An up-and-coming computer engineer suffers through painful ordeal when he is invited to a weekend retreat for the executives of his IT company in this new series by steve mchalperin with art by Alpharithm9!

Executive Retreat - Chapters 1 & 2
by steve mchalperin
Art by Alpharithm9
Series: Executive Retreat

Chapter 1: Strictly Business

I’m writing this from my bed at a special clinic in downtown Houston. The company I work for is picking up the whole tab for my treatment, including some psych counseling. It was their fault I wound up here anyway. This was after the second company retreat. Let me tell you about the first one first.

I work for IT-TICKET, a computer service company specializing in business-to-business systems. We analyze an operation’s structure and work-flow, and recommend vendors for hardware choices. We then supply the software to make it all work together. We’ve been successful in the metropolitan Houston area since many companies’ internal IT departments were often not up to the task. The three nerds who started the company five years ago have since retired to beachfronts in the Caymans, or so I’ve heard, where the long arm of the IRS can’t reach them.

I’ve been with IT-TICKET for a year now, after graduating (a bit late) from Texas A&M with a major in computer engineering. My specialty and the topic of my senior paper was connectivity and security between headquarters and remote offices, a timely topic for sure. It caught the attention of a recruiter and I sailed into a very good job at a very good salary.

Forgot to tell you, I’m twenty-four and my name’s Richard Svenson. Call me Dick, please. Only my folks called me Richard. They were a Norwegian couple, quiet, of course, and very strict in their raising of my brother and me. Many a time either or both of us wound up over my father’s knee, pants down for a severe, bare-assed spanking with a hairbrush. And that was for minor misbehavior. If we were really bad, like getting a B in school when we were required to get all As, we had to strip down and stretch out on a bed for a heavy taste of his belt. When we reached puberty, we both started to get boners during these punishment sessions; there was some kind of connection between the belting and a hardon. I guess that sort of set the course for our lives, certainly mine.

My folks died in a car accident during my freshman year in college. My brother was still in high school. I stayed in Houston for school, my brother moved in with a doddering old aunt and uncle over in El Paso, clear on the other side of the state. I lost track of him sometime during my time at A&M.

As the virus situation seemed to be getting steadily worse back in February, my company decided to have an all-hands-on-deck business retreat to beef up our own plans for working in the coming health uncertainty, or, at least that’s what I thought it was going to be. It turned into an all-hands-on–Dick affair. I was one of the featured attractions.

The memo announcing the retreat was brief but strange. First of all, it was a paper document laid on my desk, not an email. I’m, like, OMG, paper! Who has Covid? Secondly, it went to some executives and staffers, including me, but not all, maybe twenty or so in total, hardly a company-wide distribution. It also included some board members, but, again, not all of them. And two guys in the mailroom? I wasn’t exactly sure why I was on the invite list and why a lot of my co-workers were excluded. Event was to be three-day all-expense-paid meeting at a small convention center way outside the city, halfway to San Antonio. Oh well, three-day holiday, not a bad break. Free drinks and food, also not bad.

I rode out to the encampment on my motorcycle wearing my riding leathers even though the day was a tad warm. Breezing along the interstate at 80 miles an hour can get a bit chilly without leathers. I had a custom made set of jacket and pants. Hell, I could afford almost anything I wanted with my income! They fit me snug, which I liked ‘cause it showed off my well-honed body.

I’m in good shape from a lot of gym work in high school and college. I ran track and wrestled a bit. I enjoyed pushing myself in the gym weight lifting, so I packed on muscle nicely. Came in handy for wrestling, although all I did was intramural. I was too busy with my tech courses to go varsity, but I did workout with the wrestling team on occasion. Got the crap wiped out of me, of course, but it was good practice and the guys were all too eager to try out new moves on me, like a wrestling guinea pig, on and off the mats. They were rough on me in the showers.

The invite memo instructed us to bring minimal clothing. Laundry services would be provided by the center. I had my leathers, a pair of tight jeans, a dress white shirt, two Ts and two jock straps. I shouldn’t have bothered to bring anything.


Chapter 2: Meet ‘N’ Greet

The invitation specified arrival at 3 PM so I left right after noon. This would give me three hours for a two plus hour ride. It was a great day to be on a motorcycle: clear, blue sky; no traffic on the interstate; mild temp (for Texas), perfect for riding in leathers.

The directions were easy for the most part. West on IH-10 to an exit halfway between Weimar and Schulenberg, then backtrack a few miles on Route 90 to pick up FM 1383. The FM road numbering is unique to Texas. It stands for Farm to Market and is a numbering system for the vast array of rural roads winding through farming and cattle country, connecting thousands of small towns. Well, 1383 led north to Dubina, a town so small you couldn’t even call it a “one traffic light town,” because there was only a stop sign in the middle of its three-block length. My destination was ten miles outside Dubina, a small complex of buildings with a sign “Dubna Meeting Center.” Probably used to be the Dubina Meeting Center, but the name change made sense when Bush II was in the White House.

I parked my Harley in the lot next to a herd of fancy limousines, which the execs probably came in. As I was getting my small back pack off the bike, another limo pulled up and stopped near me. The tinted back window went down and a voice called out: “Hey, Dickie boy! Glad you could make it!”

I recognized the face and returned the greeting: “Hey, Mr. Snowden. Good to see you, sir!”

“We’re all looking forward to the meeting,” he replied.

“Yes, sir, so am I!”

“I didn’t know you rode a motorcycle,” he then said. “Nice riding outfit, boy!” he added, eyeing my leathers.

“Thank you, sir,” I replied politely. “See you inside, sir.”

“You bet!” he smiled and raised the window. The limo moved off to a reserved parking spot on the other side of the lot.

I locked my bike, which was kind of dumb considering we were in the middle of nowhere and walked over to the main entrance. As soon as I opened the door, I could hear the buzz of male voices mixed with loud laughs. Sounded like a friendly start. The buzz dropped when the men saw me come through the door. Several called out their welcomes: “Dickie, boy! Glad you could make it!” “Whoa, look at the leatherboy!” stuff like that. I hated to be called “Dickie boy.”

I guess my face must have flushed at all the attention. Then I noticed that most of the executives were wearing black jeans and black Ts. A few were actually bare-chested, which struck me as odd. A handsome, young porter dressed in very tight white pants but no shirt walked up to me with a tray of glasses, long skinny ones.

“Have some champagne,” one of the execs said. “And welcome to Dubna!” he added.

The porter handed me one of the glasses and I took a drink. I noticed there was a red mark on the base of the glass, like a Magic Marker. Encouraged by more shouts I finished off the bubbly drink. The champagne tasted OK, I guess. I’m no judge of wines, and I would have preferred a shot and a beer.

It was warmish in the entrance hall. I handed the empty glass back to the young man and then took off my leather jacket. I had a tight T on and I was again surprised as some wolf whistles rang out from the crowd. Another porter came up and took my jacket and duffel bag. He was also in tight pants, no shirt. Odd.

“I’ll take care of these, sir,” he said politely.

As this was happening the group of men slowly formed a loose circle around me. The porter handed me another glass of champagne. Someone said: “Drink up, boy.” Then he addressed the group: “Let’s toast to a really good retreat this week!”

There were cheers of agreement and everyone took a tipple from their glasses. I gulped mine down fairly quickly, not knowing how in the fuck to drink champagne. It was then that my face started to flush and I suddenly felt, like, very warm.

Someone came up behind me and started to lift up my T. “Hey, you look hot, boy,” the voice said. “Probably the bubbly. Take your shirt off and join the group.” Someone else took my empty glass and gave it to the porter as unseen hands raised my shirt over my head. It happened so quickly I didn’t have time to react, not that I was reacting fast at this point anyway. It disappeared somewhere and I was left standing there in my tight leather riding pants, low on my hips, and high boots. There were more wolf whistles from the group. I started to feel slightly dizzy, which I attributed to the champagne. I was handed yet another glass, which I downed in one gulp. The last thing I remember was seeing another red mark on the base of the glass. My eyes defocused and I suddenly felt very weak, not even strong enough to stand up. I could feel hands rescuing me from slumping to the floor but that’s all I remember. The red dot on the glass turned to blackness as I passed out. Oldest trick in the snatch book: drug the vic. Make him drink the glass with the red dot.


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