The Replacement
andy_amslond@yahoo.co.uk
Part 1
I sighed as I clicked the "Print" button, sending the printer to life in a fit of splutters as it churned out my resignation letter. I tried to savour the moment but it was hard to escape the sense of anticlimax. Resigning from your job is supposed to be far more exciting than this! I should be fisting the air, overcome by the sense of newfound freedom and running out to burn my suit in the car park. Instead, as I put my signature on the letter, I felt little more than a muted sense of anticipation. The fact is I have been yearning to start my own business for such a long time that the idea of quitting my job no longer seems shocking. The whole thing feels natural, just as it feels natural to wash my hair. "Of course I should be quitting my job and starting my own business!"
My boss, Michael, on the other hand, was shocked. After all, I have performed well during the five years I spent at the bank and have been rewarded richly for my efforts. At 35, I head up a small team looking after a clutch of clients. I have built up good client relationships, bringing in a steady stream of revenue for the bank. I have a corner office with views of an uninteresting part of London and a company car to impress my friends with.
"What more could anyone want?" asked Michael, waving his arms in exasperation.
"Well, there comes a point when you have to follow your heart."
I don't really expect Michael to understand. Having spent 20 odd years in the game, he is so sucked into the lifestyle of a well paid banker (complete with expensive wife, kids in private school and a country house) I very much doubt he could see sense in anything which doesn't have dollar signs dangling off it. Anyway that was a few weeks ago now. With the administrative bureaucracy more or less complete, I can now look forward to three months of gradual retreat from my day-to-day duties and the start of my new life. The only important task left for me to do is to train up my replacement.
After a quick search, Michael has decided on an internal replacement, a transferee from our Sydney office. I read the CV with little enthusiasm: university in Australia, business school in the US, three years at the bank looking after high net worth clients; all pretty typical. The "Personal Information" section does not reveal much either. Interests: surfing, rock-climbing, travelling, wines and modern art. Aged 33. No picture. The name is Dean Hudson and I am scheduled to meet him next week.
It was a bright, cool autumn morning when I walked into Michael's office and met Dean for the first time.
He was sitting in one of the armchairs in front of Michael's desk, hands clasped behind his head. Sharing a joke with Michael, Dean looks relaxed, almost laid back, with none of the first day nerves I know I would suffer from if I was in his position. I caught Michael's eyes and he beckoned me towards his desk. Sensing my entrance, Dean turned and I looked at his face for the first time. Blonde hair, blue eyes, not bad looking. Michael made the introductions as I settled into the chair next to Dean's and we exchanged friendly banter. The first thing that struck me was his voice. A rich, deep tone with a slight husky edge which reminds me more of a jazz singer in a smoky bar than a lifelong whiskey drinker, though often the two are one and the same. I was also surprised by his accent, not the brash Australian twang I had expected, but a South African accent softened by years of international English to a rounded sound which was near impossible to place.
As we went on to discuss details of the handover plan I became more and more intrigued by my replacement and subconsciously allowed my glances to linger on his features for longer than was politely necessary. I looked into his eyes and was mesmerised. Not any blue eyes, but the shade of the deepest ocean, punctuated by flecks of grey; seagulls flying over a stormy sea. I was so absorbed by his eyes that it took me a while to take in the face which framed them so perfectly. He has fine features but with a slightly rough edge which hints at the rugged side of his personality, topped by short blonde hair made for fingers to ruffle through. This is getting interesting.
It was not until we walked out of Michael's office when I was able to check out his physique. He is maybe a couple of inches taller than me at about six feet. It was obvious that he enjoys the outdoor life -- his broad shoulders, trim waist and powerful legs exude a sense of ruggedness which goes beyond a few sessions a week in the gym, which is all I manage to fit into my hectic schedule in the city. He walks like an animal, a predator surveying his territory, full of confidence in his ability to subdue, or maybe seduce, all that surrounds him. Without knowing at the time, I was already falling under his spell.
"Hey Tom you look a bit distracted, are you okay?" he smiled, perfect teeth revealed through a wide crescent of soft, inviting lips.
"Oh it's nothing," I reacted with a shrug which I hope came across more casual and relaxed than it really was, "I was out drinking a bit late last night at one of these new lounge bars." I lied -- I never go late night drinking and can't remember the last time I lounged in bars, but it was the first thing that popped into head and I hoped it would impress him.
"That sounds like fun! Sure beats watching TV movies at the hotel on your own all night."
"Well, that depends on what kind of movies you're watching," I blushed.
"I hardly know any drinking holes in London, maybe you could lead me astray sometime," Dean replied with a grin and the merest hint of a glint in his eye. Or was that a wink? In any case it was a request I could hardly refuse.
Trying to change the topic, I asked him about his accent.
"I was born a South African, but our family moved to Australia when I was a teenager," he explained, "But I guess I never quite managed to shake off my South African roots."
"You should feel quite at home in London then. After all, I can't think of another city this cosmopolitan."
"Or with such shitty weather." At this, we smiled at each other.
"But I bet you we have a better selection of girls here than down under." Dean didn't say anything in return but just smiled and looked into my eyes in what I felt was a meaningful way. Or was I just reading too much into this?
The idea behind the handover plan was that Dean would work-shadow me for the next three months and as soon as he is ready I would start to pass my responsibilities to him. To facilitate this Michael moved him into the meeting room opposite my office, which gave him some personal space as well as easy access to me. Sitting behind my desk, I would glance through the glass walls into his temporary office. Dean sitting behind his laptop, forehead concentrated into a frown. Dean fiddling with a pencil, lost in thought. Dean talking into the phone, his face occasionally erupting into fits of laughter. He was becoming more than a mere distraction; this was slowly, surely and irreversibly turning into a minor obsession.
"Tom, have you got a minute?"
I looked up from my computer as Dean strolled into my office, armed with a few sheets of paper and a relaxed smile.
"Of course, I always have time for damsels in distress." His smile widened to a grin with arched eyebrows over narrowed eyes, a classic happy face look which never fails to melt down my defences.
"I think you might be the one who needs to be rescued," Dean said as he smacked me playfully with his papers, "I think the cash flow projections in the United Industries report are wrong. Either that or I'm in need of a master class in financial modelling."
"Ah yes," I mumbled, "That's a complex model indeed. The master class will cost you though." I felt a bit flustered as I opened up the spreadsheet on my computer. Whilst I am perfectly competent in financial modelling, it has never been my strong suit and being as scatty as I am mistakes are not exactly unheard of. And it would appear that Dean is smarter than I had given him credit for.
"Here, look at this," my fingers pointed at the monitor, tracing the numbers whilst I explained the logic of the calculations.
Dean came round to stand behind me and leaned forwards to look at the screen. His left hand was planted on my desk, his right hand rested casually on the back of my seat. I could smell him -- the scent of freshly laundered clothes mixed with the clean smell of natural manliness barely tamed by soap. My heartbeat quickened.
"This is the part I don't understand," Dean said as he pointed at the monitor, though I wasn't sure I was concentrating on the spreadsheet anymore. He turned to face me, an eyebrow arched, "You see?" I turned and our eyes met, I could feel his warm breath on my cheeks. He smiled disarmingly as his eyes wandered over my face subtly. He was checking me out. We continued like this for what seemed like an eternity, the sexual tension palpable. I could feel the pressure building up in my pants. Our gaze eventually broke off as I continued, in the most drawn-out way possible, to explain the workings of the model. Dean eventually moved round and sat in the chair in front of my desk, legs stretched and hands clasped behind his head, in what I now know is his trademark laid-back look.
"So it seems the numbers were right all along," his smile once again widening into a grin, "So how much do I owe you for the master class?"
I pondered the question, mischievous thoughts racing through my mind.
That afternoon I did not manage to get any work done. Whenever I tried to concentrate on anything, the picture of Dean's smile or the memory of his scent would soon take over my senses. Whilst I've had plenty of sexual experience, I cannot claim to have been in any serious relationship before. Whenever friends ask me why I've always tried to build up a macho image by exclaiming that "I love the single life" or "I don't do commitment". Truth is, when the night descends early on a cold winter's day or in those moments when I felt drained of my usual confidence, I yearn to have someone just being there, by my side; but I have never found the right guy. I've also had crushes before and have learned to be more cautious as the pain of the inevitable disappointment always took too long to heal. Oh the joys of falling for straight guys! But somehow Dean felt different. Or rather I feel something different whenever I'm with him. Or am I again letting my fantasies cloud my judgment, interpreting his every gesture as an evocative come-on?
At four in the afternoon I finally admitted defeat and decided to leave early and hit the gym. I like to work-out, not just because I am keen to maintain my hard earned physique, but also because I find it relaxing to focus my energies on my body. As it was not quite the post-work rush hour yet, the gym was quiet. I was able to put in a good, hard workout, thankful that Dean was off my mind at last. As I took off my sweaty T-shirt in the changing room, I looked into the mirror and sighed. Years of hard work at the gym has certainly paid off. My body is defined, solid and well toned. I've managed to avoid the mid-life paunch that has afflicted so many of my colleagues and am especially proud of my six-pack. Surely with a body like this I deserve better than one-night stands and sex with my five-fingered friend?
I soaped myself slowly in the shower, caressing every inch of my skin. I love the sensation of my fingers moving across the contours of my sculpted body. As the smell of soap reminded me of Dean, I closed my eyes and touched my manhood, which was already turning half-hard without too much effort. Fearful of embarrassing myself in the open, I wrapped a towel round my waist and retreated to the aromatherapy room.
This is my favourite place for relaxation. The room, which is tiled, is heated to a few degrees above normal body temperature so it doesn't feel as hot as in the sauna or steam room. After a while, however, you would feel the tingling heat and start sweating, as if you are in a fever. This, combined with aromas which are released into the room and lights that change colour slowly, work together to create a highly relaxing environment.
My thoughts gradually slowed down as I drifted off into a pleasant half-sleep. Visions of Dean flashed across my mind as I felt the growing bulge beneath my towel. I imagined myself watching Dean undressing in the changing room, unaware of my prying eyes. He slowly undid his shirt buttons, revealing a perfectly chiselled chest and nipples ripe for sucking. As he turned round to peel off his shirt I admired his muscular back, which tapers to his slim waist in a classic "V" shape. He now turned to admire his own body in the mirror, his hands moving sensuously over his defined body, tracing the trail of hair from his chest down to his ripped six-packs, pausing to circle slowly over his navel before reaching his belt buckle.
My throbbing cock, which was straining through the towel, clearly required urgent attention. I obliged by slipping a hand under the towel and grabbing hold of my dick, now in its full 7.5 inch glory. As I began to stroke it up and down, I could feel the pre-cum oozing out. I moved a finger in circular motion around the glistening cock-head, covering the head and fold of foreskin with the torrent of pre-cum.
I licked my finger, the taste of the salty pre-cum sending my head spinning with desire.
My thoughts turned once again to my imagined vision of Dean, as he slowly massaged his half-erect cock through his trousers, the shape of the erection clearly visible against the fabric. I watched as he undid the belt with one hand and teased his nipples with the other, eyes closed in obvious enjoyment. I too began to stroke my own sensitive nipples, which were now fully erect and begging for a tongue bath.
Dean slowly removed his trousers and I feasted my eyes on his powerful legs. His erect cock was now throbbing gently inside the confines of the tight white Calvins he had on, a dark patch of pre-cum spreading near the waistband where his cock is planning its escape. I could not resist the temptation anymore and willed him to tear away the white shorts, exposing the full glory of his massive erection. As he stroked his cock and moaned in pleasure, I matched him stroke-by-stroke as my own cock stiffened in unmeasurable pleasure.
Only one more thing remains to be done. I untied my towel and stroked my cock with renewed urgency. As I laid down on the tiled bench I felt my hard cock slapping against my solid abs. I put one hand behind my head, my tongue exploring the exposed pits eagerly, the waft of man scent driving me crazy. The stroking was becoming more frenzied now. I could feel the foreskin rubbing up and down the bulbous head, each contact sending a thrill of pleasure up my spine.
As the pressure built up towards the inevitable climax, I closed my eyes. My mind was filled with images of Dean, all muscles and pure masculinity, his smile broadening to a grin as he beckoned me towards his powerful embrace. I bit my lips and held my breath as the pressure welled up from my balls, expelling the first shot of cum up the shaft, through the cock head and up past my head. It happened almost too quickly for the sensations to catch up. But I was not to be denied my pleasure. As the second and third and fourth shots landed on my chest, my whole body shook with excitement as the indescribable sensation of release spread from my groin to my entire body. By the time I had regained my breath, I was one big sticky mess. I marvelled at the orgasm, the intensity of which I hadn't experienced for a long time. I headed over to the shower before anyone entered the room, but not even the cool sprays could wash away that imagined picture of Dean in my head.
The next few weeks went by in a whirl. Dean and I had become friendly, as we are of similar ages and have similar interests. I like his sense of humour and he certainly seems to find me amusing, always poking fun at my accent or how disorganised I am.
We also established a routine. Since his hotel is not too far from where I live, I would give him a lift into work and back to his hotel on most days. These brief car journeys became my favourite moments of the day. We talked a lot: about work, travel, food and life in general. Even in the rare moments when silence prevailed, I enjoyed the feeling of just being so physically close to him. At times like these I would sometimes catch him stealing a glance at me. He would be wearing not his usual toothy grin but a look of serious contemplation, with lips parted slightly and question marks in his eyes. I would shoot him a quizzical look and he would respond by breaking into a smile and starting a random discussion, as if to distract me.
"So Tom, what is the point of driving a car in London?"
"Well, I guess you haven't savoured the delights of London Underground yet. It's just your thing if you like endless delays and close body contact. Besides, you double your chances of picking up someone nice if you're in a cool motor."
"Oh yeah?" Dean chuckles, "If that does the trick why is the passenger seat looking so un-worn then? I guess instead of picking up hot chicks you always end up with guys like me."
I turned to him face his grin with a wry smile, "Cheeky sod, if you're not careful you might have to look for another chauffeur."
"Ooh I don't know," Dean replied, "Close body contact in a confined space could be just my cup of tea."
Or something like this:
"Hey Tom, nice shirt!"
"Oh really, thanks! Ironed it especially." I was secretly chuffed that he had noticed.
"So you're off on a hot date tonight?"
"Ha, no such luck. My mother is in town so I'm taking her out to dinner. Anything to keep her out of my flat. Wouldn't want her to discover my porn collection."
"Well, for a small fee I am very happy to safeguard your porn stash for you." Dean laughed. "Is she setting you up with blind dates yet? Bachelor at 35, grandchildren and all that?"
I chewed over the question carefully. When I came out to my parents a few years ago my mother had gone through the customary teary moments. Even though they love me for what I am, I can't help but notice she sometimes has that look of disappointment about her. I am their only child, after all.
"Nah, I think my mom realises her tastes are kind of different from mine, so blind dates would never work. What about you?" I retorted, "Surely an attractive guy like yourself must need bodyguards to fight off all these girls throwing their bodies at you?"
"Yeah of course," Dean replied with a wide grin, "Why do you think I had to move half the way round the world from Sydney to London?"
When I got home, in bed or in the shower, I would inevitably think about Dean and when I thought about Dean I would inevitably get a hard on. I would imagine his naked body pressed against mine, his aroma filling my senses. He had become the centre of my masturbation fantasies, but each time after the climax I would be filled with a heavy sense of longing which no amount of fantasy could fulfil.
Dean and I had also begun to see each other socially. Under normal circumstances I would not be so keen to mix up my business and social lives but in this case I just couldn't resist. What the hell, strictly speaking we will no longer be colleagues in a couple of months' time.
"Hi Dean, how's it going? Having fun?" I asked as I popped my head into his office.
"Okay, and you?" He replied, raising his head to meet my eyes with a smile. "Do you want to discuss the client portfolio now?"
"Er no actually," I was beginning to blush, "I was just thinking... I'm meeting up with a few of my friends for brunch this Sunday, maybe you'd like to join us? I did promise to lead you astray and, you know, I am kind of taking pity on your lack of social life here in London."
Dean stretched out his legs slowly and clasped his hands behind his head, his smile widening to a grin.
"Look who's talking? I thought you're the workaholic with no social life! At least I have an excuse as I've only just arrived in town." He laughed, "But yeah, I'd love to join you guys. Maybe I can get to quiz your friends about your dark secrets."
Now I was feeling a bit nervous -- maybe this is not such a good idea after all.
"Besides, I'm looking at a flat to rent on Sunday afternoon, maybe you could come with me and give me your expert opinion since you know London so much better than I do? I'd hate to land myself in a dodgy part of town."
"Great, I'd love to. I'll send you the details later." I hope Dean didn't spot my giddy excitement.
We arranged to meet at a fairly casual restaurant with views over the Thames. It was a glorious autumn day with clear skies, crisp air and just the merest hint of a chill punctuating the warm air. Dean and I were joined by three of my friends and we had a very pleasant time over delicious food and plenty of wine. As the alcohol started to work its magic, my glances at Dean became more frequent and less subtle. There he was, already feeling perfectly at ease despite being surrounded by people he hardly knew, telling anecdotes and sharing jokes. My friends, for their part, seem to be completely won over by his easy charm. Occasionally our eyes would meet across the table and I could sense his grin turning down by just a few degrees and his beautiful eyes taking on that serious, contemplative look I recognise from our car journeys. As we return to our respective conversations he would revert to normal just as quickly. Hmm maybe I don't look so attractive after I've been drinking.
Whilst Dean was away from the table during a bathroom break, my friend Petra, whom I've known since we were at university together, turned to me and hushed in a conspiratory tone, "Well, looks like our Tommy boy has fallen for the good-looking Aussie hunk."
"What makes you think that?" I protested, though I guess my deep flush and the fact that I almost dropped my wine glass must have given the game away.
"Hey come on," Petra cooed, "It's a bit obvious judging by the way you keep looking at him."
"Oh dear, was I really that unsubtle? Next time I must remember to drink less. Yeah, Dean's a nice guy but, you know, there's nothing between us."
"And why not?" she continued, "I think he likes you too."
"Oh yeah? And what makes you think that?" I exclaimed in mock surprise, though deep down I was rather pleased.
"Hey trust me I'm a woman, I'm supposed to know these things. I also know you long enough to know that you will lose him if you behave like your usual repressed, closed up self."
"That's a bit unfair!" I tried to defend myself, though I know Petra is right. I don't share my feelings easily. In business I am very forthright but whenever I'm confronted with someone I like I just don't seem to be ever able to pluck up my courage to even ask him out. I try to put it down to shyness, but I know the real reason is that deep inside I am scared shitless. This time, however, I know things will be different. Dean is different. I feel different. I'm sure when the time is right I will do the right thing. I hope.
After brunch Dean and I strolled along the river to check out this rental flat, which by chance happens to be not too far from the restaurant. We talked for most of the way, but the pauses in the conversation were equally enchanting. The silence did not feel awkward but instead gave me an odd feeling of contentment; it felt like we already knew each other so well we were happy just to be together.
"So this is it," Dean said as he fumbled with the keys once we located the correct flat in the attractive riverside block, "Flat viewing number eight. I hope this is the one."
The agent had lent him the keys earlier on in the day so we have all the afternoon to view the flat. As we threw the door open the first thing I noticed was the way the living room was flooded with light. Second thing I noticed was the stunning river view afforded by the floor-to-ceiling windows and wide balcony. I gasped as I made my way to the balcony, my eyes glued to the panoramic view. I was so absorbed by the view that I failed to spot the rug on the living room floor and promptly tripped over it. Next thing I knew I was flying head first towards the floor. In an attempt to restore my balance I stretched out my arms, trying to grab whatever was at hand. This, unfortunately, turned out to be a flimsy side table which quickly gave up the fight and joined me in my swift descend, sending the telephone and a few other bits and pieces which until then enjoyed an uneventful life sitting on top of it, flying through the air.
I lied on the floor, dazed and confused, desperately trying to look cool. That wine was most definitely a mistake. My vision was soon filled with the hulking form of Dean, who got down on one knee by my side, a wide grin filling his face.
"Well, since you have already destroyed half the flat I guess I'll have no choice but to take it!" He laughed.
"Uggh give me a hand!" I felt like a clumsy boy being admonished by an elder brother. As Dean reached out and offered me his hand, I decided he should not be having all the laughs. So I grabbed his arm with both my hands and pulled them towards me with all my weight.
"Whoa!" Dean exclaimed as he landed half on top of me in a thud, "You're stronger than I thought!"
"Hey I work out at the gym you know!"
For a few moments we both laughed so hard I did not quite register how embarrassing our situation was. After all, the man of my dreams was now flopped on top of me, his body against mine in a big letter "X", his hand locked in my firm grip. As I surveyed the situation I quickly developed a mild panic. My heart began to beat faster, my whole body stiffened and my cheeks turned an embarrassing shade of cherry. I wasn't sure what I was feeling anymore. Was it excitement? Anxiety? Or just fear of the unknown? What is a boy to do?
Dean must have sensed my embarrassment and confusion but he was not exactly in a hurry to extricate himself from his awkward position. Instead, he slowly turned on his side, his body still against mine, and planted his elbow on the floor, propping up his head. He looked straight into my eyes and I saw again that contemplative expression, as if he had no idea what to do with me either. I felt that for once the confident, laid back Dean was just as nervous as I was. I returned his gaze, staring into his deep blue eyes. I was drawn by their power, swimming ever closer to the vortex which I knew would pull me into the core where secrets are revealed and fantasies fulfilled. Our gaze was locked for what seemed like an eternity. I still held his hand in mine, the grip unbroken since I dragged him to the floor. Much to my surprise I could feel his thumb beginning to stroke my hand. It was the slowest, lightest touch which nevertheless sent a thrill up my spine. I couldn't help but to feel a hard-on developing. I had so wanted to tell him there and then what I had suspected all along, that I find him irresistibly attractive, that I have fallen hopelessly in love with him, and that I hope he would love me just as much in return. But what courage I had was consumed quickly by fear of the unknown.
"Dean, I can't breathe." I blurted out. Almost as soon as I said the words I began to regret them, but the moment was gone.
"Oh," his body stiffened as our hands disengaged, "I'm sorry. Of course."
Dean stood up quickly. As he tore his beautiful blue eyes away from mine I saw in them a hint of disappointment and regret which he quickly covered up with a forced laugh, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
"Oh, what a mess." I moaned as I propped myself up on my elbows and stared into the mid distance.
"Yes, I know."
As we began to tidy up the place and reverted to our normal banter, I knew all was lost.