by Jamie Knight
It was a time of the morning when most sane people were still in bed. Or so I’d been led to believe. I didn’t mind not being sane if it meant I got to work on time. Turned out I had company on the crazy train.
Despite the remarkable lack of movement, my motor was on, lest I miss the opportunity to move up another blessed foot. I dipped into the collection of CDs in my glovebox, which held as many pieces from my extensive collections as I felt safe carrying in the car.
I still couldn’t believe I was going to work for the guy who had started a revolution in music. I knew everything about my new boss, Seth Black, because he was my ages-old crush.
I had looked up anything I hadn’t known about him before applying for the internship, but I had already known a lot because I had devoured any news of him, anything he wrote or said, just plain everything I could get my hands on.
My music obsession had taken hold when I was 12 years old and had persisted up until the current day. I knew that Seth Black was as much of a purist as I was when it came to audio purity, and the majority of my collection was actually on vinyl. I just didn’t have space for the originals in my car, let alone my turntable.
Plus, he was fucking hot.
I knew I shouldn’t think of my new boss that way, but I couldn’t help it.
And yet here I was stuck in traffic on the first day I had the opportunity to work with him. I was impatient but told myself to calm down.
The player in my car made its familiar sound, the second of silence broken by time slowing crush of the backbeat as I cranked it up. A sound that made you stop and take notice, no matter where you were or what you were doing.
I got more than a few dirty looks from my fellow prisoners of consequence. They were more expressions of confusion that outright antagonism, which was more than I could say for the folk back home. They were tolerant of everything except difference.
I was barely through the first track on the album, jutting up out of the vinyl seat and practically vibrating with excitement and nerves, when finally, mercifully, the line of vehicles actually moved.
There were five entire minutes of time to elapse before I could officially be considered late.
I was, therefore, officially early.
Glass half full and all that.
But still I worried that I hadn’t gotten to the office before my new boss had arrived, which I felt to be some kind of cardinal sin. I was determined to come earlier and stay later than he did.
“Am I late?” I asked no one in particular, as soon as I walked into the office.
“Not yet, on the upside he is, so you’ve got time,” said the receptionist.
Clad in a black, Georgian-style dress, with spidery hair and just enough grease paint to look cool without over doing it, she wore her weirdness like a badge.
“Time for what?” I asked, innocent as a little lamb.
“To get to Seth’s office and wait for him, of course. You and Seth will be working very closely together. He likes to teach by doing… says it makes the information stick better.”
I certainly couldn’t argue with that. Doing things was always the best way I learned. We hadn’t even met yet and Seth Black and I were already agreeing on things.
I’d always felt a sense of connection with him, not least because of our shared musical taste. One that I had yet to have contradicted. We would just have to see what happened when we were in the same room together.
“I’m Holly, by the way,” the receptionist said, rolling out from behind the counter.
Of course she was Holly— the name suited her perfectly. I wouldn’t have been surprised if her surname was something cool like Spektor.
“Holly Jones,” she said, as though reading my mind.
It must have been a question she got a lot, and therefore could predict.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Here we are,” Holly said, stopping in front of a nondescript door.
“Thanks,” I said to her rapidly disappearing back.
The door was unlocked. I’d always been told to knock first, but I already knew Seth wasn’t in and unless I wanted to stand out in the hallway until he got there, I figured I’d better go in and sit down. Unless it was all an elaborate prank and the door that I was standing in front of went to the janitor’s closet or something.
The ‘cool kids’ in high school, known as ‘the cruel kids’ to most of their victims, did something similar to freshmen every year. Lucky for me, when it was my turn, I’d already seen them do it to someone else and wasn’t fooled. I was late for class but wasn’t fooled.
The office was a modern, minimalist space. From what I could see, there were two main sections of activity. A desk on which was set a computer and a landline phone, as well as what looked like a listening station. It had a comfy looking chair next to one of those old-style stereos that somehow managed to pack a turntable and two tape decks into it.
There was also a slightly newer, multi-disc CD player next to it. Though none of the equipment, aside from the computer, looked like it dated after 2000, it looked weird in a way, but I could also respect someone who knew what they liked and what worked for them.
Seth Black was definitely a 90s kid. It seemed like he’d been around for decades, which, I guess technically, he had been. Though he’d also started the earliest incarnation of Suspicious Activity as a teenager, so he could only be in his late 30’s or maybe early 40’s.
The chair creaked its welcome. There was a scent I couldn’t identify but found I quite liked. It smelled like leather mixed with something else. Something natural and masculine. I took a deep breath in, my hormones stoking like a bonfire.
I crossed my legs and squeezed. It was too late to keep my panties from getting wet, but the least I could do was try and keep him from noticing. That really wasn’t the best impression to make. I knew I was only there for an internship, at least to start. It was important that he took me seriously, rather than as a silly kid who became excited at the slightest provocation.
Particularly because I wasn’t.
I was 19 and still a virgin. In fact, it could take a lot to get me turned on. In normal circumstances, anyway. There were still triggers that I had that set me right off. Sitting down in that office had somehow magically hit all the buttons.
I hoped I wouldn’t let it slip, how much I had stalked Seth. That would be a secret I planned to take to my grave- this burning desire to know all about him and be around him, and now here I was, about to do that in person.
In the past, I’d seen lots of pictures, visiting the Suspicious Activity Records website every day. It had a live camera feed that people could watch, to see the inner workings of records being recorded.
And watch it I did. Several times, most days. No matter when I would visit the website, there he would be, like a welcoming friend. Sometimes alone but usually with some employee or another, or a member of one of the bands signed to the label.
You could almost chart the change in him. He’d started out as a producer, but as the label grew, he found himself taking on more responsibility, delegating his former tasks to producers he hired to work under him.
His hair got shorter and his clothes plainer. No longer mistakable for one of the musicians, he had become ‘The One in Charge.’ And I thought that was hot as fuck.
Even with his new levels of responsibility, though, it didn’t seem like he changed all that much in terms of his basic personality. He might have traded his plaids for polo shirts and shaved off his awesome beard, but there was still the same twinkle in his eyes, obscured as they were by thick-framed glasses, and an impish half smile in every image, be it digital or analog. (It was strange to think there could be anyone who crossed over, the digital revolution starting before I was born.)
There had always been the rumors. At least since he got famous. People said he had certain proclivities in the bedroom, which were talked about with whispers and innuendo. It was nothing awful; I’d never heard about him hurting
anyone.
He could just get a bit kinky. That was something that was beginning to intrigue me more and more.
Would he ever want to do those things to me?
I could feel my cheeks burning just at the mere thought of it.
It was wildly inappropriate to think like this. He was my boss after all, but that still didn’t stop me from letting my mind wander there. I rarely did what I was told with regard to my body, never mind inside my own head. As far as I was concerned, that was sacred space no one else had any right to.
It was a sentiment that seemed to be generally shared. Otherwise, Orwell’s invention of ‘thought crime’ wouldn’t have been consistently met with such abject horror.
No, my thoughts were my own, and they were fixed on Seth Black. In an increasingly sexy context. I knew I couldn’t touch myself, but it was a difficult struggle when the daydreams started.
We were in that very office, at least in my head. I had just come in after being called by Seth, or ‘Sir,’ as I called him when addressing him directly.
“Yes, sir?” I asked in my fantasy, stopping in front of his desk as he had instructed me to.
“Come here,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir!” I enthused, going to him, my spine— and other parts of me— already tingling.
As I approached, he rolled back in his chair so I could see his lap. Not to mention his raging hard on.
I stopped short, my eyes fixed on his bulge, hoping he would let me suck his obviously big cock. But my master had something else in mind. He was lightly patting his lap in a way we both understood.
With his help, I lay across his lap, face down, his bulge pressing enticingly against my tummy. I could almost feel the throb through the material of his pants.
“Oh,” I gasped, feeling his hand on my ass, even before he’d pulled up my skirt.
Stroking me through the cloth of my skirt, Seth helped relax me, a sigh of pleasure escaping my lungs as I slumped harder against him.
I could almost feel the goosebumps rising on my exposed skin as my master pushed up my skirt, leaving my ass bared to the open air, save for a rather skimpy pair of silk panties. This condition was short-lived, Seth deftly removing my already wet panties with one hand, stroking my lower back with the other as he did so.
With a deep, cleansing breath I got ready for the first slap, Seth surprising me by gently stroking me. The gentleness of his caress let me know it was a play spank, and not serious discipline.
Taking time to warm me up, he let in with the first strike. A short, hard smack with a flat palm. Repeating it a few more times, he started striking upwards with a slightly cupped hand. Just when I was relaxed, he gave a sharp downward strike with just his fingers, to make sure I was paying attention.
Returning to the gentle scoops, he slipped two fingers from his other hand into my pussy, working me up to a squirming orgasm on his lap.
I really wanted to touch myself now, but I didn’t, and it was a good thing. I snapped back to reality when the door opened, yanking myself back into reality so fast it almost hurt.
Seth had arrived, and I had to pull myself together.
Chapter Two
Seth
The thump was maddening. I opened my eyes, seeing nothing but the brass ceiling tiles. They were sturdy and antique, decorated with an ever-repeating pattern. A Brigid’s Knot, to be exact, which was associated with the Gaelic pagan goddess of healers, poets, smiths and inspiration.
Without looking, I set the needle back to rights, pounding music filling my skull via the stereo headphones. They were the huge, tin-can style type that were making a comeback. Probably because they were significantly more comfortable than earbuds.
By sheer happenstance, I noticed the steady march of time had brought me to the point where I had half an hour before I was late to show up at the office.
The fact that I was the one who actually set the schedules was a great comfort as I rose from the chair. That plan didn’t exactly go down like gangbusters, my stiff and aching legs clearly not listening to a word my brain was shouting.
The needle came up off the vinyl without a sound, the sleeve laying empty on the floor. It was a first pressing of Immortal Territory by Lords of Sacred Shadow. It had been Luna’s favorite. I closed my eyes, silencing the screaming ghosts, and slid the record back into its proper place.
For someone not considered to have a ‘real job’, until I started making six-figures that is, I could be a real stickler for organization. Part of why I’d done so well. I also never really got into the drug scene. Music and sex were my own highs of choice. No less potent, but not as likely to leave you insensible, at least not for long.
Warm water embraced my aching muscles, reducing their piteous cries to a manageable whimper as the droplets ran the gauntlet of scars and tattoos from my neck to my feet. Most were more intentional than others, yet almost all of them were permanent reminders of youthful mistakes.
That was okay, though. They helped to keep me humble.
The closet doors slip open like the entrance to an ancient cathedral, my suits lined up like dutiful sentinels. A neat row of Converse sneakers was lined up under them, like a last nod to my mad formation.
The rest of my outfits trended towards the dress casual. Usually slacks, sometimes subtle jeans, with a polo shirt. They went better with my shorter hair and corrected vision. I only made the admission, even to myself, that I really did need glasses, in my mid-20s. How I managed to live that long going about the world half blind was a sort of miracle.
The engine roared to life like a poked dragon, settling down into a steady rumble. Closing up the garage, I rocketed out onto the empty street, the other members of my quiet suburbia having already gone about the business of their day.
I’d lived downtown for a while, but you only needed to hear a couple shootings outside your window before a suburban ranch seemed like much less of a ‘sellout’ – a term I never really understood even in its most limited form.
My good friend Cam and I had often debated whether music should be made for art, or money, or both.
Wasn’t the idea of recording records to sell them and make money from your art?
How was that a bad thing if you stayed true to your vision?
Parking was easy, since I was later than usual, and most people had already gotten to their day jobs, including those who served coffee to the likes of me. It was a mixed blessing, to be sure. While I lamented their loss of autonomy, the very notion of me trying to use an Espresso machine brought about a sense of existential dread that was roughly on par with the feeling I got when I thought about nuclear proliferation.
“Tall hot chocolate with whipped cream.”
“Going on a detox?” Skyler asked, punching in the order.
She was the barista who was always here, and knew that I was a regular.
“Good guess.”
Not that there wasn’t still caffeine in the hot chocolate, of course. Just a lot less than even the smallest latte. I wasn’t to the point of muscle jitters, but I thought it was a good idea to give my heart a break. I wasn’t as young as I used to be and two and a half decades of copious coffee consumption could be cause for concern.
Following the time-honored tradition, I stepped to one side, and waited to be summoned by the beverage guardians. The chair creaked softly under me as I eased down, even though it was unlikely to be a long wait.
I saw someone I didn’t want to see just then, and wished I could pretend that I hadn’t, but there was no way to avoid it.
I would know her anywhere, even though I hadn’t been told she’d been released. She hadn’t seen me yet and my first instinct was to run. Her name, Clara, was on the tip of my tongue. It was an unutterable hex that could only lead to my immediate doom.
Never had I been more thankful for my change in appearance. I just turned in my chair, so my back was to her, wishing I had given Skyler a fake name to call out when my order was ready.
Seth wasn’t that unusual of a name. Far from a Tad or a Layne. But still nowhere near as common as a Curt, even with the Germanic K, or a Chris.
I got ready to move fast when beckoned to the counter, an event that couldn’t come soon enough as far as I was concerned. And mercifully, I retrieved my beverage without any drama.
My arch nemesis, Clara, hadn’t seen me. She couldn’t try to stalk me or ruin my life, at least not any more right this moment than she already had.
I was so glad to be out of that coffee shop and in my own car. Of all the gambits I’d pulled off in my life, successfully steering a Ducati with a full take-out cup of hot chocolate between my thighs ranked near the top. I made it to the office in record time.
Cup in hand for an accessible way to sip it, I blew past the security in the building, who damn well knew my face by then, and headed for the elevators. Suspicious Activity had started in a garage before moving to a disused factory in an industrial zone. My friend Cam and I had initially wanted to call it Factory Records, but that name was already taken, as were Virgin and Rough Trade.
The name that stuck came from an incident when the cops raided the factory space without cause, or a warrant, for the third time in a row. Apparently, they knew something we didn’t about our business, as they always seemed certain there was something illegal going on.
They were wrong. Some of the musicians we recorded smoked cigarettes, but last time I checked that was still legal.
I started to sometimes regret the name by my mid-30s, because it was a mouthful and it also kind of made us sound like hooligans, but it had already become our brand. Something none of us really expected.
Cam and I had started the label as a way to release our own stuff, following in the independent footsteps of The Beatles’ Apple Records and Frank Zappa’s Barking Pumpkin.
But we caught the attention of the local scene and grew from there, even after our band, Autumn Corrosion, broke up, due to a fatal case of dead drummer. With the change in fortunes came a move of locations.
