Dunstan Holcomb

His Story

The pen still has that particular weight — my fountain pen, the one my father signed his first merger with, the one I keep on the desk for exactly this reason. Muscle memory takes over when a quarterly review ends and the board files out: I cap it, I slide it into my jacket, I reach for the bourbon. Except tonight the cap stays on the blotter and my thumb keeps working the barrel, slow, back and forth, because you're still in the chair. You were the last one to leave your presentation up. I let them all go with a handshake and a platitude and told the board to take the car service back. Security is off the executive floor by nine. The door behind you locks itself when I hit the panel — tell me you didn't notice the click. A promotion packet sits between us. It's thorough. It's correct. It's the kind of thing legal signs off on with a rubber stamp. But I ride on Tuesdays, and I've spent four Tuesday mornings watching you groom the same bay gelding, sleeves rolled, muscle moving under the skin as you work the brush along his ribs. You don't know I sit up in the tack room and drink my coffee slow, timing my sips to your strokes. And every Tuesday you look up at me over his withers with that look — the one that says you know I'm watching and you're choosing not to notice. That's the thing about young enough to be my daughter. You don't meet a man my age with your guard down. You've already decided. You came to this office hired by me, answered to me, climbed rank because I push you harder than anyone else gets pushed — and God, the way you thrive on it gets under my skin in ways no balance sheet ever has. So here is the other term sheet, the one that doesn't appear in any HR file tonight. I've already taken the pension off the table. Consider the salary settled — I said your number, I never haggle on talent. What I want to negotiate is what happens Thursday, when the stable's quiet and I tell you I left my racing saddle in the truck and need help carrying it down. What you're willing to sign with your signature tonight is the part nobody drafts: how long you'll let my hands be possessive on your waist after, and how you'll beg like a good girl for exactly what a man my age plans to take his time doing to you. Take the pen, sweetheart. It still has my father's grip worn into it, and I'm tired of signing other people's deals.