Four Man Fuckfest
Published by Noelle DeVeere at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 Noelle DeVeere
Photo Credit: © Can Stock Photo Inc. / InvisibleViva
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.
Disclaimer: This story is intended for a mature audience only. It contains explicit sex and language. All characters are age 18 or older.
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For his first job after college, Nick wasn't doing too badly. He'd managed to get the manager's position at Colton Arms, a hundred-unit apartment complex just outside of town. The pay was just alright, but the management company threw in free rent, which more than made up for it. The place had been built in the early nineties and was a little run down, but it was a job, and a home, which was more than a lot of people had these days.
His duties weren't too onerous; maintain the rent rolls, do minor maintenance, and generally keep an eye on the place. The tenants were mostly young couples and families, and didn't tend to make trouble. This last was a good thing, because his other, and arguably most important duty, was to collect rents at the beginning of every month. About half of the tenants paid online, and the rest dropped off their checks in person, either at the office Nick worked in during the day, or the night drop right next to it. Management policy was for a two-day grace period to drop off checks; after the third of the month fines started to accumulate. In the three months he'd been working there, not a single tenant had paid late.
Except for the guys in 40-C.
Unit 40-C wasn't a regular apartment. It wasn't even part of the complex. It was a small, dilapidated house on a nearby lot, which the management company had acquired at some point and owned outright. The yard, if it could be called that, was overgrown with weeds and patchy grass. He didn't have to do maintenance on the property, which he was thankful for, because nothing could fix that place aside from a few cans of gasoline and a lit match.
But he did have to collect rent, and that was a problem. The glorified shack was currently home to three young men who didn't have a job between them, and didn't seem to be looking for one either. They paid the pittance the management company called rent, but they paid it on their own schedule, and had to be constantly reminded before they would pay at all.
Nick was the one who had to do the reminding, and it was a job he loathed. He did all his negotiating, cajoling and threatening from their front door, which was just as well since they never invited him in when he called on them. It felt as if he spent one week per month just standing on their rotting porch, hoping the splintered wood he was standing on wouldn't choose that moment to give way.
Their excuses for not paying up were legion. The bank made a mistake, their boss stiffed them, someone's grandmother got sick. And that was when they even bothered to make an excuse. More often than not, he would just get a half-hearted “Money's not here. Come back tomorrow.” from some corner of the darkened living room he was glad he couldn't see. The whole business skeeved him out.
But his superiors wanted their money, and he was going to see that they got it. Never mind that Evan, the tenant in 40-C he dealt with the most, was built like a piece of moving equipment and had the intelligence to match. He did some kind of construction, Nick gathered, and looked it. And Nate, Evan's redheaded roommate, was almost as big and looked twice as mean. Tim, the third one, he never saw. If the clouds of smoke that billowed out of the windows of the house were any indication, all three were either pot dealers or enthusiastic consumers. Possibly both. None of that could faze him. This was his first real job, a job he was lucky to get, and he wasn't about to mess it up.
After a particularly grueling week and a half ordeal extracting February's rent out of 40-C, Nick resolved to get March's rent on the first day of the month, without fail. He was in management, after all. He was an important man. You had to know how to deal with people if you were ever going to move up in the world.
And so he dedicated himself to his job in the run-up to rent time. The last two weeks of February. He made sure he was visible and available to the rest of his tenants. He opened his office early and stayed late, he made sure everything was in order, and he worked steadily to make sure all the work orders were dealt with. He became the model employee.
Bright and early on the morning of March the first, Nick presented himself, wearing his best shirt, tie, and khakis, on the rickety porch of unit 40-C, and knocked on the door.
Nobody answered. Undeterred, he knocked again.
A long minute of silence passed, then the front door opened. Nate was standing there, shirtless.
Nick gulped. Say what you want about him, but Nate looked really good. That solid, muscular chest nearly made him drool.
The redhead looked Nick up and down, smirked, and said, “We don't have the money. Come back tomorrow.”
He closed the door, leaving Nick to stew.
He was still standing there, enraged and at a loss, when an idea dawned on him. His lips turned up in a smile as the plan revealed itself as if it had been sent to him from a divine source. He practically skipped as he walked back to Colton Arms.
The next few hours were a blaze of activity. Tenants came in and out all day, dropping off checks and money orders, and in between, Nick kept busy. He looked through past rent rolls, recording number and dates, doing calculations. He checked, then double checked the numbers.
When six o'clock rolled around, he was ready. He closed and locked the office, making sure to take the paperwork and the clipboard it was attached to, and made his way back to 40-C. This time he didn't pussyfoot around with his usual business-like knock. Instead, he pounded on the door.
It opened immediately, and a big, meaty hand closed around his arm from the darkness, pulling him into the house.
“What the- “ Nick said as he narrowly escaped tripping on the raised threshold. He stumbled momentarily as whoever it was manhandled him into the darkened living room. The taped-over windows had been cracked open to let in a small amount of air, but still the atmosphere inside the little house was close and thick. It reeked of pot smoke and something else he couldn't identify.
His eyes cleared enough to make out the six foot seven outline of Evan, glowering at him under thick, brown eyebrows. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his bare, tanned, and muscular chest radiated heat. His right hand was still closed around his left arm, and wasn't about to let go.
It wasn't Evan's voice that Nick heard next,though, but one he didn't recognize.
“Didn't Nate tell you we didn't have the money, Mr. Manager?” The voice was higher-pitched than Nate or Evan's. The small figure it came from was standing just outside the hallway to the bedrooms. It stepped forward, and Nick recognized it as Tim.
Tim was short, about five foot three, and slightly built. He was also gorgeous, with long, black hair and delicate, almost elfin features. He was almost too pretty to be male. But right now there was nothing pretty about the way his lip curled up at Nick.
“What's he got, Evan?” Tim asked.
The clipboard was pulled out of Nick's grasp. “Papers,” Evan said, waving it at Tim.
Tim smirked and took the clipboard from Evan. He flicked the pages back and forth.
“What's this?” he asked, in mock innocence. “Statements going back... eight months, interest charges, noise complaints... and an eviction notice? Gosh,” he said, and tossed it at an overflowing wastepaper basket. It bounced off and clattered to the floor.
Nick's unease was starting to edge into terror. He couldn't speak; his lips only made word-like shapes. Tim didn't seem to notice. Instead, he studied his fingernails.
“What are we going to do with you, Mr. Manager?” he asked quietly, not looking up. “Nate, get in here,” he called.
After some rustling sounds in the back, the redhead emerged from the hallway, with mussed hair and bleary eyes. He was also gloriously naked. The biggest cock Nick had ever seen in his life stuck out from a surprisingly well-trimmed red bush, and it was fully erect. A string of pre-cum dangled from the dome-shaped head. He felt his own organ start to swell against the fabric of his khakis.
“I think I just got an idea,” Tim said. Nick looked back at him, and saw that he was looking right at his crotch intently.
The dark-haired young man nodded to Evan and to Nate, who had taken up a position on the other side of Nick. Nate grasped his right arm, and Evan increased his grip on his left. Nick's erection didn't subside at all.
“You can't do this,” Nick said, feeling way out of his depth.
“Oh, relax,” Tim said. “Let him go, boys.”
And, for a wonder, they did. Nick massaged his left wrist where Evan had been squeezing him, feeling as if he were going to faint from relief.
“As a matter of fact, let me get you your precious rent money!” Tim made a whirling gesture with his index finger and turned to a card table that was set up nearby. He produced a checkbook and scribbled in it for a few seconds. He ripped the check out and handed it to Nick.
Eight hundred dollars. It was more than a single month's rent, and went quite a way towards paying off the late fees they'd racked up over the months. And all he'd had to do was endure a little scare and stand next to a couple of hot studs for a few minutes.
And then he looked at the name on the check.
“Timothy Farsen?” he choked out.
Tim nodded, the smirk making a triumphant return to his face.
“Timothy Farsen, as in John Gardner Farsen, VP of Operations John Gardner Farsen?” Nick asked, his eyes wide.
“Mm-hm,” Tim said.
Shit fuck, he thought. They called John Farsen the Screamer back at headquarters, and not because he was loud in bed. That made Tim his son. He was so phenomenally screwed.
“Yeah,” Tim said. “One phone call and you're gone. I don't even have to make anything up. I can just say, 'Dad, this guy slightly inconvenienced me today,' and you'd be unemployed and homeless by start of business tomorrow.”
Nick gulped.
“I know, it's pretty awesome!” Tim said, and giggled. The giggle turned into a long laugh, filled with real merriment. Then, he stopped laughing abruptly, and waved a hand at him. “No, man, I'm just fucking with you.”
“What?”
“I wouldn't do that. Besides, he hates my guts!”
“Then- “ Nick started, “then, what the fuck are you trying to do to me? You can't pay your fucking rent? With John Farsen as your father?”
“I said relax, Mister- what's your name?”
“Nick.”