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What The Boss Wants (Argus)

What The Boss Wants by Argus

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I first saw Nathan Allen when he got out of a limo and walked right through - and over - the protestors in front of the building I had to get into. I scurried in after him because I was a contract stenographer and had been hired to take minutes at a meeting. His, it turned out. It was a scary meeting! All the big executives were like schoolboys praying they wouldn't be singled out for his attention. Then he singled me out! Next thing I knew I was in the limo as he sent off memos and fired questions at me about the meeting. Then he hired me - at twice my salary!

He was scary, gruff, and growly. He reminded me of a grizzly bear. And he demanded absolute obedience from his employees! The thought of sleeping with such a man was... impossible not to think about! What would it be like!? And would I survive the experience!? But what Nathan Allen wanted, he got. And he wanted me! The thought of agreeing was scary! But very, very... intriguing. I'd never been with a man with such intensity - nor size, nor one who was so absolutely determined to dominate me! Because sleeping with him or not, he still expected absolute obedience from me - in everything! I never imagined I'd be taking notes for a meeting while kneeling on the floor naked with a ball-gag in my mouth!

Product type: EBook    Published by: author - self-published    Published: 2 / 2019

No. words: 35300

Style: Male Dom - M/F

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Chapter One

My job is to take notes and dictation. Why, you might ask, would this even be a job in this day and age? Why isn't everything simply recorded? And the answer is that the rich and powerful have better things to do with their time. They aren't going to dictate into a computer when every third or fourth word will be misspelled or misplaced and have to be corrected. And they certainly aren't going to take notes at meetings.
They have unimportant people to do things like that. You know, like me.
It's a little disheartening to have to admit this, but after four years at university and an honors degree in Renaissance literature, my most valued skill is shorthand, which I learned for a part-time summer job my freshman year.
Shorthand didn't get me a job, but it did get me hired on a piecework basis through an agency. When a company was going to hold a meeting and wanted minutes kept, the agency would dispatch one of its anonymous drones – that's me – to sit in on it, take notes, and then go home and transcribe those notes before emailing them to the agency.
This actually paid reasonably well because not many people seemed to know shorthand any more, or at least, weren't very good at it. I'm quite good.
My first introduction to Nathan Allen came when I arrived at the corporate offices of Jameson Industries where I was to take notes for a meeting. The office was a typical and anonymous tall building in lower Manhattan and was reached, as far as I could see, through the doors on Cooper Street and only those doors.
That was important because there were protesters in front of those doors and they didn't seem inclined to let anyone through. From the signs, it appeared they were protesting against global warming. I had no idea what this had to do with Jameson Industries, nor even really what Jameson Industries was or did.
All I knew was I needed to get in there or I wouldn't get paid and my agency would be royally ticked off at me.
The thought of pushing my way through didn't even enter my mind. I weigh little more than a hundred and ten pounds. No, I'm not anorexic. I just got lucky in my DNA.
On a warm summer day if I was wearing something flattering I might be able to bat my eyes, look sad, and persuade one of the men to let me through. This was not such a day. It was November. It was windy and it was cold. Snow squalls were blowing through, and I was wearing a parka with the hood up. Even so, the wind was blowing in my face if I turned in the wrong direction, so I'd removed my glasses.
I can see fine without them – mostly. I can't read anything up close, though, and anything closer than about as far as my arm can reach will be get increasingly blurry the closer it moves to my eyes.
So I was standing there freezing my ass off watching a group of several dozen people marching around and chanting and refusing to let anyone by. I think everyone was waiting for the NYPD to show up and otherwise enjoying the spectacle.
That was when a black limousine stopped at the curb. Like many, I turned my eyes to it with a sense of vague jealousy. Oh, to be a person driven around in a warm, comfy limousine, with all the wealth and privilege that suggested.
The door opened the instant it stopped and a man got out. He was tall and broad shouldered, wearing a gray wool overcoat. He was a deep chested man, somewhere near or past forty, with short dark hair, a broad face with square jaw, and dark, scowling eyes which were trained upon the mob at the doors.
He carried a briefcase as he got out, threw the door closed behind him and started to walk briskly to the doors. The closer he got to the demonstrators the more I amended his height. He was easily a head taller than the tallest protester, and looked like a full sized SUV bearing down on a group of economy cars.
Since I was standing rather close to them I could see his face as he approached. It didn't even look as if he noticed them, but instead was looking past them to the doors.
“The rise of world CO2 levels is a threat to the – .”
That was about as much as the man in front of him got out before the big man simply walked through the demonstrators. He didn't seem to move his arms or anything. He simply kept walking and bowled over the men directly in front of him. The protesters were sent stumbling off to the sides, and one of them fell into a bush.
The others nearest the hole he'd made in their wall of protests turned their backs to me to shout insults after him, and I seized the opportunity to dart forward into the opening he'd made and scurry after him.
He pushed open the door and turned his head then looked down to see me behind him. He seemed to give me a slightly suspicious look, but held the door for me nevertheless as I hurried in past him and up to the security desk.
I hoped he wouldn't mind too much my rushing ahead of him but I was going to be late if I didn't get up there fast!
“I'm Chloe Baxter from Archer Documentation and I'm supposed to be taking minutes at a board meeting on the top floor at nine,” I told the security guard a little breathlessly.
He glanced at the clock, which showed it was three minutes to nine.
“We'll have to check your I.D. and then issue you an internal pass,” the guard said. It's going to take about five minutes or so.”
“But – !”
And then this enormous hand slid around my right arm and closed firmly as it pulled me forward past the desk. The hand belonged to the big man.
“Send it up,” he said over his shoulder.
I scurried along more or less beside him, flustered, but glad to be going in the right direction, and without delay!
The man released my arm at the elevator. “It's my meeting you're taking minutes for, and it's about to start,” he said. “You're late.”
“I was delayed – !”
“I know.”
He stepped into the elevator and I hurried in after him. He pressed the button for the thirty ninth floor and I moved back, a bit nervously, then unbuttoned and unzipped my parka. He unbuttoned his overcoat (which from a quick glance looked to cost more than I made in a month) and I saw he was wearing a dark gray three piece suit under it.
Most men when wearing dark colors like blue, black and gray, wear a lighter colored shirt for contrast. He was wearing a black shirt with a gray tie. To say he was intimidating would be an understatement.
Mind you, we made a good pair. I was wearing a black, cowl neck sweater-dress. We were told to dress to be unnoticed, and the dress let me blend into the background, usually.
The big man (I still didn't know his name), glanced at me assessingly. I've seen that look before, though his was more bold than usual. And he took his time about it, too before turning away. I frowned at him (now that he was safely turned away), a bit indignant.
The doors opened and a man stood there, tall, slim and in his early sixties, wearing round glasses.
“Mister Allen,” he said. Everyone is ready.”
Allen nodded and kept walking, just as he had through the protesters, while the man hurried to keep up. I trailed along in their wake, having to half trot on my shorter legs to keep up.
We were in the territory of important people, that was for sure. The floor was not the typical cheap wall-to-wall carpet you find in many offices. It was what looked like marble in the elevator lobby, and now we were walking on hardwood floors.
The walls had dark wooden paneling, and the building smelled of old money. There were no fluorescent lights here, but instead spotlights and discretely hidden lighting that played upon the ceiling overhead.
Allen took off his overcoat as we reached a pair of huge, dark wooden doors which lay open, folded it and tossed it to me. I caught it out of instinct as he continued on into the board room, and glared at him indignantly.
Arrogant son of a bitch, I thought wonderingly.
“There is a closet here,” the tall man said softly, pointing.
I hurried over to it and hung up his overcoat, then removed my parka and hung it up next to his. I hurriedly took off my boots and pulled high heels from my bag, then was guided to my place at the table next to Allen.
I'm not really short for a woman, but I honestly felt like a midget next to his chair. I quickly took out my notepad and then glanced up the table to ensure I took in the names on the plates in front of each of the other men attending. And they were all men.
A woman did appear, then. She was middle aged, and carried a cup of coffee over to place before Allen, then hurried out.
“Mitchel. Let's have it,” Allen said.
Allen had a deep, gravelly voice, and a tone which challenged anyone to say anything which might cause him annoyance. In fact, he sounded annoyed to begin with, impatient, and just waiting to jump on someone and tear their arms off.
A short man stood up, halfway down the table. His nameplate said Mitchel Dennings.
“The ninth circuit granted an appeal by environmental groups to the Forest Services go-ahead for the Golden State pipeline.”
“Don't tell me what I already know, Mitchel,” Allen growled. “Tell me why the highly paid lawyers who lost this case should still be collecting their fat pay checks.”
“Because it's California,” the man said helplessly.
“Thanks. I wasn't aware what state we were pushing pipe through,” Allen said sarcastically. “Now try again before I throw your ass out the window to land on those fucking protesters.”
“The case was tried before a judge who is known to be heavily sympathetic to environmental and other left wing groups,” the man said nervously. “We presented a strong case! And I'm sure that on appeal, this will be reversed.”
The single word was barked out.
“Uhm, sir?”
“It will be appealed to the Ninth Circuit appeals court, which is also pretty damned left of center, right?”
“Well, well yes, sir but eventually – .”
“Eventually when you lose there it goes to the supreme court? That's assuming they agree to hear it, and that will mean at least a year delay and more probably two or three,” Allen said in a low, rumbling voice.
I was jotting things down quickly as they spoke, which wasn't easy because my fingers were still half frozen! Usually there was more delay before a meeting, with greetings and chit chat and talk about golf games and holidays and wives and stuff. Not here!
The word was shot out like a spear, and a plump, balding man named Jasper licked his lips and stood up.
“Yes, sir?
“You said this was a done deal. That you had convinced the Forest Service to let us push through and we'd be able to connect with the Grand Valley line within a year.”
“I uhm, well, Mister Allen, I had no idea that – .”
“That environmental groups would challenge the decision in court? If so you're an idiot. They challenge everything we do in court.”
“I uhm, I anticipated a more favorable interpretation of the statutes by the court and – .”
Jasper seemed to blink, looking confused.
I tried to keep my head down as much as possible. I wasn't used to this level of tension or confrontation in the meetings I'd attended! My heart was beating quite quickly! From the brief look I had with the other men at the table they were doing their best to blend into the furniture too.
“You have a degree in law?”
“Well, no sir but – .”
“Did you consult with Legal?”
“I... that is... we uhm, we of course liaised with Legal with regard to the proper statutes in place governing operations within national parks and forests.”
Allen's head swiveled back to Dennings.
“We were asked our opinion on the power of the forest service to grant exemptions to the standard prohibitions on economic activities within national parks and forests,” he said. “They have that authority.”
“Did you not anticipate this would be challenged in court and might well be successful?”
“We weren't asked!”
Another man stood up. He was bald with thick glasses.
“What is the cost of going back to the original route?”
“In terms of time delay approximately six months. That's unless we get an unusual ruling from the courts, but we've already had an initial favorable ruling and have agreement with the tribes along part of the route. In terms of cash outlay we're looking at about one hundred and eighty million above the cost of cutting through the forest, and about twenty two million above our original cost estimate due to the delay, as well as the preparation work we did for the other alternative..”
“All right. We're returning to the original route. Get that started immediately.”
“But, Mister Allen – !” Jasper exclaimed.
“Sit down and shut up,” Allen snapped.
Jasper sat quickly, red-faced.
“Paul, your report on the Texas maintenance schedule?”
Oh wow! This was just so unlike other meetings! It moved quickly, with Allen demanding answers on this or that subject from the various men at the table. They all looked nervous – except for Forest, and all jumped up the instant their names were called as they tried to assure him whatever it was they were doing was being done properly.
Allen was all business and accepted no excuses from anyone for a lack of information or for delays. I had to remind myself these men were probably all high paid executives and not a bunch of anxious schoolboys brought to the principal’s office!
I was jotting notes as fast as I could to keep up, especially since some of the information was about stuff that involved geological zones and rock types and I really didn't understand it. I was getting kind of stressed out by it all because of how strained everyone was – except Allen – and how fast I had to write.
I was so glad when the meeting ended! Whew!
No one stuck around for chit-chat. They all fled. All except the guy who had met us at the elevator, who had been silent during the meeting. He moved to join Allen as he went to the closet.
“Get me replacement names for Jasper and Dennings,” Allen said.
Hoo boy!
“I'll have them prepared by tomorrow.”
Then Allen turned and looked at me. Eek!
“How long until those notes are transcribed?”
“Uhm, I'll do them when I go home, sir, and send them to the agency, and they should then redirect them to your company. You should have them within the next two days.”
“Not good enough. Get your coat on.”
I jumped to my feet. Was he firing me or something!? I mean, he couldn't do that! I didn't work for him!
I stuffed my notes back into my bag and hurried over to them, then nervously grabbed my coat and put it on.
“Come,” he said.
He headed out into the hall and I hurried after him, not sure what we were doing or where we were going. I was confident of my timelines, though. Those were set by the agency.
We went down in the elevator, with him not saying anything.
“Uhm, sir?”
He turned and looked down at me.
“Where are we going?”
“I have to write several memos and I need the information in your notes.”
“Yes sir but – .”
“I'll write them. You just answer questions when I ask them.”
I blinked in astonishment.
“I-I'm not contracted for this sort of – .”
“Do as you're told girl. You'll be paid,” he growled.
I gulped. He did not have a voice or a tone that a person wanted to refuse!
I had thought we were going to another office but we went to the lobby and headed outside.
That was when I remembered I'd left my boots upstairs!
“I forgot my boots!” I blurted, stopping.
He grabbed my arm and hauled me along.
“I'll have them sent.”
“But... but!”
And then we were outside! There was no sign of the demonstrators as we headed to the limo, which had a driver standing next to it. He opened the rear door and Allen guided me into it, then got in behind. The chauffeur closed the door, and then hurried around to get in front.
“Mister Allen, I have – .”
“Quiet, girl. What's your name?”
I stared at him uncertainly. “Chloe Foster,” I said.
“Chloe, you're going to be a talking memory cube for the next twenty minutes or so then I'll have Peter take you home, or back here for your boots. Whatever. Now stop talking.”
I stopped talking.
The limo pulled away from the curb and headed uptown, and Allen pulled down an adjustable desk top which had a built in keyboard. A monitor slid up into view just behind the back of the front seat, and Allen began to type.
I looked out the window.
“Take out your notes,” Allen said without looking at me.
I hurriedly complied, and for the next twenty minutes he'd occasionally call out a question. Like, how many BBP would the Northeast Pipeline carry or what was the date for completion of the pump station backup in Arizona. Then I'd hurriedly check my notes and tell him.
It was hot in the car, and I opened my parka, then took it off.
He typed up several quick memos and then did whatever it was he was doing with them, either saving or sending. I didn't know or care. I felt like a schoolgirl being quizzed on a final exam, an oral exam, and that my whole year was riding on getting the right answers!
Finally he pushed the desk away. He leaned forward and opened a cabinet, taking out what looked like a small crystal liquor glass. He opened another door which turned out to have ice in it, and dropped a couple of cubes into the glass. Then he opened another door and took out a decanter of some brown liquid and poured it into the glass.
He sat back and sipped from it, looking out the window in a brooding fashion.
Finally he turned and looked at me, giving me that assessing look again. This time it went right down to my legs, more of which were visible since I was sitting and the skirt had slid upward.
“Where did you go to school, Chloe?”
“NYU, sir,” I said uncertainly.
“What did you take?”
I sighed inwardly, knowing what his response was going to be when I told him.
“Renaissance literature,” I said.
I blinked, startled he even knew enough to ask.
“Greco-Roman influences on humanist cultural and political development.”
“You have what, a masters?”
I made a face. “A bachelor of honors.”
He snorted. “What good is that?”
I frowned.
“If you're going to get into an academic specialty like Renaissance literature you need at least a masters for those arrogant bastards to even begin to give you any respect. You realize that, right?”
“I'm going to continue my education but... the loans were adding up and I thought it might be better to work for a bit and.. think things through.”
“Like whether you'd ever be able to make enough to pay off six or seven or eight years of loans?”
“Well, yes.”
“Wise of you. Would've been wiser if you'd done it five years ago.”
“With all due respect, sir,” I said carefully.
He let out a bark of laughter.
“Girl, I know very well what 'with all due respect means'. But you know I'm right even if you want to tell yourself otherwise. How much are you being paid?”
I looked at him uncertainly and he snapped his fingers.
“Twenty dollars an hour!” I exclaimed.
“I'll pay you forty.”
I looked at him in astonishment, feeling my eyes widen.
“You're a stenographer?”
I nodded dumbly.
“But you're reasonably intelligent. So you can take notes and run simply errands. Basically be a gopher. You'll get full benefits including health care.”
“Uh... I mean...”
“Just say yes. Where do you live?”
“In Brooklyn near – .”
“Too far. I want you available when I want you. You'll move to midtown Manhattan near Central Park.”
“I can't afford that! Not even on forty dollars an hour!”
His eyes narrowed. “Girl, do I look like a fool?”
Now that was not a question I was going to dare answer in the affirmative! Besides, it wouldn't be true.
“I know what rents are in Manhattan. You'll stay in my building. There's a maids apartment which is unused because I have a service. You'll stay there.”
“But – .”
“That'll be part of your benefits.”
Forty dollars an hour and rent free!? Wow!

Author Information

Argus is a man with long experience and credits in the publishing world. He has had almost two hundred novels published in the United Kingdom and The United States, by such publishers as Beeline, Star, Nexus, Chimera, Silver Moon, and Olympia. He has also been published in dozens of magazines.


Publisher Information

This story has been self-published by the author

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