Cuck adventures with my bully boss

Introduction

Rajesh never named the arrangement. He enforced it. The corrections that began with unfinished reports simply continued once he decided my usefulness lay in noticing girls and bringing them as far as he wanted them. When the noticing was slow he said so in the same flat tone he used for missing data. When an introduction carried one extra sentence he had not approved, he made me repeat the evening’s instructions back to him, word for word, while he watched the time. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The silence afterward, and the days without messages that followed any imperfect call, were enough to tighten the habit.

I called him whenever I saw a girl. Inside the building or outside it made no difference to him. A contractor lingering at the printers, my cousin’s sister keeping her phone in both hands while she read, a colleague’s mother asking about train times after family day, my sister’s friend who needed somewhere to leave a bag, the girlfriend who arrived with one of them and treated new people as temporary. I stepped aside, gave him the details he required—what she did with her hands, whether she looked at anyone when she answered, how long she stayed still—and waited. If the details were incomplete he told me to look again and call back. If I had already spoken to her without instructions he asked what exact words I had used, then made me stand in the corridor and practice the corrected version until he was satisfied. Only then did he give the sentence I was allowed to deliver.

He made the introductions my task even when the girl already knew my family. “You saw her. You bring her.” With my cousin’s sister the excuse was a designer who had supposedly asked after student work. With her girlfriend it was thinner. With the mother who stayed late it was a question about parking that could have been asked by anyone. He did not soften the order because the connection was personal. If I hesitated he simply ended the call. The next time I saw him he reviewed an ordinary report for twenty minutes without once looking at the content, then said, “Next girl you notice, you call before you decide you are allowed to wait.” I called.

Cruelty sat inside the precision. He liked the moments when a girl asked why I was still nearby and he answered for me: “He stays until I tell him he can leave.” He liked sending me to the stairwell and then waiting an extra ten minutes before the message arrived, so that I stood listening to the low sounds through the door without knowing whether I would be told to come up or to go home. Once, after an introduction he judged too slow, he had me remain in the open-plan area with the lights on while he finished in the conference room; when he emerged he did not speak. He only set my corrected notes on the desk in front of me and left. Another time he made me describe, the following morning, exactly how long the girl had kept her bag on her lap before she set it down. When my answer was approximate he had me write the timeline from memory and read it aloud. He listened with his hands folded, then said the next introduction would be timed.

None of it required him to touch me. The pressure stayed in the requirement that every call be immediate, every sentence exact, every refusal or hesitation on my part answered by a narrower instruction the next day. The girls—office, cousin, sister, girlfriend, their friends, the occasional mother—passed through the same sequence. I noticed. I called. He decided whether the evening happened and how much of it I was permitted to see. I introduced her with the approved words and then stood or waited where the message placed me. If the introduction had been clean he sometimes paused, the next morning, long enough for me to understand the pause was acknowledgment. If it had not, the acknowledgment was the absence of any further message until I had corrected the fault he named.

The following are the adventures.