Asset stripping 02

At 6.00 Lyle received an email from Schulz's personal address:

"The password to the Executive Elevator is 6969. 5.00 sharp".

The Executive elevator was double width, with expensive mahogany panelling and full-length gold-framed mirrors on every side.

Lyle emerged on the 40th floor walking into a luxurious hallway decorated more like a Gentleman's Club than the executive office that he remembered. Crystal chandeliers, wood panelling and portraits adorned the Baronial style room. So this was where all the company profits (or losses) were going, thought Lyle...

Suddenly a young servant appeared, squeezed into a tight Butler uniform, and nodding reverentially, silently indicated for Lyle to follow him towards the bronze double doors on the other side of the vast marble hallway. As Lyle followed the muscular servant, he noticed the portraits were all of "Chief" in what looked various types of military uniform. Lyle also passed a desk where Chief's the equally handsome young PA sat, seemingly not doing very much. Yes, thought Lyle, he was definitely one of the workmen "Foreman" Schulz was enjoying berating this morning...

The servant opened the grand doors ahead of Lyle, revealing a site that almost made Lyle's already excited dick shoot a load. At the far end of a vast office, In the shadows under a cloud of cigar smoke Lyle could see the muscled mass of "Chief" Schulz seated at a vast executive desk raised on a raised plinth. The outline of Chiefs distinctive brutal flat-top towered above a double width wing-backed leather executive chair. The gold trim of Schulz's tie-clip was picked out by the single light above the Chief Executive Officer, his broad shoulders towering over the desk, the glowing nub of a large toxic cigar jutting out in front. The light above made the shelf of Chief's huge pec shelf cast a shadow onto the black leather-topped desk, making his barrel-chest appear even more massive.

Chief's over-developed arms were spread out wide either side, gripping the edge of desk, showing off the silhouette of his lats and his heavy triceps that hung low below his biceps. Chief's bowling-ball delts were forced up by this pose, almost touching Chief's ears...

"Come!". Schulz barked through cigar-chomping gritted teeth, signalling the thrilled subordinate to approach the altar-like desk.

As Lyle approached the steps that lead up to the desk to sit on a tiny stool, he peered in the dark to the right. What he saw made him even harder: a huge, photo-realistic portrait of a smiling Schulz flexing insane, glistening muscles in a most muscular pose, wearing tiny leather competition posers, with a winner's trophy at his feet.

"You like that, Lyle? One of my best placings. FIRST, that is."

Lyle became dizzy with arousal by Schulz's arrogance, as much as the intoxicating cigar smoke that reminded him of the almost equally muscular Cop who had him last night.

Schulz slowly lifted a heavy ham-sized hand, and wastefully removed the near-finished cigar, stubbing out the thick butt in a large crystal cigar-ash-tray. Suddenly the butler appeared from out of the dark, with a large humidor.

Schulz picked a huge Casablanca.

"SIR, May I, SIR", as he offered a cigar cutter.

Schulz handed the heavy dark stick back to the servant, who trimmed the cigar, and swiftly returned it, offering a military designed heavy table lighter. Schulz sucked in the costly fumes and continued talking, not bothering to acknowledge the servant...He did not offer Lyle a big-man cigar.

"Whisky?". He asked through his cloud of smoke, signalling to another servant, who presented two crystal glasses of pale 30 year old whisky on a silver platter. All the while the cigar servant was standing, head bowed. "Dismissed" SCHULZ barked as the Butler backed away into the dark.

Lyle had got used to the dim club-room light, nothing like an office, and could now see looming above Chief's head another life-size portrait of a magisterial Schulz in ceremonial, heavily armed, decorated black leather militia uniform, with peaked Officer cap, mirrored glasses, signature cigar in mouth, and quad-high cop-boots. The intimidating, unsmiling leader of men in the portrait looming over Lyle, brandished a gleaming Kalashnikov, as if pointed straight at Lyle. Lyle faintly recognised the decal on this unusual police uniform, and wondered what Force Chief commanded in his spare time...Suddenly flashes of gunmetal, lashes of the whip, the taste of cigar ash - the sharpness of cop boot - flashbacks haunting like suppressed abuse - his pussy now gaping, hungry to serve the powerful Chief Executive Officer Schulz...

"So, you want a tour of the building works, Lyle?" CHIEF teased, knowing Lyle's answer - the same answer as every man who Schulz had enjoyed subordinating under his jack-booted will...

Schulz started to raise his considerable bulk from the chair, first fiddling with something under the desk - almost as if doing up his fly...

Schulz now towered above his desk, above Lyle and above everything he surveyed - 6'5" of pure muscle. As Schulz slowly came round the side of the 10 foot desk, Lyle swore he heard a cough or a gagging sound from underneath the desk that Schulz had been gripping so hard on...