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...

Asset stripping 01

The Board had received an email 3 months ago announcing the sudden transfer of ownership to this unknown relative of the ageing, childless CEO Mr Webber. They had heard old Mr Webber's penthouse office suite was being re-modeled under secrecy, and a list of demands, staff changes and extravagant expenses had already been claimed. And the repeal of the smoking ban was merely the first of many changes.

"Chief" Schulz (as the memo had instructed he was to be addressed) strode into the Board meeting 30 minutes late, smoking a Casablanca Jerry, ignoring the old office smoking ban.

As the new Chief Executive Officer walked to the head of the boardroom table the Board were faced with a staggering, muscular spectacle. "Chief"'s X-shaped physique was clothed in a costly midnight blue silk mohair bespoke suit, made by the finest Savile Row tailors. Tapering dramatically from padded barn-door shoulders to a narrow waist, and flaring back out again over tightly fitted quad-hugging pants the suit was tailored in such a way to show off "Chief's" massive physique - and little to hide an engorged package. A narrow satin-fine leather tie served to make his bulging neck look even thicker, straining the pure white starched silk-cotton collar. A gold tie-pin displayed some military looking emblem, as did an identical lapel-pin. What looked like glistening leather biker boots jutted out from the bottom of the pants. Schulz's deep posing tan set off the squared-off perfection of the gun-metal glint of steel-gray flat-top.

Schulz slowly walked up to the new double-width black-leather winged-back chair that had appeared at the head of the boardroom table. The new male secretary, who had been waiting nervously for 30 minutes proffered a large crystal cigar-ashtray, relieving the new CEO of the stogie, then stood behind CHIEF, suddenly obscured by the 60" chest of his BOSS. Before sitting, CHIEF unbuttoned the jacket, and shrugged of the tight-fitting sleeves, as the secretary gently pulled the jacket from behind revealing Chief's rippling torso, encased in a short-sleeved military-cut shirt tailored so tightly that it showed Schulz's eight-pack. The Board were amazed by the revealed huge physique looming over them. The cuffs of the short sleeves dug into the gap above the cap of his his ripped biceps, bronzed veins visibly pulsing. The shirt silk above Chief's traps was cut so as to show off the separation between his neck beef and delts that stretched at least 2 feet either side of his pin-head. Mammoth pecs bulged outwards and the shirt material bulged upwards, his upper pecs touching his bearded lantern jaw.

Lyle, the Legal Officer who had had to sign off these mysterious expenses, tented his pants under the boardroom table, and was on the brink of shooting his miserable load as he recognised Chief Schulz as the muscular Foreman from this morning - now his Boss, who had been playing some strange, arrogant game, spying on his new employees. Now he really was showing them who Boss. (And was that secretary one of the two other workmen...?)

"So, if Lyle could come to my office at 5.00 to go over the P + L...". Schulz barked, suddenly staring down the boardroom table right into Lyle's eyes, just like "Foreman" Schulz had before. Lyle's heart started to pound, as he tried not to blush. Lyle crossed his legs, and tried to hide his hardening wood...

Asset Stripping: Prequel

Lyle stumbled into his chair, and quietly slid the seat under his desk, quickly opening his screen - late again after last night's marathon session in the Eagle's darkroom and his strange adventure bound and shackled till 6.00 this morning in the basement of a Cop Station, somewhere downtown.

As he sat on his office chair signing off the latest batch of invoices Lyle was reliving the painful ass rape he received from the cop he had to address as "Officer Amberson, SIR". Flashes of gunmetal, lashes of the whip, the taste of cigar ash, the sharpness of cop boot - flashbacks haunted him like suppressed abuse - his pussy still gaping, still hungry to serve the powerful Officer Amberson.

A loud commotion broke Lyle's reverie. On the far side of the office two construction workers were making a noise, scoping out measurements. This must be for the penthouse office suite Lyle was costing for the mysterious new CEO. Lyle peered over his cubicle to see what the noise was all about. Lyle did not remember hiring any builders for this week...

Filling the doorway a huge muscled construction worker, presumably their Foreman, was barking orders at the two smaller construction workers. The muscled workman's X-shaped physique, tapering dramatically from barn-door shoulders and flaring back out again over tightly fitting, quad-hugging lycra gym-shorts which did little to hide an indecently large, engorged cock-package. Glistening leather biker boots finished off the workmen's clothing, more like workout gear than work-gear. The Foreman's musclemass filled the doorway, the other two workmen obscured by the 60" chest of their Boss.

Lyle was amazed by the huge physique looming before him. The foreman's massive torso was encased in a wifebeater so tight that it showed the Foreman's eight-pack and ripped biceps, bronzed veins visibly pulsing. The wifebeater showed off the separation between his neck beef and delts that stretched at least 2 feet either side of his pin-head. Mammoth pecs bulged outwards and the shirt material bulged upwards, his upper pecs touching his bearded lantern-jaw.

What looked like a deep bodybuilder posing tan set off the squared-off perfection of the gun-metal glint of a steel-gray flat-top. And an unlit stogie jutted out of the big man's bearded mouth.

Lyle was already damp again with the jizz he had been forbidden to shed the night before by the Leather Officer. Getting up carefully from his seat, checking his pants didn't show his pre-cum, Lyle had to check out the blue collar hulk.

Lyle gingerly approached the doorway, clutching a pile of invoices in front of his crotch, unable to avert his gaze from the muscleman. The big Foreman suddenly caught his eyes, and, recognizing the inevitable lust of men like Lyle, teasingly bounced his massive pecs under the straining fabric, as he stared back at the drooling office worker. Lyle turned bright red. It was as if this man was looking right into his mind.

Lyle had to suddenly turn round, and rush to the executive washroom, which was mercifully empty, run into a cubicle and slamming the door behind him, whack out the aching load Officer Amberson had forbidden him...