September Exclusive - "The Boss" - Part 1 of 4

Theme: pride before a fall

He was in charge, and his wife had to follow his rules. After all, he was the breadwinner and considered himself the man of the house...That was until his wife came home with a bigger loaf! - Waynee

ONE

Here’s something I’ve learned since my wedding; an equal marriage doesn’t mean every single thing is 50/50. Is Crystal supposed to go out and make the same amount as me? How’s that going to work? The red-shirts at Target don’t earn seven-figure salaries, trust me. There’s really no point in my wife working, and I told her as much before we got married. 

At the same time, I make all the money, and so I naturally take charge of how we spend it. Thing is, I’m no Grinch. No expense spared when it came to decorating the new house, and the grocery budget lets my wife be creative in the kitchen. And Crystal can hardly complain about her allowance. I let her have whatever she wants, within reason. As long as it’s not a complete waste. I just need to know in advance – I mean, if I just let her go crazy with the credit cards, we’d be living in an Amazon Prime box!

Just kidding. Probably. It’s been nine months, we’re still newlyweds. But Crystal has her designer clothes, fancy make-up. She’s got a personal trainer, those spa treatments, her holistic medicine hocus pocus. I say ‘yes’ to all that stuff because it’s like a business investment, you know? 

My hot wife. My blond bombshell, with those piercing blue eyes and knockout tits. 

Hey, I wouldn’t use that kind of language myself. It’s the others I’m speaking for, my clients, my competition. I know what they’re saying in their head, and I know what they’re asking; How did a short, chubby guy like Matthew win a prize like Crystal? 

How? Because I’m a brilliant businessman. Because I use my manners. And because I’m loaded. With all that, I get to be the boss. I’m in charge at work and at home. 

“Mr. Carter?” 

My secretary (who is definitely not hot, who is dumpy and middle-aged, because I like beautiful women but I’m not an idiot) calls through on the intercom. “Your wife is on the line.”

“Tell her I’m in a meeting.” I look around my empty corner office and I’m okay with the lie. I don’t like to be available all the time; people take you for granted. Besides, I know Crystal; this isn’t an emergency. 

“Mrs. Carter is wondering how you liked your muffin.”

See?

“Donna, tell her, I liked it just fine.” I turn off the intercom with a click. 

The muffin was good. Before we got married, Crystal used to let me eat whatever I wanted, but in the last few months, she’s been on a ‘home-cooking’ kick. Because sure, I could lose some weight. 

“I want us to grow old together”, Crystal says, when I suggest stopping for fast food, when I ask where the Doritos are during Monday Night Football. “I picture us sitting in our rockers, on the porch after supper, I picture us getting ancient and healthy and happy.”

So okay, less chips, fewer cheeseburgers. I’m thirty years old and a multi-millionaire with a hot wife and mega house in the best neighborhood. I can afford to make the occasional compromise. 

The only problem I have right now, this very second, is a cramping in my gut. I glance accusingly at the paper napkin with muffin crumbs. My wife is an excellent cook – and I’ve said to her, You trying to slim me down or fatten me up? – but that’s the only thing I’ve eaten this morning…and then I remember, I cheated, stopped at McDonald’s for an egg and sausage biscuit. Goddamn fast food, I’ve got to stop that. I take those gummy vitamin supplements that Crystal bought, but I seriously doubt it makes up for all that fat and sugar. 

My stomach churns; there’s even a watery sound from my belly. I imagine telling Donna to cancel my ten o’ clock with Sales. 

Ow. I need to run to the bathroom. Of course, I have to get past Donna to get there, and will she have a picture of her sticky-fingered, red-faced grandkids to show me? No doubt; she is devoted to them. She keeps a jar with suckers in them in case one of our clients wants to take one for their kids. I don’t think Donna truly understands our customer’s priorities. 

The very best news I ever got, the decision-settler before I proposed, was when Crystal told me she didn’t want kids. Said she was happy just looking after me. And she does. In the kitchen, in the bedroom. God, she has the most amazing tits and ass! Her breasts especially; I could just bury my face in them and the world disappears for a few sweet moments. And if you think that sounds wimpy, then try running a multi-million dollar business for a few years; you’ll appreciate some creature comforts, trust me. 

I stand up and then I cry out. I sit down again, knees clenched together. I’m sweating, and I know for a fact that I’m not going to make it to the bathroom. A hot roiling pain goes through me and I know the only relief I’m going to get is when I move my bowels. 

But no one can know about it. This is not boss behavior. My board of directors are always sniffing around for weakness. 

Although, something…a piece of something…like a memory from a mostly-forgotten dream…pops into my head. Everybody has accidents. 

Yeah. True enough. Everybody does have accidents. I’m sure about that. But I’m also sure that the boss shitting his pants won’t send share prices through the roof.

“Mr. Carter?” Donna’s voice comes through the intercom. Did she hear my cry?

Nope. Not exactly. I think about how much money I have, and how I still can’t solve this immediate problem. 

“Hang on,” I reply, and I know my voice is off, tight and hoarse. 

“Everything all right, Mr. Carter?”

God dammit. 

“I just need…” I exhale heavily. “Donna, I’m fine, I just-“

It comes like a flood; it doesn’t matter how hard I clench. In two seconds, I’m sitting in a hot mess. 

On one level, I can feel the physical relief. The cramping has gone. This must be how a baby feels, when he craps in his diaper. Job done. High-five!

But when I sniff the air, I flinch. Anyone enters my office now, there will be no doubt in their mind. And how the hell do I get to the restroom now? It’s mine and mine alone, but I still have to get past Donna. I look down, push away from my desk, and my suit pants aren’t able to conceal what’s happened. 

I wipe at my hot, sweaty face. “Donna?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Could you…could you step out for five minutes?”

She doesn’t reply immediately. Because it’s a weird request, because I sound desperate. 

Finally: “Step out?”

I clear my throat. “Yeah, I need, um…could you go to Starbucks for me?”

“Mr. Carter, I can make you coffee. We just got the Keurig. The K575 you asked for, remember?” She sounds indulgent, like she’s trying not to embarrass me for saying just the dumbest thing. God, is this how she talks to her grandkids? 

I grit my teeth. “I don’t want the Keurig just like I don’t want one of your goddamn suckers. I’m the boss and I want…Starbucks. I want…the goddamn…Pumpkin Cream cold brew.” It’s the tone I use for my sales guys (they’re all men; I’m not sexist, just the way it’s turned out) when they’re behind the target and I want to fire them up. 

“Of course, Mr. Carter. I’ll just be five minutes.”

“Take your time,” I say, softly this time. I know I’ve hurt her feelings. Hey, I’m no dummy; you should treat your secretary like solid gold. I’ll have to make it up to her; maybe a gift, or even better, I’ll listen to one of her stupid stories about her grandkids. I get to my feet, and I almost cry out as the awful, stinking mess escapes my underwear and falls down my pants legs. 

I shuffle over to the windows of my corner office and then close the blinds. I make my way to the door, and there is diarrhea leaking onto my shoes. I am literally standing in a puddle of my own shit. 

I sigh, touch the door handle. 

“Mr. Carter?”

Jesus. I draw my hand back as if the handle were hot. Why is Donna still here? I clench my fists. “Look, Donna, I’m sorry I cursed.”

“I know, it’s not that.” It’s not. She doesn’t sound upset, just surprised. Positively pleased. “It’s your wife.”

“What is?”

“Mrs. Carter’s here, sir. She just arrived.”