Note: This story inspired my story, Home Swap

Michael shook his head in disgust as he strode past his pool. Despite his repeated requests to the gardener, it was still full of leaves. He glanced around looking for that lazy good-for-nothing man … no where to be seen, as usual. Probably off in the corner of the estate smoking some pot or something he thought to himself. Michael glanced at his watch. He didn’t have time to deal with this now. He had to be in a boardroom meeting at 9:00, and he still had to get across town in peak-hour traffic. He marched angrily to the garage, threw his suitcase on the seat and sped off down the driveway.

That evening when he arrived home, he marched into his study, sat down at his big oak desk and rang the cleaning company that supplied the gardener. “Don’t come in tomorrow,” he said after listing his litany of complaints. He slammed down the phone and took a few deep breaths.

At 37, Michael was a successful businessman, but lonely. While he was still handsome, tall and with a straight back, work was slowly but surely taking its inevitable toll on his features. His smooth skin was developing several deep furrows in his forehead, and his jet black hair was speckled with grey, with a concentration at the temples. He planned to work until he was n 45, then retire. He already had the mansion, the shares, the cars and the clothes. All he needed was a few more years to build up ample savings.

He rang a new cleaning company and asked that they send over a new gardener as soon as possible. He also decided that he wanted special attention for the pool, and asked that they send over a pool boy each day to clean the pool. “And don’t screw it up.” he said. The lady on the phone assured him that a gardener would be there by early next week at the latest and that someone to clean the pool would be there tomorrow afternoon.

—
It was late in the afternoon the following day when Michael arrived home. He had decided he was going to leave the office early and work from his study. Besides, he was tired and had been making simple mistakes all afternoon. He had told himself that perhaps a change of scenery would do him good.

But now that he sat in his large study, he wondered if he had made the right decision. His work rate had not improved, if anything, it was worse. His current report was littered with spelling mistakes, basic math errors and some clunky grammatical constructs. At least at the office he could have gotten a secretary to read over the report … a fresh set of eyes and all.

He looked out his window and was momentarily startled to see a strange man walking about. It was the new pool guy.

Happy to have a break, Michael walked downstairs and out into the open. As he approached the man he saw that he was young, maybe 19, and Hispanic, with dark wavy hair and nice smooth skin. A real looker.

“Hi, I’m Michael,” he said, extending his hand.

“I’m Chale, pleased to met you,” said the young man in a lightly-accented voice, taking the hand and shaking firmly.

“Say, do you want to stop for a drink?” asked Michael, pointing to the kitchen.

“Sure,” said Chale. He gave a strange smile, it was friendly but also knowing and maybe … calculating?

They walked up to the kitchen, where Michael got out two beers. “So, Chale how long have you been doing this?”

“Oh, I started when I was very young, my family couldn’t afford to send me to college, but I’m hoping one day to go and educate myself. But, you know, I need money.”

“That’s a noble cause,” said Michael.

They started to chat and Michael felt really at ease with his new employee. Chale was a friendly lad, likeable and quick-witted.

“Say, Chale, how are your proofreading skills?”

“Uh, I’ve never done it before,” said Chale, a little bit nervously.

“Don’t worry, can you read and write?” Michael asked.

“Yes, of course, what kind of idiot do you think I am?”

“Oh, sorry, no offence intended, I just meant that if you can read and write you can proofread. Look, I have a report I need checked tonight … I’ll pay you overtime.”

At those magical four words, Chale’s eyes lit up.

They went upstairs to the study, and got to work.

—

Michael walked into the kitchen the following morning. As he was pouring himself a coffee, he looked out the bay windows and saw that Chale was already at work, testing the pH level of the pool. He thought about last night and the way Chale had proven his worth catching those errors in the report. Maybe Chale had the abilities to be more than a poolboy, he thought to himself. Michael remembered Charles Collins, the old accountant guru from his college days that had taken him under his wing and given him his first work experience job. Gulping down the last of his coffee, he made his decision.

“Hey Chale, do you want to come to work and see how white collar workers do it?” He asked Chale.

Chale smiled and looked at Michael. “That would be great, Michael. When?”

Michael felt strangely reckless, “Why not today? You did great work on that report and it would be a good experience to show you what happens to it now, the review process it goes through. I could employ you as my assistant on the project.”

Chale put down his pool equipment, and looked down at his loose fitting t-shirt, shorts and sandals. “But … I don’t have anything to wear.”

That threw Michael, he was already used to seeing Chale dressed like a poolboy, he forgot that wouldn’t be appropriate at work. “You can borrow one of my suits,” he said. He looked at Chale, they did seem the same size roughly, even though he seemed to recall that Chale was shorter than him yesterday. Must’ve been my imagination, he thought.

“Ok, Si.” said Chale.

Michael took him back up to the mansion and they spent a few minutes picking out a suit for Chale.
It didn’t take long and when Chale walked out of the ‘robe dressed in a suit, Michael had to admit his poolboy looked a natural.

“Wow, Chale, you look like a real business man.”

Chale gave Michael his strange grin and said “I know, it feels good man. I could get used to this.”
They stood side by side looking in one of the large wall mirrors in his bedroom. Chale, with his dark caramel colored skin and wavy black hair looked confident and stylish in the suit. Michael, on the other hand, was shocked to see that he looked tired and a bit worn out, and his suit looked vaguely ill-fitting. “Man, I look terrible,” said Michael. “And old.”

Chale shrugged, “Maybe you need a holiday. You work long hours … no wonder you are tired.”

“It would explain all the mistakes I made in that report,” said Michael. “Maybe I do need a holiday.”

Right at that moment, the sun glinting off the reflective surface of the pool caught his eye, and he was momentarily lost in the thought of spending some time outside. “Maybe at the end of the year,” he murmured.

“Come on, Michael, we have to get to work.” said Chale, grabbing Michael’s suitcase for him and pulling him towards the door.

“Yeah,” said Michael, shaking himself out of his reverie.

—
That day at work was one of Michael’s toughest in a long time. He kept making elementary mistakes and fluffing important decisions. The only bright spot was Chale. His young protege fitted right into the hustle and bustle of office life. He seemed to pre-empt Michael’s requirements and was on top of all the (admittedly minor) tasks Michael set for him. From running to the photocopier to proof-reading more documents. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Chale, Michael would’ve had a lot worse of a day.

It was late in the afternoon and Michael was feeling incredibly tired and frustrated. Nothing had gone right that day and now a letter he was drafting was a total disaster. He re-read what he had written. It was terrible. While he knew what he wanted to say in his head, he seemed to be having trouble expressing it in English. Whatever he wrote seemed … simple … and riddled with errors.

“Chale,” he said into the intercom. Chale entered the office and stood next to him. “Help me with this, I think my brain is fried,” he said.

Chale nodded and peered over his boss’s shoulder. “Alright, for a start, instead of `me write’, that should be `I am writing’…”. Michael nodded. What kind of an idiot am I? he thought. “And here … you wrote `your casa’ instead of `your house’.”

“Shit, that’s not even the right language! What the fuck is wrong with me today?” Michael said, turning away from the computer in disgust.

“It’s like I said, boss, you’re exhausted. You need some time off. The report is mostly done, maybe you can apply for vacation time now.”

Michael nodded, Chale was making a lot of sense. The staff could do the final draft of the report, and he could take a few days off.

“Alright, let me go talk to Jill.”

Chale nodded. “I’ll fix this letter up for you.”

“Thanks Chale, you’re a real amigo.”

—

Jill had readily agreed to Michael’s request for a week off and even insisted he start immediately. Michael returned to his office, packed his suitcase and with the afternoon sun still shining brightly, he and Chale walked to the carpark.

Chale walked to the driver’s side of the car, and said to Michael, “Come on boss, give me the keys, you’re on holiday as of now.”

Laughing, Michael tossed the keys to his suited companion and climbed in.

“First stop, the supermarket for some beer and snackfood,” said Chale, turning the key.

They loaded up on supplies and were soon back in the car. The only weird thing was that Michael had been asked for ID and Chale hadn’t, and when he looked in the bag he realised he had picked up tequila instead of beer. Whatever … he liked tequila too.

They arrived back at the mansion and unloaded the supplies into the kitchen.

Chale handed Michael a drink, but before he had taken a sip, Michael had an idea. “Let me go get out of my suit. I’m on vacation now!”

Chale grinned, “great idea.”

“What about you?” said Michael.

“Is it alright if I stay in this suit a bit longer? I’ve never worn one before and I find it really special.”

“Sure,” said Michael. He felt in a good mood, like he did not have a care in the world. His only thought was how much he really wanted to get out of his dull business suit.

He returned to the sunny lounge wearing his tennis gear … it was the only casual wear he had … a short sleeved polo shirt and a pair of beige shorts.

“You look much better, boss.” said Chale, taking a swig of his drink.

“For a white guy, this is as relaxed as we get!” said Michael, laughing.

“We’ll work on that. We can get you some better clothes tomorrow,” said Chale.

“Deal.” said Michael.

And so the two of them sat down on the porch, drinking and laughing, Chale in his business suit and Michael relaxed in shirt, shorts and bare feet. If anyone had arrived just then it might have looked like Chale was the boss and Michael was the employee, except that Chale was younger than his white comrade.

—

The following morning, Michael was woken by his phone ringing. He opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. He had a pounding headache. He sat up, disturbing two empty bottles of tequila. He was lying on the floor on the lounge, half off the leather couch, where he must’ve passed out during the night.

“Aw, shit,” he groaned. He fumbled for the phone and answered it.

“Si, Michael speeking,” he said, slurred.

“Hello, is Michael there?” asked the voice.

Michael recognised it as his boss, Jill, and quickly pulled himself together, “Yes, speaking. It’s me Jill, Michael,” he said.

“Oh Michael, sorry, I thought you were the help,”

“Big night,” said Michael sheepishly.

“Look, sorry to disturb you on your vacation, but some of the figures in the two drafts you provided are different and we need you to explain them.”

“Ah, right. Well, uh, I can …”

Suddenly Chale was there and grabbed the phone off Michael. “Hello, Jill, this is Chale, Michael’s assistant. Yes, I drafted that column on Michael’s orders, I can come in and explain it. I’m going into the city anyway, and there’s no need to drag Michael in, it’s not that complicated. … … uh huh … yes … alright, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Chale hung up the phone and smiled at Michael, still sitting on the floor.

“Chale, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” asked Michael, struggling to get off the floor. His head pounded.

“Look Michael, you’re on vacation, and you’re hung over. This will only take a few minutes, it’s the column you told me to fix, so I know I can do this. Please?”

Michael looked into the eager eyes of his young friend, “… I dunno.”

“Come on, I just want to wear a suit again.”

Michael felt disturbed that Chale had spoken to Jill and made a decision without him, but he really wasn’t feeling up to a trip to the office.

“Alright, alright, but if you have any problems, call me.” said Michael.

Chale grinned excitedly, “Ah, muchas gracias Michael.” He practically bounded up the stairs.

“The keys are on the kitchen bench,” Michael called out after him.

Only minutes later, Chale ran down the stairs dressed immaculately in one of Michael’s best suits, grabbed the keys and the newspaper and headed for the car.

Michael trailed after him.

“Have a good day,” he said.

“You too,” said Chale. He started the car and drove off, looking every bit the white collar worker Michael was.

As soon as the car disappeared from view, silence descended on the estate, and Michael felt a sense of calm descend on him. He had owned this place for years but had barely used it, now he was excited by the idea of a week’s vacation. He was still incredibly hung over and sat down at the table by the pool to rest for a while.

It was nice in the sun, and Michael felt himself zoning out. He had drunk way too much last night and now he felt progressively worse and worse. Suddenly he realised he was about to vomit. He stood up but was too late, unable to stop, the previous night’s binge drink came back to visit him. It went mostly over the patio table, but a lot of vomit when down his shirt and shorts.

“Shit!” he said when it was over. He ran over to the garden tap and hosed himself down. When he was moderately clean, he ran up to the house to get a change of clothes. It was then that he realised the door was locked and Chale had the keys.

“Shit, shit, fuck.” he swore.

—

Michael sat down on the steps that led from the pool patio to the house porch. The sun was rapidly drying his wet clothes, and reinforcing the rancid stench of his sick.

“I’m not wearing these,” he said, shucking off the spoiled clothes, but neither did he want to stay in his undies (which weren’t fairing much better). The main house was locked, but what about the guest house?

He ran across the immaculate lawn towards the guest house. It was very liberating to be running across his sun-drenched lawn barefoot and in only undies, so he didn’t get too mad when he found the guesthouse also locked.

In desperation, he went to the gardener’s shed, where he had a small bit of luck.

In a bag of old bits of cloth that the sacked gardener had brought in to use as rags, Michael found a pair of faded and frayed denim shorts that were relatively clean.

He pulled them up over his thick legs. They were a snug fit, but at least there were better than nothing. He walked back to the patio and wondered what to do. It was early morning and he had no idea when Chale would get back with the keys.

There was still a mess on the patio table, and so he decided to clean it up. He went back to the gardener’s shed and grabbed a bucket and sponge and cleaner. He spent an hour or so cleaning the vomit off the table until it was clean again.

He had worked up quite a sweat, and he could tell he was probably going to get sunburnt as he was topless. But he had to admit that the place looked much better clean, and it had been nice to do some mindless physical activity for a change instead of sitting in front of a computer.

He moped his forehead. It was hot. He glanced over at the pool. A swim seemed a mighty enticing right now.

He walked to the edge, and dipped a toe in, it felt beautifully cool. He was about to jump in when he noticed leaves floating in the corner.

“Damn, it was a mistake to plant that tree there,” Michael said. He knew he was a clean freak, but he refused to swim in a pool that had leaves in it.

“I guess there was going to be a downside to letting the poolboy go to the office,” he said with a smirk. The thought of Chale in his suit working away at the office made him feel guilty. He decided that since Chale was helping him out today, the least he could do would be to clean the pool for Chale. Then he could go for a swim.

For the third time that day, he went back to the gardener’s shed. He grabbed Chale’s pool cleaning equipment – there was a lot of it – and hauled it to the pool.

He picked up the long scoop and leaned over the pool, balancing on one leg. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water and for a split second he thought he saw Chale, or some young muscled latino guy just like him, reflected back … but it was only him.

“Weird,” he said, scooping the leaves out.

It took longer than he thought to clean the pool, and it was early afternoon when he finished. He stripped down, and jumped into the pool. It was excellent, but he was only swimming for ten minutes before Chale arrived home.

Michael swam to the edge of the pool and waved to his friend. Chale got out of the car, grabbed a suitcase and walked towards the house. He looked deep in thought.

“Hey, Chale, how did it go?”

“Oh, hi Michael … yeah, good.”

“Great, great. I’ve had the best day.”

Chale nodded, and looked down at his feet. Michael’s denim shorts were lying there.

“Are these your clothes?” he asked.

Michael nodded. “Yeah, I locked myself out, those were all I could find.”

Chale looked at him. “What are you wearing now?”

Michael blushed, “Uh, nothing…”

Chale smirked, and continued walking up the footpath.
—

A half an hour later, Michael entered the house. He had dried off in the sun and put his denim shorts back on. He ran up stairs and found on his bed a new pair of shorts and a tank top that Chale had obviously bought for him in the city.

He pulled them on, the tank top fitted his upper body nicely, and really showed off his shoulders. He did notice that his face was red from sun burn though.

“Ouch,” he thought. He went to the ensuite and applied some cream. “Hopefully that will stop it peeling,” he said.

He walked back down to the kitchen. There was no sign of Chale. He grabbed himself a beer and went looking. He found Chale in the study, sitting at the desk typing away at the computer.

“Hey Chale, what’s up?” said a relaxed Michael, sitting in the spare chair.

Chale looked up at his friend and smiled, “Hi Michael, how was your swim?”

“Great!” said Michael enthusiastically, “it’s so nice not to have to think about anything.”

Chale nodded.

“What are you doing?” Michael asked, taking a sip of his beer.

Chale pointed to a pile of reports, “Ah, just a small crisis, legal sent back the reports with some corrections and Jill needs them done by this evening for the Tokyo morning call.”

Michael nodded, it sounded serious. He put the beer down. “May I?” he asked.

Chale nodded and handed him one of the reports.

“If we divvy up the pile we can get it done in half the time,” said Michael, opening up the copy.

“Oh, Michael, you’re on vacation, I’ve got it all under control,” said Chale.

Michael looked at the first page for a few moments. His head was swimming. “Is this the right report?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so,” said Chale, taking it off him.

“Jesus, it seemed like gobbledygook to me,” Michael said. It really had. He hadn’t even been able to understand the first line properly.

“You’re relaxed, you’ve had a few beers, you’re head’s not in the right space,” said Chale, turning back to the computer.

“Look, I want to help,” said Michael, feeling uneasy. He was the manager, this was his office, those were his reports that he had spent months on.

“It’s all under control, go for another swim, or whatever it is you do,” said Chale, typing away.

“Chale, I want to help.” said Michael firmly. He pouted petulantly and crossed his arms. That seemed to annoy Chale who looked up at him.

“Look Michael, I need to get this done. Can you give me just a few hours, please?”

Michael grabbed his beer and stormed out of the study. “Fine, I don’t know why I wanted to help with those stupeed reports anyway,” he said.

He flopped down on the leather couch and switched on the television. Some Latin American soap opera was on, and a really hot guy was going through his paces on a beach.

Michael, still mad from Chale’s dismissal of him, watched the television sullenly, drinking his beer. He was feeling sunburnt, drunk and horny. For some reason he had a hard on. Almost on autopilot he freed his nice dick from his shorts and began stroking it. “Now this is a vacation,” he thought to himself.

He ran his hand under his shirt, and pulled it up above his shoulders. He began to tweak his nipples with one hand and stroke his cock with the other. His stomach was flatter and more defined than he remembered, but what really surprised him was the dark colour of his nipples. While they had been dark before, they were now dark caramel, in fact, his whole skin seemed darker. “Good, I was afraid I was sunburnt, it looks like it’s tanning instead.”

He was lost in a haze of stroking and very close to cumming, he could feel his balls beginning to churn.

“Michael, what the hell are you doing?” asked Chale from the bottom step.

Michael snapped out of his rhythm. He stashed his dick back in his shorts and leapt to attention. “I was just … uh … well …” he stammered. Suddenly he got angry. “It’s my house, I’ll do what I want.”

“That couch is worth 20,000 dollars, and you were just about to cover it with cum stains!” said Chale walking to the kitchen.

“I know how much the couch was worth … and … ” for some reason he felt he needed to defend himself ” … and I was just about to stop anyway.” It sounded foolish as he said it, and the amused grin on Chale’s handsome face showed that he thought it sounded stupid too.

“Look, you’re a young, fit guy … I was just saving the couch from a bucketing of cum. There’s no need to lie to me,” said Chale.

Michael felt his face burning. Chale was telling him off like he was a teenager caught wanking in the bathroom! “I’m … sorry, Chale, you’re right. I was just … you know … horny.”

Chale’s stern features softened, “Yeah, well not on the couch, OK?”

They both laughed. Chale pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and walked back up the stairs into the study, leaving Michael alone again.

He was still horny, and it was only after Chale was gone that he realised his long hard cock had worked itself free of his shorts and had been sticking up out of his pants the whole conversation with Chale.

“Shit, what’s wrong with me today?” he asked himself. He went back outside, looking for a comfortable place to wank off. He walked over to the guest house and let himself in. It was a simple, spartan place compared to his mansion, but it was private and there were no expensive couches or sheets to stain.

He picked up were he left off and soon was cumming buckets all over his chest.

“Jeez, there was a lotta that today,” he said, looking at the congealing mess on his chest.

He grabbed a towel and wiped himself off. He felt relaxed and tired and soon fell into a light sleep. He awoke a few hours later, sometime past midnight and decided to go to his room in the main house.
He walked back across the lawn, marvelling at how mild and warm it was in the summer air. He climbed the stairs and walked into his bedroom. He saw that Chale had fallen asleep on his double bed! He was still wearing his suit and he was clutching a report in one hand and a pen in the other.
“Poor man, he’s been working like a dog today,” said Michael, deciding not to wake his friend. He climbed back down the stairs and went back to the guest house. “I guess I can sleep in here tonight.”

—

He woke up early the next morning and went into the main house. He cut up some fruit to make a fruit salad for breakfast. Michael made sure he made enough for two. At about 7:30, Chale came flying down the stairs, dressed in a suit and carrying a suitcase.

“Shit, I’m late.”

“Late, what?” asked Michael.

“A conference with the New York office,” he said, grabbing a coffee.

“Made you breakfast,” said Michael, holding up a bowl of fruit.

Chale seemed genuinely touched, he reached out and tousled Michael’s hair, “You’re such a good boy,” he said, grabbing the bowl. He took a few mouthfuls of it before shoving it back at Michael.
“Ok, cya!” said Chale, running out the door.

Michael was alone again. He looked around. The place was getting messy – no-one had cleaned it since he and Chale had brought home party food and alcohol a few days ago, so he decided to clean it up.

He collected the bottles and put them in the recycling, he cleaned up the empty food wrappers and put them in the bin. He even decided to vacuum. Knowing that no-one else was around, Michael got undressed and put back on his tight denim shorts. He felt sexy wearing them as he cleaned. He went up to Chale’s bedroom … Uh … my bedroom … he corrected himself, and made the bed.

He looked at himself in the mirror. A few days rest and sunshine had done wonders. He looked great. His skin was tanned brown and the bags under his eyes were gone. He looked younger, much younger actually, and he could’ve sworn he was much more muscled than he had been on Monday. But when he tried to think about it, he got a headache, and one idea kept pushing its way into his head … that he shouldn’t think too hard about anything because he was no longer in the office.

Cleaning inside took all morning, and it was only after lunch that he got outside to clean the pool. It had leaves in it again, and so Michael set to work scooping them out. He found an old cassette-based sports walkman in the gardener’s shed and he put the retro headphones on as he worked, pleased that he was able to clean and shake his ass at the same time.

At about 3:00, Chale arrived home and went straight to the study. Michael felt relieved that he didn’t have to go to work at the office any more … Chale seemed so tired and busy. It was much easier to just clean the pool, but he did feel a pang of worry that he was not paying attention to what was happening. Surely he should be the one writing the reports, not Chale, who after all, was supposed to be the lowly poolboy?

He decided to talk to Chale about it.

Michael walked up the stairs and knocked meekly on the study door.

“Come in,” said Chale.

Michael pushed open the door and walked in. He felt the thick carpet under his toes and realised it had been two days since he had worn any sort of footwear.

“Oh, Michael, you’re not even wearing a shirt?” asked Chale, quizzically.

Michael blushed, he’d forgotten he was still only wearing his denim shorts. “I … uh …”

“Don’t worry, you look great. You look better than great. You look really hot.”

Michael blushed more. “Thanks, Chale. I feel great. But … I’m worried I should be doing the work, not you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Chale, grinning, “you are doing heaps of work, you make breakfast and clean the house, and the pool looks great.”

Michael felt his chest swell with pride. “Si, I work very hard here, Chale.”

“Yes you do.”

“But …” Michael looked at the computer. He wanted to say that it should be him on the other side of the desk. It should be him in the suit. They were his reports, his career! But the words got stuck in his throat.

Chale watched him sympathetically. “I know, I know, you want to be involved?”

“Si, yes!” said Michael, relieved that the important man across the desk understood him.

“There here are some very important documents that I need you to sign,” said Chale, pushing across a stack of documents and a pen. “They’re VERY important, and only you can sign them, but you MUST read them, OK? Bring them back when you’re done.”

“Ok!” said Michael, excited by the task.

He grabbed the papers and went down to the patio. On the way through he grabbed himself a beer. Finally he was helping again!

He picked up the first document. It had his name at the top, and the logo of his bank, but the rest of the form was a complete mystery to him. The second form was his lawyers, and he saw his name and Chale’s name, but try as he might, he could not read it.

He tried to read part of it out loud. “form … req … required … for … all … real pro … pro … propertee … trans … fers … where a deed …” but gave up.

He didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of Chale, so he just decided to sign all the forms. There were so many, lawyer forms, bankers forms, government forms, work forms, shares … property … it looked like they covered his whole life!!! It took ages and he quickly became bored. Since he had gone on holiday he noticed he had been full of energy and a desire to move onto new things. His attention span was a lot shorter … no doubt because he was now relaxing.

When he was done, he put the pen down and pretty much instantly forgot about the papers. He dived into the pool. When he resurfaced, Chale was standing by the pool watching him.

“Nice butt,” said Chale. “And great work cleaning the pool.”

Michael noticed Chale was clutching the forms. “Did I do good, Chale?” he asked, wiping his now wavy hair from his wet forehead.

“Oh yes, Michael, you’ve done very well. Now, I have to write some reports. Why don’t you make yourself at home downstairs in the lounge room.”

It seemed an odd thing to say to Michael, but he was happy to oblige. Chale had been a great employee since he had arrived and Michael trusted his advice on everything.

“No need to get dressed,” said Chale. “It’s a beautifully warm evening.”

Michael put down his shorts and just towelled himself off. He and Chale walked into the lounge room.

“I have some last few pages to work through then I might finish for the evening,” said Chale, taking off his tie.

“Good, you work too hard,” said Michael.

They stood side by side, Michael short, young, naked with dark caramel skin, wavy hair and tight defined body with large muscles and a six pack, and Chale, older, more brooding, with pale office skin. His dark hair was greying, but looked sternly handsome in his suit. They looked like a perfect businessman and his latino toy boy … except that Michael was the toy boy!

“Just keep it quiet,” said Chale as he went back upstairs.

Michael grabbed a bottle of tequila and went back out to the guest house.

—
The following morning, Michael was deeply asleep when he heard Chale calling him. “Michael! Michael!”

Bleary eyed, Michael stumbled over to the house, dressed only in his underpants.

“Where’s breakfast?” demanded Chale, tying his tie and tucking in his shirt.

“Huh, wha?” asked Michael, still half asleep.

“BREAKFAST!” repeated Chale.

“I dunno,” said Michael.

“Great, just great, I’m covering for you at the office while you lounge about the house and you can’t even be assed making breakfast.”

Michael was confused. “Uh … sorry, I can … give me a sec and I can …”

“No, it’s too late.” said Chale, storming out.

The weird encounter with Chale had upset Michael as he went out to clean the pool. He pulled on his shorts and started scooping. Why had Chale spoken to him that way? HE was the owner of the house, and CHALE was supposed to be the poolboy, but now that he thought about it, Chale was acting like HE was the boss, and that Michael was the poolboy. “That’s stupid,” said Michael, as he knelt down to check the filter. “Chale is the poolboy. It’s time he went back to that.” Michael made up his mind to tell Chale the vacation was over that evening. Chale was to hand back the suits and the keys and the reports, and to get the hell out of his study … and HIS BEDROOM!

“What the fuck, Chale has been sleeping in my bedroom!!!” The realisation was like a cloud of fog rising from his mind. Something odd had happened here, and when Chale got home that evening, Michael was going to put him back in his place.

He was preparing the pH test when a sleek black car pulled up in the driveway. Out got a businessman Michael had never seen before. He walked up to the house.

“Hey, boy.”

“Si, waddya want?” asked Michael, he grimaced at the way the sounds had come out of his throat. It was almost like he had an accent.

“Where’s Chale?”

“He’s at work,” stammered Michael.

“That’s too bad, he ordered a new fence for the front but we need the owner here before we can start.”

Although the man spoke quickly, Michael understood him, “Es is my house, I’m the owner.” he said.

The man just laughed and said, “Look, I’ll come back tomorrow, kid. You keep the pool clean and let us businessmen worry about the rest of the house.” He walked off.

“No, no no, Es is my house!” Michael said, frustrated.
—
That afternoon, as soon as Chale drove up, Michael ran out to meet him.

“What the hell es going on here?” he shouted at Chale.

Chale looked amused, and grinned at Michael. “Don’t talk to me like that.” he said, glancing down at Michael’s muscled naked body.

“I’ll talk to you any way I want!” Michael screeched, suddenly wishing he’d put on some clothes, underpants at least. “This es my casa, and you es my poolboy!”

Suddenly Chale stopped grinning. His eyes flashed dangerously and his voice became an angry whisper. “Wrong. You know those papers you signed? They gave me everything. EVERYTHING. I got it all, your bank accounts, your shares, your clothes, your car, your HOUSE. And you know the last form you signed, it was an employment contract with me. You are MY pool cleaning boy toy now. You are MINE.”

Michael was stunned. He felt tears beginning to roll down his beautiful latino face. “But … no … I am the manager. I am the owner. I am Michael…”

Chale laughed. He pulled out a form from his inside pocket. “See this form, Michael, it’s a change of name form you signed. It legally changes your name to Miguel. And if I ever hear you use your old name, I’ll post some signed confession letters of yours to the police, and you’ll be locked away. Now, stop crying. It won’t be all bad. You’re my beautiful pool cleaner, my trophy boyfriend. You can’t read, you can’t write. You can barely even speak English, but you’re a hell of a looker and a complete sex-fiend. Your job is to clean, cook and fuck, and to do it all wearing shorts, thongs or nothing at all.”

Michael sobbed. “No, no, no!”

“You are Miguel now,” said Chale, “and I am Charles.”

And from that moment on it was true. Chale was now Charles the manager, and he was now Miguel the pool boy.

The End