He was demonically handsome. Envy had it that he’d had commissioned a well known artist to paint his portrait and the result was stored in his attic. His thick, burnished russet hair reflected his fiery personality, and his piercing green eyes could see through weakness, scams and bullshit like Superman through brick. To make it even more unfair on the rest of us mere mortals who had to sweat for a living, Mitch Badham was athletic, good at social sports, tennis, golf and squash, aided immeasurably by powerful tanned legs with a dusting of light hair like icing sugar on a cake, and had a package that his tight carefully tailored Armani slacks hugged like cling wrap does to beef in the freezer.

Wealth, adoration, and success stalked him. And so did I.

What attracted me and got me instantly hard was his incredible sculpted ass. Perfectly round cheeks, full but not flabby, encased tightly enough that you couldn’t help but notice them, especially if you were behind him as, inevitably, I was. I could not compete with the fucker, either in looks, physique, or economic ability. I hated the bastard. I believed I had more reason than most.

I had wanted that molded ass from the moment Mitch, or Mitchell, as it proclaimed in gold lettering on his desk nameplate, walked through the company’s front doors. And because of my preoccupation, no, let’s call it my fixation with that ass, I knew something about it that the folks in the company didn’t: that ass was available to just about any man with a cock. Except me. How did I know? I’d followed it at night to the sleazy dives it visited; I watched countless cum-encrusted cocks ram their way inside, imagining it was my cock servicing that very willing, very pliable asshole.

Now it was helpless in front of me. I ran a finger down the crack, gently pushing at the puckered hole. Mitch struggled, but that merely impaled him further.

He screamed, “Fuck off!”

The same scream that embarrassed me when I’d taken my turn at his anal portal one night at a sleaze venue he frequented when he’d turned to see who his latest top was to be. He recognized me from the office, even though he’d never given me so much as a backward glance there. “No, not you. Fuck off!” he shrieked. “Next!”

Perhaps I should explain how Mitch came to be at my mercy. Well, my obsession…there I’ve said it, and I don’t feel any great sense of relief in my admission…caused my stocks at the firm to plummet. While Mitch was in ascendancy, I was very definitely in descendency. In fact, I suspected that the meeting called for 11a.m. Monday in the boardroom was to seal my dismissal.

I had, weeks earlier, in an attempt to ingratiate myself with upper management, suggested a weekend of company bonding at the Medieval Fair, a tacky theme park across the river in New Jersey. Families could dress in optional costume, play at imitation jousting, as well as indulge in other pursuits such as wenching, wooing, and eating copious amounts of baked and broiled meats in a draughty banquet hall. Later, they could sleep off the excesses of booze and bonhomie in bunkhouse accommodation, all included in the price of admission. The total came to considerably less than the cost of the CEO’s new Bentley.

Management had, of course, fled to the comfort of their own homes, family in tow, in the late afternoon of the first day. Once they disappeared, I could put my real plan into action. There was a possibility it would lead to my arrest and incarceration, but I was counting on the embarrassment factor working in my favor.

Basically, I was past caring. With my dismissal imminent, I was unlikely to find another job in my area of expertise, so why not wreak revenge on my nemesis.