Recap: Greg came back from the gym still dripping with sweat, and the tension between him and Alex finally boiled over. What began as a blowjob turned into something more when Greg asked if Alex wanted to go further. It was uncharted territory for both of them, Greg’s first time fucking a guy and Alex’s first time trying anal, but neither hesitated once the moment came.
The pace shifted from slow to rough, Greg pounding into him harder while Alex begged for more. Sweat, moans, and curses filled the room until Greg finally came inside him, leaving Alex trembling, messy, and satisfied in a way that was new and overwhelming.
────
I didn’t sleep. Not really. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt him again.
Greg.
The weight of his body pinning me to the mattress. His voice in my ear, low, gravelly, saying “Breathe, Alex. You’re doing so good.”
The stretch, the burn, the way my hole clung to his cock like my body was terrified he’d leave. The slap of skin, the sound of him grunting my name like he was both shocked and starving at the same time.
I kept shifting under the sheets, my ass still sore in that new, bruised way. Not pain exactly…more like a permanent reminder. Every move made me remember his size, the thickness of his cock inside my hole, how he came deep and hard and didn’t pull out.
It was my first time. My first fuck. And it wasn’t with some random guy I’d met online, or a boyfriend who talked me into it. It was with my boss.
My boss who was asleep in the spare room at the end of the hall.
I buried my face in the pillow, groaning quietly, half from embarrassment and half from the twitch in my cock. Jesus. I was hopeless.
────
The alarm hit me like a hammer, and before I could talk myself out of it, I was dressed and moving through my morning routine. Coffee. Shower. Pants, shirt, tie. Every movement felt surreal…like how was I supposed to button up a shirt and tie a tie and sit at a desk, knowing what happened last night?
When I padded into the kitchen, Greg was already there. Shirt and tie, hair combed, travel mug in hand. He looked like the man I’d always known: sharp, professional, in control. But when he saw me, his eyes softened just slightly.
“Morning Alex,” he said, voice even.
I swallowed hard. “Morning, sir.”
His lip ticked up. “Greg,” he reminded me, same as always. “Come on, let’s not be late.”
And just like that, we were in his car, the leather seats cool against my thighs, the smell of his cologne filling the air. My whole body was buzzing, like the ride itself was charged.
Neither of us mentioned it. Not last night. Not the way he fucked me so slow at first and then so hard I nearly screamed. Not how he came inside me, left me shaking.
Instead, he asked if I’d finished reviewing the quarterly reports. Like it was any other Monday.
I nodded too quickly, forcing my voice steady. “Yeah. I’ll have the draft ready for your notes this afternoon.”
“Good,” he said simply, eyes on the road.
The silence after wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t awkward either. It was… loaded.
───
The office was colder than usual. Or maybe it was me, running too warm under my skin. My desk was the same, my computer, my spreadsheets, my inbox overflowing with client emails.
But every time I glanced up, I caught a glimpse of him. Greg in his office. Greg leaning back in his chair, adjusting his tie. Him running a hand through his hair, rubbing his jaw, staring at his monitor.
And every time, the flashbacks came uninvited. The image of him behind me, sweat dripping down his chest. His cock slamming into me. My own voice breaking as I begged him to fuck me harder.
I had to force myself to focus, typing numbers that blurred and re-formed.
At one point, Greg came over to my desk. He leaned down, one hand on the back of my chair, the other braced on the desk as he pointed something out on my screen.
His body was so close, his sleeve brushing my arm. His tie dangling near my shoulder. My lungs forgot how to work.
“That formula’s off,” he murmured, low enough that no one else could hear. “Double-check it before the meeting.”
I nodded quickly, the heat of his presence all but melting me into the chair.
When he straightened, his hand lingered for a fraction of a second on my shoulder. Just enough.
Then he walked away like nothing happened.
───
By afternoon, I was a mess. The urge to look at him was constant, and worse, he noticed.
The office smelled like burnt coffee and printer ink, but all I could smell was him. My body still ached from last night, a dull soreness that pulsed every time I shifted in my chair. Every time I sat down too fast, it was there. A reminder. My boss had been inside me. Mr. Lawson. Greg.
No matter how much I told myself to focus on emails, spreadsheets, meetings…the whole normal grind…my head wouldn’t let me. I kept replaying the way his cock pushed into me, inch by inch, my body stretching around him for the first time. The sound of his voice when he asked if I was okay. The slap of his hips against me once I finally said yes, harder.
And now here I was, back at work, trying to act like I hadn’t been fucked raw by my divorced boss in my own apartment.
I was sitting in the break room with Sarah from HR, nursing a coffee and nodding absently at whatever she was talking about…something about payroll software. I kept stirring my cup just to give my hands something to do. Anything to keep from looking across the room where Greg was talking to another manager, looking like he hadn’t rearranged my insides just twelve hours ago.
My body betrayed me the second he walked toward the counter. My back went stiff, every nerve on edge. I pretended to be fascinated by the swirl of cream in my coffee, but I felt him before I saw him. That familiar heat, that scent…strong coffee and leather, just like last night when he pressed his chest against my back as he slid his cock into me.
“Looks like you had a long night,” he said, his voice casual, easy. Like it was nothing. Like my stomach hadn’t just dropped into my shoes.
Sarah laughed politely. “Don’t we all?”
But his eyes weren’t on her. They were locked on me.
I almost choked on my sip. “Uh… yeah,” I muttered, trying to sound normal, casual, not like my ass was clenching just remembering the way he filled me. “Yes, Gre–.. Mr. Lawson.” The slip burned in my throat. My cheeks went hot.
He smiled, slow, deliberate. That same smile he gave me last night when he said, breathe, let me in.
“Mhm,” he hummed, reaching past me for the sugar. His arm brushed my shoulder. Just a graze, but it was enough to make my pulse stutter. He dumped two spoonfuls into his cup, stirred lazily, then added, “Funny. I could say the same for myself.”
I knew he meant it. Knew it wasn’t just a joke about late-night work or Netflix or whatever else he could’ve implied. He was talking about me bent over, his cock sliding in and out of me, my voice cracking as I begged him not to stop.
Sarah excused herself, muttering something about emails, and left the room.
Which meant it was just us.
I gripped my mug like it was a lifeline, praying my shaking hands weren’t obvious. My brain was screaming…don’t look at him, don’t look at him, don’t look at him but my body disobeyed.
I glanced up.
And there it was again. That look. The one that lingered a second too long, the one that made me feel like he could see every dirty thought crowding my head. His eyes didn’t waver. Didn’t soften. They held me pinned, just like last night when he pressed my wrists into the mattress.
I swallowed hard. My mouth was dry, but my body was anything but. Heat pooled low in my stomach, a dangerous echo of the way I’d felt with him inside me. My boss. My fucking boss.
He smirked, lifting his cup to his lips like this was all nothing. “See you in the meeting, Alex.”
And then he walked off, shoulders broad, posture loose, like he hadn’t just gutted me with one line and a smirk.
I sat there, staring at the swirl of coffee in my cup, my whole body on fire.
Because all I could think was how much I wanted his cock again.
───
The rest of the day was torture. Not bad torture, not really. Just that simmering tension that made the air feel charged. Every meeting, every hallway pass, every time I caught a glimpse of him leaning against a desk or adjusting his cufflinks…it all dragged me back into the memory of his cock inside me.
And then, evening, it happened.
We were in a conference room with half the team, Greg standing at the front, leading the discussion. I sat off to the side, laptop open, pretending to type notes.
But my eyes kept drifting. His hands, gesturing. The tightness of his shirt over his chest. The way his slacks hugged his thighs.
I thought I was being discreet. I wasn’t.
Because at one point, mid-sentence, he looked at me. Just looked. Direct.
And didn’t look away.
His gaze held mine for a second too long, a split-second of pure recognition.
It said everything. I remember last night. I know you do too. And I can’t stop thinking about it either.
I dropped my gaze quickly, heart hammering, fingers shaking over the keyboard.
The meeting droned on, but I couldn’t hear a word. My whole body was on fire, my mind a blur.
By the time the day ended, I was wrecked. The drive home was quiet again, but not awkward. He asked about a project deadline, I mumbled something back. But the silence between each exchange was louder than words.
When we pulled into the apartment lot, he finally glanced at me, just once.
“You did good today,” he said simply. Then a small, knowing smile. “Even after a long night.”
I swallowed, my throat dry. “Thanks, Mr.Lawson.”
His smirk deepened. “Greg,” he corrected, before pushing the door open and stepping out.
─
When we got home that night, it should’ve been normal. Two guys back from work, kicking off shoes, sorting through mail, heating up leftovers. But nothing felt normal anymore. Not after what we did last night. Not after the way my body still remembered his cock inside me.
Greg tossed his keys on the counter, loosened his tie, and pulled it off like it was strangling him. His white dress shirt clung to his chest with a faint sheen of sweat from the day. He rolled his shoulders back, stretching, and for a second I just stood there with my bag still in my hand, staring like an idiot.
“Dinner?” he asked, voice casual, already opening the fridge. Like he hadn’t spent last night fucking me raw.
“Yeah,” I croaked, setting my bag down and rubbing the back of my neck.
We ended up throwing together something simple, both of us moving around the kitchen like this was just routine. And maybe for him, it was. For me, every brush of his arm against mine, every time he leaned close to grab something off the counter, set my pulse hammering. My mind wouldn’t shut up. I kept seeing him the way he looked last night; n@ked, muscles tight with effort, sweat dripping as he pushed into me, slow and steady.
I almost dropped the knife when he leaned over my shoulder to check what I was chopping.
“Not bad,” he said. His breath was warm on the side of my neck. I froze. He didn’t notice, or maybe he did, because then he pulled back and went to grab plates like nothing had happened.
By the time we sat down, my appetite had nothing to do with food.
We ate in mostly silence, broken up by him asking a few work questions. Project updates, meetings scheduled. My mouth answered automatically, but my head was stuck on the way his forearms flexed when he held his fork, the way his chest stretched his shirt every time he leaned back.
When we finished, he collected our plates and loaded the dishwasher. I watched from the couch, telling myself not to stare. Not to notice. But then he tugged his shirt off and tossed it over the chair, muttering something about it being too hot.
And just like that, my self-control shattered.
He wasn’t showing off. He didn’t even look at me. He just moved around the kitchen shirtless, rinsing dishes, wiping the counter like he was getting used to living here. His back rippled with each motion, his shoulders broad and defined. The waistband of his pants sat low, hinting at the trail of hair leading down from his abs.
I gripped the cushion beside me, nails digging into the fabric. Every nerve in my body screamed for him.
He grabbed a drink, leaned against the counter, and finally looked my way. “You’re quiet.”
“Long day,” I muttered. My throat was tight.
“Yeah,” he agreed. Then he lifted the glass, tilted his head back, and drank. His throat worked with each swallow. I watched, hypnotized. He knew I was watching. He had to.
When he lowered the glass, he smirked. “You’re staring.”
My face burned. “Sorry—”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Relax, Alex. I don’t mind.” Then he pushed off the counter, stretched his arms over his head, and every muscle in his torso tightened and shifted under his skin. He did it deliberately. I knew he did.
I looked away, pretending to scroll my phone, but my hands shook.
The rest of the night stretched out like torture. We sat on the couch, some mindless TV show playing. He sprawled comfortably, one arm over the backrest, legs spread wide. His bare chest gleamed faintly in the light. I sat upright, rigid, pretending to be interested in the show, but my eyes kept sliding sideways to him.
Every so often, he’d shift, his thigh brushing mine. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to make me crazy.
By the time we went to bed, I was hard and aching, but nothing happened. He just clapped me on the shoulder like he always did and disappeared into his room.
I lay awake half the night, staring at the ceiling, remembering the way he felt. Remembering the way he looked at me across the break room today. My body begged me to do something…get up, knock on his door, crawl into his bed…beg him to fuck me again…but I didn’t. I couldn’t look that desperate in front of my boss..
────୨ৎ────
The next morning, he was already up when I stumbled into the kitchen. Shirtless again, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair damp from a shower.
“Morning Alex,” he said casually, pouring coffee.
“Morning Greg,” I croaked, voice rough with sleep.
I tried not to look. Failed instantly. His back glistened faintly, still drying. A towel hung over his shoulder. Every line of muscle seemed carved, deliberate. I wanted to run my hands over every inch of him.
He handed me a mug. Our fingers brushed. Heat shot through me. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just gave me a quick nod and leaned back against the counter, sipping his own.
“How’d you sleep?” he asked.
“Fine,” I lied.
He smirked like he knew better. Like he knew I’d spent the night hard, restless, thinking about him.
We rode to the office together in silence, the air thick. His arm rested casually on the console, close enough that if I shifted just a little, my leg would touch his hand. I wanted to. I didn’t.
At work, he was Mr. Lawson again…calm, professional, focused. But every time our eyes met across a desk or in a meeting, I felt it. That pull. That reminder of what we’d done.
And then back home that night, it started all over again.
Dinner, small talk, casual stretches that weren’t casual at all. Him moving around shirtless, completely at ease. Me wound tight, desperate, barely holding myself together.
It was restraint. Pure, unbearable restraint. And it lasted another night.
I lay in bed, listening to the faint sounds of him moving around his room. My cock throbbed against my stomach, aching for his touch. But he didn’t come to me. I didn’t go to him.
And so the tension stretched, pulling tighter with every glance, every brush of skin, every unspoken thought hanging in the air.
It happened almost every night.
Every time he walked around shirtless in the apartment, my cock ached, straining for his touch. My hole clenched like it remembered him, like it was begging for him again, the ghost of his cock still haunting me. My eyes drifted constantly…his chest, the faint outline of abs, the curve of his arms when he reached overhead, the subtle bulge in his sweatpants when he sank onto the couch.
Even at work, it didn’t let up. He looked maddening in his button-downs, sleeves rolled up, veins visible along his forearms. I’d catch myself staring at the way his tie sat against his chest, the way his belt hugged his waist, the way he leaned back in his chair during meetings like he owned the room. And when we rode in together, the smell of his cologne filled the car…warm, sharp, clean and I had to grip my knees to stop from leaning closer.
But nothing happened. No blowjob. No fucking. No casual brush of his hand to remind me we were something more than just boss and subordinate. I was left wondering if maybe it had been a one-time thing. If maybe the heat of the moment had carried him away and he regretted it now.
I was disappointed. Or maybe scared. Had things changed between us?
We were back to being the same colleagues we’d been before Mr. Lawson decided to crash at my place. But that wasn’t quite true. He wasn’t distant. He wasn’t weird about it at all. If anything, he was kinder to me. Softer.
He’d talk with me more at night, small things…what to order for dinner, asking about my day, laughing at some dumb show we threw on to fill the silence. At the office, he never avoided me. He’d even back me up more in meetings, glancing at me when I spoke, giving small nods of approval that no one else noticed. At home, he sometimes helped with chores, rinsing dishes or folding laundry even though I told him he didn’t have to. He acted like it was nothing, but it wasn’t nothing. Not to me.
And yet… every time his hand brushed mine, every time his shoulder pressed against me on the couch, every time his laugh rumbled in his chest and made me look at the line of his throat…I craved him more.
It was like the sex had lit something in me that wouldn’t burn out. I wanted it again. Wanted him again.
By Friday night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, my cock hard against my stomach, my body restless with need. I replayed every second of him inside me, his voice in my ear, his sweat dripping onto my back. It drove me crazy thinking he was just a room away, shirtless probably, maybe lying there scrolling his phone like it was any other night.
I needed to know if things were weird. I needed to know if that was it, or if we were going to keep pretending. My chest thudded with nerves, but I swung my legs off the bed, padded down the hall, and stopped outside his door.
My hand hovered on the wood for a second before I knocked lightly.
“Yeah?” His voice rumbled from inside.
I pushed the door open.
Greg was lying on his bed, shirtless just like I pictured, a blanket tossed low over his waist. He was propped up against the headboard, phone in hand, his chest broad and relaxed in the glow of the lamp.
He glanced up when he saw me. “Alex?”
“Hey,” I muttered, stepping in. My throat was dry. “I wanted to… talk.”
His eyes narrowed just slightly, curious. Then he shifted over, patting the space beside him. “Come sit.”
I swallowed hard and crossed the room, my pulse racing. Sitting next to him, the warmth of his body bled into mine, the scent of his soap faint on his skin. He set his phone aside, turned his head toward me, and smirked just a little.
“What’s up, Alex?”
And just like that, I was right back where I started…heart pounding, caught between wanting to blurt everything out and not knowing how.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
