A woman.

The Commodity

Only your third day in your new job, but you leave home looking as far from the part as you can make yourself. Cargo shorts, an old polo shirt with a hole under the right armpit and a stain of unknown origin on the right side of the belly, and the ever-classy shorts-with-sandals combo out of every Do Not fashion list ever written save for the ones where it was taken as a given. You didn’t shave this morning. (You showered last night, though only so as not to be entirely repulsive.) Your hair received exactly ten seconds of time with the comb, and you substituted a minty piece of gum for brushing your teeth.

In short, you are your worst self, ready to prove Amy’s stupid claim wrong.

_Commodity. _What a ridiculous notion. That Nolan King saw something in you through his bro-tinted lenses hardly explains your recent successes with the ladies. _You _did that. You. Will Saxon. You’re a good enough looking guy (today notwithstanding). You were charming. Bold. Hell, some credit’s due to Avery and Ingrid, too, for playing easy to get. Amy was obviously only jealous, and Mia was looking to go retro and sleep her way into a promotion. It’s all easily explained by lucky coincidences. The idea that gorgeous women only sleep with perfect men who move heaven and earth to seduce them is a fantasy out of bad movies.

Then what about Brooklyn?

You don’t have an answer for that. Bitches be crazy, you suppose.

Mo gives you a dubious look out the front window, but you make good on your self-promise. Today, you put it to the test. Once you’ve proven how dead wrong Amy’s far-fetched claim really is, you can go back up there and throw it in her face. It was a tactic, that’s all. Throwing you off-balance with a fairy tale, deflecting your own well-justified anger so she didn’t have to explain what was up with that recording. Ingrid must have been in on it, too, somehow. Somehow, the two of them were in cahoots. Maybe Amy was shelling out premium bucks to the poor custodianess to score her preferred style of porn? You’ve heard stranger tales. But once you’ve shown what bullshit this “commodity” nonsense is, you’re going to get some goddamn answers out of her.

First, though, to get the proof.

You catch your share of wry glances entering the building looking like you’re here to help your buddy move than to go to an office. Excuses stand ready in case someone probes the obvious disdain for norms of office attire. In the elevator, Brett, a guy from legal you met with a few times while contracting, can’t keep a grin off his face.

“So, Saxon, hear you gone full-time. How’s that workin’ out for ya?”

“Good,” you respond simply.

“Looks like you’re enjoying yourself.” His mirth is unmistakable.

“Still settling in.”

“Yeah. Good for you, buddy.”

His laughter carries through the closing elevator doors. Fuck Brett.

For the third day in a row, Jenna is waiting for you in your office when you arrive. She looks to be in the midst of some light dusting, wiping off some of your shelves with a cloth. Her dress, solid black with some white piping, only makes the temptation to imagine her as a French maid all the more automatic.

“Morning, sir.”

“Hey there, Jenna. How are you this morning?”

“I’m sorry,” she replies rather than answering. “I was trying to have it clean for you before you got here. I’ll try to get in earlier tomorrow.”

“What? No, it looks great. Really, you don’t have to do that. We have a custodial department.”

Her lips purse for a moment as she turns and resumes dusting. You can’t help but take a moment to admire her ass in that tight dress. Maybe… Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to…

No. No, Amy’s full of it. Even if she’s not, Jenna’s your subordinate. You can’t. No.

You spend some time that morning doing actual work, instructing Jenna to clear your afternoon schedule and inventing some errands for her to tend to out of the office. Just in case. Not that anything is going to happen. It will simply be nice to have an empty office to retreat to after whoever you go after shoots you down. In fact, you ask Jenna to pick up a bottle of scotch for that purpose.

This will be a shooting down, too. You’re going to make sure of that. It’s not just the look, though that’s part of it. You have a whole method in mind, a clumsy, awkward, discomforting attack plan that’s sure to repulse any woman it’s tried on. You’ll be lucky not to get yourself a reprimand from HR. Still, there can be no doubt. If you come down in a suit and tie and oozing the Saxon charm, there will be no telling whether your success or failure is your reputation, this commodity nonsense. No, you’ll need to be at your absolute worst.

Lunchtime comes; you down your salad with gusto, wincing at the pungency of the onions and spicy Asian ginger dressing. Jenna departs, expense account card in hand, and thanks you graciously for your request to get herself something nice while she’s at it. The door closes behind her, and you’re alone with your fool intentions.

So. The only question is where to find the lucky lady who gets the privilege of laughing in your face and draining your swollen ego back into its proper size. It ought to be someone who has as little familiarity with you as possible. Someone who has no reason to suck up to you, no need to put up with unwanted advances, who you’re unlikely to interact with again in the future in case it goes even worse than you anticipate. You run down the list of departments, figuring that with the plethora of gorgeous women at Monarch, it should be easy to find a worthy candidate just about anywhere you go.

It’s over an hour before you finally tell yourself to quit stalling and make your move. With a sigh of preemptive regret, you stand up, confirm that your breath is atrocious, and make for the sales department.

Posters and banners advertising Monarch’s multitude of household gadgets decorate the walls up and down the hallway from the elevator. It’s a noisy area, every office door issuing sounds of pushy yet amicable pitches, and noisier still for being adjacent to the customer service area with its maze of cubicles atwitter with the ringing of phones and droning of **** apologies. Walking through that gauntlet, you overhear a man explaining that the Monarch Smart Oven isn’t programmed to tell users if they’re under-seasoning a casserole, so no, they can’t offer a refund.

Once into the sales office, you stroll casually, glancing in office doors as you go, looking for the right woman. Not that it should matter much, you remind yourself; you won’t actually be sleeping with them, after all. You’re only here to prove Amy wrong. If by some miracle she’s not, though…

No. No, she has to be. So pick someone and get it over with.

At last, you come across a suitable candidate. Lorelei Corfield reads the name on the door. It’s a crack open, and inside you can see a woman intent on a sheaf of papers in her hand, glasses perched on the end of a cute button nose. Cute is a good word for her. Short brown hair that doesn’t quite reach her shoulders bobbing as she nods to whatever she’s reading, a light brown complexion utterly unblemished, and what looks to be a tight little runner’s body hidden away under a light sweater. It’s a nice change from the buxom beauties you’ve been favoring of late. God, but she’s pretty. It’s hard to think about being rude to a woman like this.

You give a soft knock at the door and push it open enough to put a foot in. “Excuse me? I hope I’m not interrupting. I’m new here, and I wondered if–”

“I’m in the middle of something,” she says, barely glancing up from her reading. “If you have sales questions just call the main line. If I’m the one needed to answer your questions, they’ll put you through to me.” Her tone leaves little doubt that this is neither the anticipated nor the desired result.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. See, Lorrie, I’m the new Associate Director of–”

“It’s Lorelei, and the number’s on the site, or you can just turn around, go left, turn left at the intersection, and talk to our receptionist David. He’ll direct you.”

“Right, see, but I–”

“And would you mind closing the door behind you? Thanks.” Her chair swivels forty-five degrees away, not enough to fully turn her back to you but enough to clearly convey she’s done talking to you. Not that it was much of a talk.

Be rude! you remind yourself. This is a good start! Already shows there are women here who find you completely uninteresting.

“Actually, I’m here to talk to you specifically,” you press, taking a few steps into the office.

Seeing you aren’t yet put off, she sighs and sets down her papers. “Great. Tell me what you need, Associate Director of, and let’s get on with it. I have a sales call in…” She glances at her watch. “Seven minutes, and I need six to finish reviewing my pitch notes. That leaves you one.”

“Do you enjoy sales?” you ask placidly. “Lorelei.” You make a production out of pronouncing the full name, as if she ought to be honored with the effort you’re showing not to use a diminutive.

She cocks her head like she’s worried you might have a concussion. “Excuse me? Did you come to my office to ask me if I like my job?”

“No, I mean, I only wondered. You seem so fixed on doing a good job and all, so I guess I wondered if you find this sort of thing rewarding.”

“I get paid on commission, so if by ‘rewarding’ you mean ‘necessary to survive,’ then sure. It knocks my socks right off.”

“Ha. I’ll bet it does. You know, you’re a very pretty girl,” you say, not even attempting a segue. It’s hard not to cringe. “It must be challenging sometimes, to be such a pretty, pretty girl and do something as tough as working sales.”

Ugh. There’s your gold medal in the sexist Olympics. More hamfisted than you’d initially intended, but it’s hard to script these things precisely. From the look on her face, it’s working. “Yeah, real challenging. You wouldn’t believe some of the chauvinist, meathead, jerkwad, never-gonna-happen-in-ten-million-years things men say to me sometimes.” Lorelei folds her arms across her chest.

“Yeah! I’ll bet. You know, you remind me of my sister, a little bit.” UGH. “Do you work out? I’ll bet you do. Say, speaking of, what size shoe do you wear?” UGH!

She glares contemptuously, though there’s a little bit of her that’s more creeped out than angered. “That’s really something you want to say to me?”

“Oh, right, forgot you have that call. My bad. So let me get to the point. Thing is, I’m looking to do some new promo stuff for my department’s space on the company site, and I’m looking for a pretty face to use for some photos. Now it doesn’t pay, and officially I’m supposed to do it all with my own people but I know how relaxed the pace is down here – gotta say, really envious not to have a big work load! must be relaxing, no wonder you get to the gym so much – so I thought maybe, you know…”

“No, I will not model for you. Now I think you need to leave.”

“Sure, sure. Do you know anybody else around here who might be interested? Ideally someone with your looks – or better, even, if you know someone.”

“Leave,” she repeats, pointing to the door. “Now.”

“Wow, that time of the month, I guess,” you grumble, retreating. “Oh, hey, speaking of fertility, I don’t suppose you’d want to go out sometime? I am seeing someone, but I like to keep my options open, you know.”

Lorelei’s jaw drops. “If you’re still standing there when I finish dialing, I’ll have security escort you from the premises, I don’t care what you associate direct! Get. Out!”

“Fine, fine, bite my head off, why don’t you. You know, you’ll never land a man like me with an attitude like that.”

“Get out!”

You leave. It’s an interesting mix of quiet disappointment, strange relief, and crushing shame as you walk away from the sales department. Poor Lorelei. Maybe you can have Jenna get the woman some flowers or something. Anonymously. Wait, you did tell her your name, right? Of course you did. Right when you walked in, you introduced yourself. You’re 80% sure. Right? Oh, crap. You’re right in the middle of contemplating turning around to make sure she caught your name when you collide full-on with something person-sized, falling right over in your reaction to try to avoid it. Unsuccessfully, as they hit the ground beside you.

“Watch where you’re going!” a woman’s voice snaps from the floor behind you. You wince at the pain in your shoulder from how you landed, working on picking yourself up.

“I’m so sorry,” you mutter after a groan. “I wasn’t looking. Here, let me help you up.”

“I’m already up.” The voice is indeed coming from above now. With a little effort, you join it on your feet, still rubbing that shoulder. That’ll be a bruise for sure. “Are you hurt?” she asks with a little more sensitivity.

You finally look up from inspecting your skinned knee to see yet another of Monarch’s finest. Of course. Why piss one off when you piss off two? “I’m fine, I’m fine. Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

“I could tell,” she replies dryly. “Watch where you’re going, yeah? You got lucky this time, but you could really hurt someone blindly storming around like that.”

“I will. You’re sure you’re OK…?”

She mistakes your simple question, distracted by your pain as it is. “Summer. And you’re…?” Her disinterest is plain, but courtesy wins out given what a baby you’re acting like.

“Who, me? Right. Will. Will Saxon. Look, I’m… it won’t happen again. Sorry again. I’ll get out of your hair.”

Except as you turn to go, she’s somehow in front of you again. “Will Saxon… the new head of IT stuff?” she asks. The apathy and irritation in her voice are suddenly gone.

“Yep, that’s me. Err, sort of. Associate Director of IT Security. Kind of a mouthful, really, but it somehow fits on the business cards.” With nothing more to say and no reason to **** the introduction, you venture an awkward smile and try to maneuver around her in the narrow corridor.

“Sounds important. Is it?” she asks. Her voice is right behind you, keeping pace.

“Well, they didn’t have one before they hired me, so apparently Mr. King’s recently come to think so,” you reply dryly, trying to remember which way to turn for the elevator. Nothing like tumbling to the floor to lose your orientation.

“You know Mr. King? Like, personally?”

You consider. “Sort of, I suppose. We don’t exactly hang out or anything.”

“Wow, still. You know, I feel bad I was so short with you. It was my fault as much as it was yours. More, really. You’re absolutely sure you’re OK? It looked like your shoulder was really bothering you.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine. I just had a bad meeting and I was pitying myself a bit. Doubt it’ll bruise, and if it does, it’ll wash off in the shower, I’m sure. No big deal.” Ah, there’s the elevators.

“You’re sure? I could get you an ice pack. Or should I take a look at it, maybe?”

You turn, arching an eyebrow. “Are you a nurse, too?”

“No,” the woman responds with a pretty blush. “I just… I feel bad for how I reacted. Isn’t there any way I could make it up to you?”

“It’s really fine. I promise.” The elevator arrives only moments after you hit the button, sparing you both more awkward apologies. “Nice meeting you, Summer.”

“Nice meeting you, Will!” she says in a rush as the elevator door closes.

A while later, still rubbing that sore shoulder in your quiet, lonely office, it finally dawns on you. Not a minute later, your phone is in hand and you’re dialing a number from the directory.

“Customer service, this is Summer, how can I help you?” comes a professional, if somewhat bored, voice.

“Hi, Summer. This is Will. We, ah, bumped into each other earlier?”

“Will!” she exclaims a bit too energetically. “Hi there. Are you OK? Is something wrong? Can I help?”

“I…” You hesitate, flashing back to that horrid way you treated Lorelei. No. You have to follow through. “Could you stop by my office in a–”

Before you can get out little bit, she answers. “Of course. I’m on my way!” The line goes dead.

You’re looking at dictionary.com’s defintion of “commodity” when there’s a rap at your cracked-open door. “Mr. Saxon?”

It’s Summer. Still hot on the heels of your defeat/success with Lorelei, you only barely noticed her. Now that she’s standing in her doorway – and now stepping inside – and now closing the door behind her – you take stock. She’s a stunner, all right. Lily white skin, hair so bright red it can’t be her natural color, except that her eyes are so pale that you can’t tell if they’re touched with blue or green, leaving a whole impression of a face that was created to satisfy a need for beauty rather than left to the whimsicalities of natural design. Her pale pink lips look natural enough, though.

Then there’s the body. A blouse paler still than her lips sits comfortably over a true hourglass figure. Comfortably, that is, save for across two big, buoyant breasts, straining at the central button as if trying to punish it for hiding them away. From the neck, it’s the first one actually buttoned, which you’re sure was not the case earlier. Distracted or no, no man could fail to notice cleavage so superb. The blouse is untucked over a dark red skirt that, like her top, is stretched taut around her hips, but once past that gauntlet hangs loosely to the knees of two legs clad in black patterned stockings. She finishes it off with a pair of plain white tennis shoes that don’t really go with the ensemble, but somehow are all the cuter for it.

“Took you long enough.” Wow, those words were not easy to get out.

“I’m sorry. I ran as fast as I could. The elevator was slow.” Her chin lowers.

“They don’t have stairs to customer service?”

“What? No, I… Sorry. You’re right. I should have… sorry. You’re right. It won’t happen again. Mr. Saxon.” The utterance of your name brings a faint smile to every pair of lips in the room.

“I should hope not. First you knock me down, then you waste my time.” This can’t possibly be working.

“Sorry, Mr. Saxon. Um, so I don’t waste more of it, can I ask… what is it you summoned me for?”

Summoned. You’ve called for meetings before, **** a few, but you’ve never summoned anyone. The trouble is, the answer to her question rather gives up the goat. The goal, ultimately, is to test whether there’s anything to this commodity business, if the star power of your name is enough to seal the deal. You can’t just tell this girl – Summer, was it? – that you invited her up to try to fuck her to win a bet with yourself.

_Ease into it. _You address your slow response right at her chest. “Do you have a boyfriend, Summer?”

Her eyes widen at your directness – a good thing you didn’t start at the ultimate question. “Boyfriend? Um, sort of. I mean, not really. Nobody special. I used to be seeing someone, but it’s not a big deal. I was thinking of ending it.”

“Yeah? So why don’t you?”

“Um, why do you ask? I mean, are you… That is, do you think, you, um…”

“Call your quasi-pseudo-sorta-ex-boyfriend-ish, and break up with him. Tell him you found somebody way better.”

Brace yourself. Here comes the slap. Only instead, a pleased grin washes over her face. Somehow, this over-the-top douchebaggy braggadocio is actually winning her over. What in the hell is going on.

“OK…”

Summer seats herself on the edge of Jenna’s desk, retrieving her phone from a hip pocket and dialing up a number. All the while, she’s smiling broadly at you. “Hello?” someone answers. In the quiet of your office, you can make out a dull male voice.

“Hey, Brandon. It’s Summer.”

“Oh hey. I’m in the middle of something right now. Can we touch base later, usual time?”

“No, this won’t wait. I’m in the office of Will Saxon right now. Uh, huh. Yeah, _the _Will Saxon. Associate Director of IT Security?” She reads the name off of some stationery on Jenna’s desk, dragging her fingernail across it possessively.

“Yeah? Something going on?”

“Yeah. There is. I mean, I hope there is.” She looks up at you bashfully, and when she catches you trying to peer at the narrow triangle between her thighs, she only smiles. “Anyway, I think we’re done, you and I.”

“Is that so,” comes a bemused response.

“Bye, Brandon.” She hangs up her phone without further ado. “Guess I’m single.”

Here it goes. All in. “Single, huh? You looking to get back in the ring any time soon?”

“Maaaaybe,” she purrs, folding her hands between her knees. “If the right guy came along and asked nicely.”

You stand up. “Nicely, huh? You know what they say about nice guys.”

“I could be persuaded by a guy who was a little… pushy.”

You approach her slowly. “You could, could you?”

“I think I could. Of course, someone would have to push me to be sure.”

You’re in front of her now, openly leering at her line of cleavage. Her biceps press them together, clearly deliberately, lengthening it. “Well then…”

She looks up at you, and you have no doubt in the world she’s poised for a kiss. “Well then…?”

“Thanks for stopping by, Summer.” You place a hand on her back and gesture toward your office door. “I have a lot to do this afternoon, so if you’ll excuse me.”

“What?!” she squeaks as you guide her to her feet. She stumbles slightly as you maintain the offensive, guiding her to the door. “Wait, but… I thought you…”

“Thought I what?” You rest your hand on the knob and stand, ready to sweep her out.

“I thought you… you know. Liked me.” She sniffles, eyes downcast.

“Liked you? Why, because you knocked me down, sneered at me, and wasted my time?”

“But I… But Brandon…”

“B-b-b-buh-bye. Just because you have a halfway decent body doesn’t mean you get a free pass on rudeness. There’s the door.”

“Really? You don’t want to…”

“Nope. Not my type.” You open the door.

“But… how do you know? Maybe I am!” she protests. “What, um… what’s your type?”

“Respectful, for one.”

“I can be respectful! Um, sir! I can be _so _respectful.”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Give a girl a chance, Mr. Saxon! I’ll respect you _so _good.”

“Feels like you’re only telling me what I want to hear. I mean, what if I told you I was just into… I dunno…” Say it. Say it. It’s working. God only knows how, but it’s working. “Cheap little sluts who live to please their big strong man?”

Blatantly sarcastic or no, Summer’s eyes narrow, and in an instant you know you’ve gone too far. “Cheap little sluts,” she repeats. “Who please their big strong man. That’s what you’re into.”

You grimace. It’s one thing to test a theory, offend someone a little, but another to **** them altogether. “Look, I was only… I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Cheap little sluts.”

“I know. Really, I didn’t–”

“Please let me stay.” Her voice is small, so soft you almost didn’t hear it. From the way Phil rubbernecks on his way down the hallway, you know you’re not the only one who managed to catch it. He goggles at you, then gives Summer a hard look, then goggles wider. “Let me stay, and I’ll be whatever you want me to be, Mr. Saxon.”

“Seriously?” you press, incredulous. This has to be a trick. Does she have a knife or something?

Summer steps closer, her breasts brushing your chest. “Any. Little. Thing. You. Want. Just give me a shot, sir.”

“What do you think, Phil? Should I give her a shot?”

Phil grins, though impressively he looks more amused than envious. Must have one hell of a wife at home. “I’m a sucker for a little pleading. Why not.” He shakes his head and goes on his way. Oh, Monarch.

Summer, meanwhile, is blushing almost as red as her hair at having been observed debasing herself. You smooth her hair back. “Well, if Phil says so… I suppose.”

She brightens, though doesn’t quite make eye contact, like she’s worried you’ll see the desperation there and change your mind. As if it isn’t the desperation that’s tenting out your cargo shorts like the prow of a pirate ship.

Summer clasps her hands together. “Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you! I promise you won’t regret it. Brandon always told me I was very, very good.”

You usher her back into the office, your hand right on her soft round ass. She takes it entirely in stride. “Oh yeah? Let’s find out.”

---

Decision time! Voting is happening at my patreon for $10+ patrons.

“Summer” modeled by Elizabeth Renard.

• Summer has been a trooper. Lighten up, let her salvage some self-respect. Fuck her like the goddess she is.
• Summer is obviously kind of a skank. Have your fun and send her on her way. Fuck her like a casual fling.
• Summer is a whole new level of depraved. Double down and fuck her like you’re doing her a favor.