I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, and, for fear of not following commands literally enough for my boss' pleasure, simply dropped my gray Italian-tailored pants as far as they could fall, which, in this position, was to my knees.
A collective gasp of breath from every man in the room caused me to close my eyes in absurd shame. What the more observant crotchwatchers in the company surely had already detected for themselves, was now clearly displayed for all, dispite the moderate length of my shirt tail.
"Mis-ter Rod-ri-guez," Spitzanis spluttered, in genuine horror. "What in the world are those unsightly, baggy things that you are wearing?"
"White b-boxer shorts, sir," I stuttered, "with little red hearts all over them."
Obviously there wasn't a man in the room who couldn't clearly seeme and my embarassing shorts for himself, but apparently it was important to Spitzanis that I verbalize each and every one of my transgressions to the whole company.
"Boys, it appears that Mr. Rodriguez, in addition to his plummet in sales, has also violated an unwritten rule of the EELSKIN corporation. Please let us all stand up and show Mr. Rodriguez what all on-duty EELSKIN sales representatives should be wearing under their street clothes at all times. Pay close attention, Mr. Rodriguez." I was as stunned at what I was hearing as the rest of the boys were, but I doubt if my face looked quite as shocked as theirs did. On an individual basis, we were all pretty exhibitionistic, but in this group context, their wariness was palpable. Nonetheless, all 18 of the guys stood, en masse, and in compliance with their master's voice, displayed for my benefit the 18 pairs of well-stuffed EELSKINS swimsuits they were wearing in lieu of underwear. Spitzanis certainly knew what he was doing. How could I not have been impressed by the sight of my uniformly buff male coworkers standing in parabolic formation around the boardroom table, each man tensing his thighs to hold up his undone pants while his hands were occupied holding up his shirt front to flash me his trim, tanned midsection, each adorned by a different style or color of bikini suit in the EELSKIN line?
How could the retailers we visited day after day in city after city not be equally impressed when we modeled our products for them on the spot with the most calculated spontanaity imaginable? Even Dennis confessed, the first night he got me into bed, that he might have gone on refusing to stock Spitzanis' "outrageously expensive swimwear" in the sporting goods store he managed if he hadn't received the unexpected pleasure of seeing a pair of MicroSkins stretched across my ample crotch and chiseled ass cheeks. I instantly, involuntarily, sprung an erection, which instantly, involuntarily, popped its swollen head out through the snapless fly of my boxers. The guys just stared at it, expressionlessly.
"We don't wear EELSKINS every day for our HEALTH, Rodriguez," Spitzanis snarled, moving up closer to me from behind on my right. "Modeling the line can become necessary at any moment of the sales pitch, and you HAVE TO BE PREPARED!"
I turned my head toward him to try to make some excuse and saw that Spitzanis, at some point during this extraordinary product display, had stripped down completely to his own pair of the original, simple black, brief-style EELSKINS that had launched his second career. As usual, I was impressed by his still solid and muscular physique, and the fact that the uniform greying of his body hair was the only clue to his age.
"We can't have an EELSKINS rep stumbling off to a dressing room or a Mall bathroom in the middle of a sales pitch so he can climb out of his grandpa's skivvies! You'll lose the sale!
"Up until now I've firmly believed you were real EELSKINS material, Rodriguez," Spitzanis said, locking his eyes on mine. "Was I wrong?"
NO, I wanted to scream. Of course I was EELSKINS material. How else could I have survived and even prospered in its shrinking, downsizing cutthroat corporate world? I'd decided long before I'd finished college that I was going to work for Spitzanis, and had wisely anticipated (from observing him during his friendship with my father) that a marketing degree and retail experience weren't going to be nearly enough to satisfy a man like him. I was going to have to hard sell, physically look, and even swim like a champion, so that every man I'd encounter in my working day would be seduced into thinking he could be a champion, too. But now, on my knees before Spitzanis in a room full of men who had learned on their own how to strut and sell almost as well, I feared that I was suddenly at a dangerous disadvantage.
"Enough," cried Spitzanis to the other salesmen. "As you were!" They quickly did up their pants with relief and sat back down.
"And where did you obtain these....these.... THINGS you're wearing?" huffed the Olympic gold medalist, looking at me with disgust even as he began feeling my ass through the thin cotton of the boxers. "My...my... lover, sir. They were a Valentine's Day gift." "How sweet," he sneered. "I'm sorry sir, I normally wear EELSKINS every day, but...."
"But what?" he demanded, giving my right ass cheek an aggressive pinch. "But, well, lately,......"
"Yes?" "They've started to feel a little.... uncomfortable," I said, cautiously. The brown of Spitzanis' eyes widened to Stepford Wife proportions. "Uncomfortable?"
"My balls, sir. They hurt my balls." There was universal snickering around the boardroom table, but Spitzanis remained deadly serious. "Your balls?" he queried, reaching up underneath my erection and fondling them gently through the loose cotton crotch of my boxers. Then, with his free hand he reached down and cupped his own nylon-encased nuts for comparison.
"Is there anyone ELSE in this room whose EELSKINS are making their balls hurt?" he asked sharply. The eighteen faces looked momentarily stricken, but they each shouted out strong denials.
"Rodriguez," the boss said finally, after a long pause, "Get rid of these! Now!" "But sir, I ...."
"Get rid of them, or I'll rip them right off of your ass," he threatened.
"But sir they were a present from my....," Before I could finish, I heard, more than I actually felt, Spitzanis tearing my boxer shorts off of me, though now I could certainly feel the breeze on my fully exposed naked ass, low hanging balls and erect dick. They'd been a cheap pair of boxers, after all, and had offered little resistance. Dennis had gotten them for me on sale at Target last week as a joke, and their only value to me was that I had been as comfortathable in them as I was with him.
"Rodriquez, no wonder EELSKINS are making your balls hurt," Spitzanis suddenly cried, yanking my shirt up my back to get a clearer view. "You've grown fat! Look, your ass, your thighs....they're ballooning!"
The other men scruitinized me and then turned to each other in self-conscious terror. I learned later that it was because none of them could detect any significant change in my physique since the last time they'd seen me in the company pool or locker room. But I knew I'd gained nearly 6 lbs, and so did Spitzanis, with his legendary secret photo and video documentation of all his salesmen's bodies. My cinnamon colored washboard abs hung convex about a whopping half an inch, a feature all the more accentuated by the wiry black treasure trail that Dennis had wickedly persuaded me to stop shaving off. My ordinarily chisled marble-white ass cheeks had rounded ever so slightly, though hardly into bubble-butt territory. My thighs were a little meatier than before, though I'd always considered them perhaps a little too thin to begin with.
Now my colleagues had fully ceased to enjoy my humiliation and were terrified that their bodies might be found wanting as well. Spitzanis noted their looks of fear, and realized that he had them exactly where he wanted them. It was time for an example to be made of me, for everyone's benefit.
"Rodriguez!" he shouted, cracking the pointer against the edge of the tabletop, "Take the rest of your clothes off, fast! You'd better be on your hands and knees, naked as a new born baby in ten seconds, if you want to stay with this company, 'cause son, I'm gonna have to remake you from the bottom up, literally!"
I confess it only took me five seconds to get naked, with my ass in the air and my nose against the tabletop, my discarded loafers, socks, shirt, and tie tumbling off in various directions to the floor. I didn't need the other five because I'd already made up my mind about staying long before. I'd have never let things go this far in the first place if I hadn't been 100 per cent certain that I still wanted to make Spitzanis proud, my colleagues envious and wipe the floor with our competition.
Spitzanis reached towards a nearby easel and picked up a large wood and plexi T square, which he tested against his palm. It made a firm, sharp cracking sound.
"Carlos," he said to me with a slightly remorseful 'this-is-going-to-hurt-me-more-than-you' look, "I've got a sales division to run and I can't have my star salesman getting fat and lazy, so I'm going to give you 18 blows with this drafting square, one for each of the other salesmen that you've let down. Are you ready?"
I nodded, closed my eyes tightly and gritted my teeth, resting my forehead on my arms, which were folded flat in front of me on the tabletop. I hadn't been thrashed since I stole my Dad's car at age 14 , and had pretty much forgotten what it felt like, but I could remember wanting it to be over as soon as possible.
"Okay men, instead of me counting, I want you go around the table in the order you're seated, and each man, starting with you, Bryson, will call out his last name before each blow. Got it?" he said, to which everyone nodded in reply.
And so, standing perpendicular to the edge of the table, my nearly naked boss, Mike Spitzanis, the three-time Olympic gold medalist, spread his legs apart slightly to brace himself, and gripped the T square with both hands around the long blade of the instrument right where it attached to the shorter, ruled cross-piece. The other men craned their heads and shifted in their chairs, so that with the help of the huge mirror on the wall behind the head of the table, they would each have a clear view of my punishment.
Spitzanis bounced the weight of the T square in his hands a couple times, made a few practice arcs through the air in front of him, and then, when he was finally ready, twisted his body away from me and froze in the tightly coiled position of a star batter. That was the first moment, my coworkers reported to me later, that anyone noticed Spitzanis was sporting an erection, too, almost like a backup weapon.
As I trembled inanticipation of my beating, the small pair of dark brown nipples on my smooth, bronze chest lightly grazed the cool, polished wood table top and hardened into tough little BBs of erect flesh.
(end part 2 of 3)