for air. Renard shone, and his cock was thicker now.

He called me 'Babe'. I worshipped his cock, and he called me 'Baby'.

I was salivating like crazy, and began to make playful bubbles in the viscous spit every time I lifted my mouth from him. Down I slid, and held him deeply, my lips prickled by the stubble of his shaven crotch, entirely without air. Parting my lips and sticking my tongue out to lick Renard's balls, I observed rivulets of thick saliva pouring down around the base of his hard miracle in shiny, bubbled stripes.

The inside of my briefs was soaked, and I had stiffened. Receiving Renard's gift was like hands-free masturbating. Plunging again into the airless paradise of deepthroating this man, I wondered, Could I possibly come just by coaxing out his thick pleasure?

Pulling all the way off, I turned my head to place little sucking kisses down his shaft. The veins stood in starker relief now. I wrapped his whole length in my fingers and pointed his dick toward the ceiling. I kissed his wet balls. His sac dripped thick saliva down the crotch of his trousers into a small pool on the leather seat.

Licking and slurping, I gathered as much liquid as I could in my mouth. Breathlessly, I regarded his balls. The outline of each testicle showed clearly inside their velvety purse, which was droopy and extended. I used my lips to suck his entire scrotum into my mouth and rolled the silky nuts around. Pursing my lips, I pulled his balls away from his body until he whimpered, then relented. Renard's cock and balls sweated the masculine enchantment of pheromones into my mouth. When I opened my lips to let him go, three stout ropes of viscous saliva connected my open mouth to his balls.

Time to decide where I wanted his semen when he surrendered it.

Did I want to worship it? I could catch his cum in my hands, then drip it through my fingers, dab it on my nipples. Eat it up.

Maybe I wanted him to feel as though he possessed me. I could jerk him off all over my face, or fill my upcurved tongue with his sperm. I'd stick out my tongue, then swallow it all, or drool it slowly down my chin and onto my pressed-together thighs.

While I was spacing out, Renard made up my mind for me.

He stood. Panting, I scooched back and gazed up into his eyes. I silently beseeched him, and Renard petted my damp hair. When he spoke, I took him halfway into my mouth to listen.

"Oh, those green eyes," he praised me. My tongue massaged him with whispers. "Your hungry little nipples, hard like the studs on a collar."

He paused and I prepared for anything; everything.

"I want to move your head while you deepthroat me." he said.

I growled a low, primal assent, and nodded. I pulled in a few breaths, and his hands stroked my ears and temples. I nodded again, and he pressed in, down, and I felt one hand grasp the hair on the back of my head. Then, kind but decisive, Renard sought the deepest place I can receive praise.

He worked me in tiny forward and backward thrusts, pressing my face to his prickly, slippery pubic bone. He lifted his pelvis and begged, "Hold me; hold me." Renard crushed my lips to his body. He occupied me entirely.

Then, stillness, silence. Nothing could stop it.

I felt the enlargement of his crown profoundly inside me. The conduit that ran up the front of him filled and pulsed with intention. When I managed to inhale the tiniest bit around Renard's shaft, I heard deep down the gurgling reward he was depositing in my core. The entire world was his scent, or his taste, or some unnamed, primitive sense. It comforted me with the knowledge that I was completely his: his mate, or one of his mates, or his consort, his toy. To serve him utterly I would accept any name.

Swirling in ecstasy, I forgot to breathe, and must have fainted.

* * * * *

I awoke in a different place, on my back on the carpet, as refreshed as if I had slept the night in peace. I guess oxygen deprivation combined with a throatful of cum does that to a guy. My eyes alit on the wall clock: 12:45. Less than an hour since Jenn dropped me off at Renard's office.

I sat up on the floor, and gave a little cry of surprise when I perceived someone immediately to my left. I turned to look.

There, sitting on a garden-variety cubicle desk, was Jenn, dressed in only the footless maroon leggings. Her perfect feet dangled from the edge, kicking girlishly. The red Chuck Taylors lay in a nearby pool with the turquoise pencil skirt, hot-pink turtleneck, orange boyshorts, and a lime-green brassiere. Jenn's phenomenally sexy knees, every bump and dimple hugged by the semi-sheer tights, were clamped together. Exquisite medium breasts, sagging a little and with stretch marks at the sides, hung in proud exhibition. Seeing the weight of her thighs resting on the desktop almost made me come.

"Go ahead: look," Jenn purred in a low alto. She spread her toes wide. "I've been waiting."

The contours of Jenn's solid legs in the clingy Anarchy-symbol leggings dizzied me. My eye travelled from the scalloped deep red circling her gorgeous ankles, up her legs, climbed her thighs. I saw now that she wore two separate leggings, the tops rimmed in bands of progressively darker nylon and edged in crimson lace. She spoke again.

"The Staff Head is only required to perform fellatio. If all you do is stare at my wet cunt for a few seconds and leave, I'll understand." (A thrill ran its nails down my body. The c-word is also not used in our home.) "But seeing Renard's jizz on your face made me unbearably hot for you, Ellis. Any chance you'd use your last fifteen minutes to do me a favor? S'il te plaît?"

Oh, it plaît-ed me, alright. I shuffled on my knees over the dim carpet to Jenn. She spread her dangling legs to display an untamed, unshaven crotch. The salt-and-pepper pubic hair glistened in wet tangles. With two fingers she spread her labia, and I saw a hundred shades of red and pink blossomed there.

With the other hand, Jenn slid a long, hot, slender finger from the bottom of her pussy lips up to her clitoris, slicking it with desire. She held that hand out like an impish, titillated Queen offering her ring for a kiss. The shiny finger with its forest-green fingernail hung a bit lower than the others.

I smiled, which made Renard's dried cum crack on my cheeks. I leant forward and parted my lips to present a compliant mouth. Jenn pressed her dripping finger to my tongue, then slid it further in, and down, until I gagged. This she did a second time, and I had to turn away.

"Alors," Jenn said, "viens à Maman."

I could still taste Renard's alkaline, earthy sperm as I sank my nose and mouth into her spread labia. Cool and tender hands pressed my temples. We became utterly still. Her vulva held me. In the hot, convoluted folds I respired her magic. Four billion pussies on planet Earth, and only Jenn smelled exactly like this.

She said, "Eat my cunt." (That taboo frisson again.) "Feast. There is no such thing as too slow."

You know I feasted. My outstretched tongue unhurriedly gathered all the wetness I could from deep in her vagina. Her lips, enlarged with greed, welcomed my face. When I moved up to cajole her clitoris from under its coverlet, I found that pink marvel already brashly exposed, like a bride who has cast away her veil for a private, public kiss.

Jenn's clit was the size of a pearl and nearly as hard under my tongue. Her loud response to my very first feather-touch amazed me. Her grip tightened on my head. She pulled me into her, but I refused to increase either the speed or pressure.

It worked. Over fifteen minutes, Jenn's whimpers deepened into groans, which were overspread by ready sobs, then rent through by coughing desperate cries. Throughout the escalating imprudence, I paused only to beg Jenn to submit to me.

Please, Jenn, release your heat into me.

Please, Jenn. Bless me.

Please, Jenn. Consecrate me, this.

Please, Jenn. Please come.

She gave in. The sacred climax unfolded, expanded. Her surrender lasted, receding and renewing, for most of a minute. Then a long quiet.

Applause erupting behind me made my head spin around. Watching us, presumably for at least the last minute, stood probably fifteen people, clapping, laughing, hooting. It was festive and joyful.

"I know it's quitting time," Jenn said. "But if you can stay five more minutes I could come again."

Clitorises are fucking amazing. But she had to be kidding. I could only laugh. I stood, grabbed my shirt, and unsteadily faced the gathered multitude.

Renard, holding an envelope in one hand, made his way to the front. "Welcome to Veni," he said, handing me the envelope. "You've earned this."

My eyes struggled to focus. Jenn's orgasm still electrified me. The perfume of her vulva slicked my face.

I squinted. On the envelope was written, "$1000".

"Wow," I said. It really was true.

Someone in the crowd said, "Look on the back!" and others seconded.

On the back were the words, "April Fools!" The $1000 was crossed out with a red X.

Without a word, I left them. The all-consuming climaxes of the previous hour had disoriented me. I shook as I walked to my brothel boudoir. I collapsed on the suede daybed.

An hour and a half later, I woke calm but resigned, and brought myself to the sink. A ferocious, disheveled, ecstatic slut mooned back at me from the mirror. The raunchy scent of two mingled orgasms twined with that of the roses. Semen had dried in tangles in my hair. My eyelashes were heavy with it when I blinked. I licked my reddened lips and tasted Jenn's extravagant pussy.

Clearly, blowing people was my destiny. How could it all be a prank?

I snapped a quick selfie in the mirror, a naughty grin illuminating my face. I texted it to Melissa and Dorcas with the caption, Just leaving work now.

My girlfriend texted back, I am made of questions right now.

Dorcas sent twelve sexy biting-lip emoji.

I found the envelope on the floor near the daybed. I scanned the front again:

$1000

Then flipped it:

April Fool's!

The crossed-out $1000.

At least I had gotten some great sex out it. I pried up the glued flap. Hopefully, there was at least ten bucks for a shared Lyft home.

I took out the check. A post-it concealed the amount. I peeled it off. The check was for $1001. The back of the post-it read, We love you, Ellis!!! See You Tomorrow!!!!

On my way to the elevator, I did the math. More than a hundred bucks per person on average. Decent job security. Not to mention, probably half a pint of sweaty, sticky, stringy, runny, sweet, viscous, tart, nasty, smooth, saucy cum, sleek and translucent, striped white and cream every week. And the occasional mouthful of pussy-joy.

Best of all, I thought, heading outside to my (unshared!) Lyft, in a couple months we could put a down payment on that wheelchair for Dorcas.