Copyright by Marathon Brad, 2026, permission given to Gay Demon to reprint this story. It may not be copied to another website without prior approval from the author.
After seventeen chapters, The Chosen Jock: Office Boy may finally be reaching its ending. Thank you to every reader who followed Brad’s transformation and took the time to write, encourage, and share ideas throughout this journey. Your excitement, fantasies, reactions, and support helped shape this story far more than you probably realize.
I continue to enjoy hearing from you. Please feel free to share your comments, thoughts and/or ideas with me at [email protected]
The bow tie was neon lime green.
It matched the training shorts. That was intentional. Mike put a lot of thought into the outfits he suggested for me each day. The routine stayed the same. Mike spoke to Jai first, and Jai, the apartment building’s concierge downstairs, then reached out to me.
I stood in front of my mirror at 7:45 that morning, bare chested, the tiny shorts sitting low on my hips with my thick dark pubic hair visible above the waistband. The back inseam was so short that my glutes were on full display. The small bow tie sat clipped at my throat. I looked at myself for a long moment.
A few months ago, I would not have recognized the man in that mirror. I recognized him now. The bow tie had been Mike's idea. Or so I thought. Later I learned he had heard about the bow tie from Coach Franco. The coaches back in Philadelphia had been the first to put one on me, at the pool fundraiser and again on my last morning before Sydney. Franco must have told Mike how much the men liked seeing me in one. Mike had simply kept the idea going.
My phone buzzed on the dresser. A text from Duny, the powerful Black baseball coach from near Washington DC who had helped Cooper pack up my Philadelphia apartment on that last warm morning before Sydney. He had pressed me against the kitchen table and used my body with the confidence of a man who knew what he wanted. Watching him walk out that door that day, I had not expected to hear from him again.
Kid. I do not even know what to say. Franco showed me the magazine. You look incredible. What is happening over there?
I set the phone down and looked at myself again. Then it buzzed a second time. Coach Franco.
Proud of you, son. You always knew how to command a room. Now the whole country of Australia is watching. Give them a show. You will make a great porn star.
I read it twice. My cock grew hard against the thin neon fabric.
I typed back: You made me who I am, Coach. I will not forget that.
The phone buzzed again almost immediately. A voicemail. I did not recognize the number at first, then the name came through. Timothy. The Qantas pilot who had pulled me behind the crew curtain on the long flight from JFK. The handsome pilot with dark hair, bright blue eyes, and strong arms that had taken me slow and deep while Australia waited below us. Before I left the plane, he had slipped a folded note with his number into my hand. I still had not called him.
I held the phone to my ear.
Brad. Timothy here. From the flight. I hope Sydney is treating you well, mate. Listen, one of my crew forwarded me something this week. A magazine. I recognized you. I want you to know I am not surprised at all. Not even a little. You were always going to end up somewhere like this. I just did not know it would happen this fast. Call me sometime. I mean that.
I stood at the mirror and let the voicemail sit with me for a moment. Timothy had seen something in me at thirty thousand feet that I had not yet seen in myself. I typed a short text back to his number.
Thank you Timothy. Sydney is everything. I cannot believe how fortunate I am.
This had become normal in the days since the Slutwear USA announcement. Men from my past reaching out, one after another, all because of what was happening with Mike here in Sydney.
The next message was a text. Jirko. The handsome Eastern European donor from the pool fundraiser, the man with the light accent. He had pulled me back onto the lounge chair and whispered that he wanted me to ride his cock while the other donors watched.
Bradley. It took some work, but Coach Cooper was kind enough to pass along your number. I have been shown the Slutwear USA images by a mutual friend in Philadelphia. I must tell you, the photographer has captured something that I already knew was there the afternoon we spent together at the pool. You have a presence that very few young men possess. Australia is lucky to have you. I hope our paths cross again someday. Jirko.
I smiled at the screen. Jirko sounded elegant. I did not respond. Some messages were meant to be received.
The next one was a voicemail. Grayson Knight. The owner of Pulse Night Club on Walnut Street. Tall and dark with hazel eyes and a magnetic presence that filled a room before he even spoke. He had built one of Philadelphia’s most charged clubs, then stood back and watched Coach Franco's friends take me apart near the bar while the DJ kept the music going and the spotlights never moved off my body.
Brad. Grayson Knight. I will keep this short because I know you are busy becoming famous. Your footage has been spreading in certain Philadelphia circles for the past few days. I have had no fewer than twelve men ask me if the young wrestler from the club was the same man on the Slutwear USA pages and in the streams from the Milk Me Company. I told them yes. Every single one of them asked how to get in touch with your boss, Mike. You are good for business, son. Even from the other side of the world. Come back and dance for us sometime.
I set the phone on the dresser and looked at myself in the mirror again. Twelve men at the Pulse Night Club asking about me. I had known men’s eyes had been on me at Grayson’s Club. I had felt them. But hearing that twelve men had been asking about me by name was something else entirely.
My phone buzzed again. Carlos.
Just seeing his name on the screen did something to my chest. My wrestling teammate and roommate, the Jersey Boy with the dark curly hair and the olive skin and the natural confidence that I had lived beside for a year without ever crossing a line until those last few days and nights when the line simply disappeared. He had fucked me against the patio glass doors and I had shot my load onto the glass while Nico and Robbie filmed from the darkness outside.
Bro, I cannot even process this right now. My roommate is getting fucked on camera for the whole world to watch. My ROOMMATE. You always had that body and I always knew you liked showing it off but this is something else entirely. I showed my whole Brooklyn office. Every single person stopped working. Brad I am so proud of you man. Also, you owe me a visit. New York City would love you. I miss you.
I laughed out loud in my empty apartment. Only Carlos could make me laugh like that before most people were awake.
I typed back immediately. Come to Sydney. I have three bedrooms and Mike will put you to work.
The next message was a voicemail. Coach Cooper. The baseball coach with the piercing blue eyes and the body hair and the blue pills he had pressed into my palm at the fundraiser before I understood what any of it meant. He had been at the pool party, at the apartment packing session, at the fundraiser finale.
Brad. Coop here. I am going to keep this brief because I know Franco already called you and I know Duny texted you and I know you have a life to get to over there. I just want you to know that what you have become is not an accident. You were always this. We just helped you find it. The magazine looks outstanding. The Bar Ho shorts were made for that body. Mike is a smart man. You be good to him. He has been good to you. Call me sometime.
I held the phone for a moment after the voicemail ended. Cooper had been direct during our encounters. Even his praise felt like a coaching note.
I checked the bow tie at my throat one more time, smoothed the neon transparent shorts over my hips, and picked up my keys.
Heath was quiet on the drive over, which was not normal. What was normal was the way he watched me in the rearview mirror the entire ride, openly, the attention men gave me now. Like I was something that had already been seen and claimed.
"Big day?" he asked.
"Mike has plans," I said.
Heath smiled at the road. "He always does."
The final message arrived as Heath slowed toward the Milk Me Company building. A text from Rhys Reeves. The investor whose rugby years were still visible in every muscle of his powerful frame. The man who had circled me at the Slutwear USA meeting. The man who had traced the outline of my cock through the tight singlet with his thumb.
Brad. Rhys here. I wanted you to know that the investor group has reviewed the initial Slutwear USA release materials. The response has been exceptional. You carry the brand with a natural authority that money cannot manufacture. Mike has built something worth backing. We are fully committed. Well done.
I read it twice. Then I noticed another text from Rhys beneath it, sent thirty seconds later.
Also. That hot singlet scene in Mike’s office when we were there. Extraordinary.
Heath pulled toward the curb.
Before he had fully stopped, the Rock Hard Men Construction crew working on the sidewalk had already noticed.
There were four of them on this side of the barriers, hard hats pushed back on their heads, work shirts soaked with sweat, tool belts hanging low on strong hips. The first one to see the car coming nudged the man beside him with his elbow. That man turned. Then the other two turned.
Heath barely had the car in park before the first whistle cut through the morning air.
"Mate," one of them called out, loud and thoroughly appreciative. "Look at our boy coming out of the car this morning."
I pushed the door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The neon lime green shorts caught the morning sun immediately. The fabric was definitely thin and short. The inseam barely there. One step and both glutes were on display, round and high and impossible to miss, the body of an athlete who had never stopped training. My muscular bare chest caught the light.
The crew had stopped working.
"They ought to pay you extra just for wearing that down the street," one of them called, grinning wide.
Another leaned against the barrier with his arms crossed, looking me over from the flip flops all the way up. "Who dressed you this morning, mate? Whatever they are paying you it is not enough."
A third touched the brim of his hard hat with two fingers. "Good morning to you. A very, very good morning."
I nodded my head toward them, kept my back straight the way Max had trained me, and walked toward the building entrance.
The lobby noticed when I walked in.
A man near the coffee machine raised his cup toward me, a small gesture, his eyes moving over the tiny neon shorts and the bow tie. Someone coming off the escalator stopped walking entirely. The security desk guard stood straighter.
A colleague I barely knew looked up from his phone and said simply, "Brad."
Not Office Boy. Not Show Boy. Just Brad. Like saying the name of someone everyone already knows.
On every monitor mounted around the lobby, the Milk Me stream was already running. I glanced up and saw myself walk through the front door on a three second delay, the neon shorts catching the lobby light, the bow tie small and perfectly centered at my throat. Watching myself on screen still felt strange. Like seeing your name in print for the first time and not quite believing it belongs to you.
I crossed the marble floor in my flip flops and stopped at the base of the escalator.
Mike had been specific this morning. Take the escalator, not the elevator. He had said it the way he said everything, calmly and without explanation, and I had learned not to ask.
I stepped on.
The neon lime green shorts had an inseam so short it barely felt like fabric. The leg slit openings were cut so high and wide that they showed almost everything. Walking made the thin material ride even higher, showing the round curve of my wrestling glutes to anyone standing below.
I had not taken four steps before I heard a sound behind me.
A quiet voice. Then another, louder, cutting him off. Two men in a brief urgent scramble.
I did not look back. I kept my hands loose at my sides and my eyes forward and kept climbing.
The decision was made quickly. Two sets of feet landed on the escalator steps below me in a scurry, two men settling into position roughly ten to twelve feet back, far enough to take in the full picture, close enough that nothing was missed. A third colleague followed a second later; the latecomer apparently having decided he was not going to stand at the bottom and wonder.
I became very aware of what the three of them were seeing.
My glutes were completely exposed, high and tight from four years on the wrestling mat, the thin neon fabric split at the sides and doing nothing beyond framing what it could no longer contain. The cleft between my cheeks was visible in its entirety. The bow tie at my throat was the only thing between me and complete exposure.
From the lobby floor, Harry’s cameras caught every inch of me and streamed it live to every monitor in the building.
I kept my back straight and my shoulders set the whole way up.
Behind me one of the three men said something quietly. The other two laughed, satisfied with the position they had fought to secure.
Mike's suite was warm when I arrived. Morning light through the wide windows, the large table clear and centered, the spotlights already narrowed to a tight white focus at the center of the floor.
Max was there.
He stood near the window in a fitted dark suit jacket, his short blond hair neatly kept, his blue eyes calm and attentive in the morning light. Nearly six feet tall, broad through the chest and muscular through the arms. He had become a great trainer for me and understood exactly how to present me.
"Good morning, Brad," he said.
"Good morning, Max," I said.
Mike stepped in from the side office and stopped when he saw me. Neatly kept hair, handsome face, the elegant authority of a man who had never needed to raise his voice to capture everyone’s attention in a room. His eyes moved over the shorts, the bow tie, the way I looked standing there in his morning light. A small satisfied smirk appeared on his face.
"Center of the room," he said.
I stepped into the spotlight.
The familiar warmth of it hit my bare shoulders. The neon fabric caught the light and glowed. Mike stood near the conference table and looked at me with the quiet pride of a man admiring the brand he had created. "The next cover shoots in three weeks. You are definitely our Slutwear USA model, Brad."
Max walked to me and placed both hands at my shoulders, adjusting my posture. His palms moved down my arms, feeling the muscle there, then swept across my chest, fingers spread, lingering just long enough to make the contact obvious.
"Turn," Max whispered.
I turned. Slowly. The way I had learned to turn in the spotlight, aware of every angle.
Max’s hands followed my movement, his palms sliding down my spine as my back turned toward Mike, then spreading across my lower back before settling on my glutes. He cupped them with both hands, lifting slightly, presenting the full view to Mike and to the blinking cameras in the suite's corners.
"Stop," Max said.
I stopped. My back to Mike. My ass fully exposed in the center of the spotlight.
"Bend over," Mike said. "Touch your toes."
I had learned not to hesitate. I bent forward, hands reaching toward my feet, hamstrings pulling tight, the shorts riding up completely, the spotlight above catching every detail of what was now fully exposed. I held the position.
"That is a beautiful hole, Max," Mike said quietly.
"Perfect and moist," Max said.
Mike did not say anything else for several seconds.
Then, "Good boy. Stand up and finish the turn."
I straightened and completed the circle until I was facing Mike again. His expression had not changed. Pleased. The look of a man whose morning had begun exactly as planned.
Max stepped away as he and Mike sat at the table.
Mike opened his notepad. "You can sit now, Brad."
I sat across from him. The shorts rode up immediately on the chair.
Mike ran through the morning schedule. Rock Hard Men Construction were confirmed for early afternoon. Max would escort me from the building. The sealed package with the Slutwear USA samples and sponsorship contract was ready. Tony had information he wanted to tell me before heading out to the site. I was reminded to use the escalator today, not the elevator.
He said it all without looking up from his notepad, his voice even and calm.
"Any questions?" he asked when he finished.
"No," I said.
He gave me the small nod. "Excellent. Max, can you take Brad up to Tony now?”
“Nash's floor wanted a walkthrough,” Max added.
I stood and Max held the suite door open.
He walked with the same quiet confidence he always did. He fell into step beside me, his hand coming to my lower back, and we moved together down the hallway as we headed toward Nash’s floor.
We passed the glass wall of Nash’s Sponsorships and Events department. Inside, six or seven men sat at their screens. One looked up as we passed. Then another. Then the whole row nearest the glass had turned.
Without breaking stride, Max reached down and lifted the right leg of the neon shorts, holding the hem high for a slow three count, the full curve of my glute bare under the hallway light, visible through the glass to every man in the department and to the hallway camera mounted at the junction above us, its red light already blinking.
A sound came through the glass. Muffled. Appreciative.
Max let the hem drop and kept walking, his hand returning to my ass as if nothing had occurred.
I kept pace with him and stayed quiet.
My cock was pressing hard against the thin neon and every man in that room had seen exactly what Max intended them to see before he had to go into a mid-morning meeting.
Nash's department always felt fast and busy, like everyone knew exactly what they were doing. He had dark hair, intense eyes, and wore fitted suits that showed off his strong rugby body. You could tell he was a serious athlete by his strong shoulders and confident walk. He was good-looking, smart, and competitive. The longer you stood near him, the harder he was to ignore. I knew what he was capable of. He had bent me over the VIP railing at Forge on the night of the Slutwear USA announcement and fucked me hard in front of the entire club while the cameras streamed it live.
I stepped through the glass doors and attention moved toward me the way it always did when I entered a space these days. Conversations stopped. Heads lifted. Eyes tracked me.
Nash looked up from his standing desk and let his gaze move over me with the assessment of a man whose job was to evaluate what things were worth.
"There he is," he said. "Our magazine cover."
A few of the men nearby turned at that. One gave a low whistle. Another rose slightly from his chair, eyes dropping to the shorts before coming back up.
"Looking sharp, Brad," someone called.
"Sharp is one word for it," someone else said, and the room laughed.
Nash walked over to me. His jacket was off, his shirt very tight across his chest and arms, sleeves rolled up tight.
His hand settled at my lower back, deliberate and possessive.
"Mike keeping you busy?" he said.
"Every day," I said.
His hand pressed slightly at my lower back, fingers dipping just inside the waistband. "The whole floor has been watching the stream this morning," he said. "That escalator shot." He shook his head. "Harry is a genius with the camera angle."
I felt my face warm.
Nash leaned in. "Do not blush," he said. "You earned every one of those eyes." His hand gave my left glute a little tap before dropping away. "Go see Tony. Come back through here on your way down."
Not a request.
"Yes," I said.
The rooftop gym bar was bright with daylight, the city wide and gleaming through the glass. Tony was at the bar counter with a water bottle and his laptop, still in his gym gear. A fitted compression shirt showed everything his own rugby years had built across his chest and shoulders and arms, the kind of body shaped by years of contact on the field. His dark hair was wet with sweat. He had clearly just finished a serious workout.
He looked up when I stepped through the doors and a wide grin broke across his face.
"Office Boy," he said. Then he shook his head slowly. "No. Not anymore."
He stood and came to me with the vibe of a man whose body was always slightly wound up, eyes moving over the neon shorts and the bow tie.
The bartender behind the counter had stopped what he was doing. One forearm on the bar top, watching.
Two other men at a table near the window had turned their chairs.
Tony stepped toward me and set both hands on my shoulders, his grip firm.
"Before anything else," he said. "I need you to understand what this afternoon means."
I waited.
"Rock Hard Men Construction," Tony said. "Brett Callahan's crew. Do you know what it means for Slutwear USA if we land them?"
I shook my head.
Tony's hands stayed on my shoulders. "Construction in this country is enormous. These are physical men, working men, the kind of men who are on every job site from here to Perth. If Rock Hard Men Construction puts the Slutwear USA logo on their equipment, their vehicles, their site huts," he paused, "we go from a brand that athletes and executives recognize to a brand that every man in Australia knows. It is the difference between a small boutique label and a national name."
He let that settle.
"Brett has been following you since the magazine dropped last week," he continued. "His crew put your photo on the wall of every site hut they use. Twelve sites across New South Wales." He looked at me directly. "That is a man signaling he is ready to do business."
"Mike has asked that you meet with Brett," Tony said. "Not Nash. Not me. You. Because Brett will sign a contract for you." His eyes moved over the neon shorts. "So go outside to their hut and be exactly what you are."
His hands moved from my shoulders down my arms, squeezing the muscle, and settled at my hips. His thumbs hooked into the waistband.
"You have come a long way from the first day here at the Milk Me Company," he said.
His thumbs pressed slow circles on my skin just inside the waistband. Then he looked past me toward the bartender at the counter and, without releasing his grip on my hips, reached down and lifted both legs of the neon shorts, holding the hem up, showing the bartender the full bare curve of my glutes under the rooftop light.
The bartender let out a slow breath.
"Yeah," Tony said, letting the hem drop.
He turned back to my face, his hands returning to my hips.
"Mike is very proud of you," he said. "The magazine. The porn films. The live stream." He tilted his head toward the monitors above the bar where the Milk Me channel ran on a loop. "You know they replay this morning’s escalator shot every twenty minutes?"
I looked up at the monitor. There I was, riding up from the lobby, the back of the neon shorts showing everything, three men standing below me on the escalator staring straight up at the view.
I watched myself on the screen for a long moment. My cock pressed hard against the thin neon. That was my ass. Those were three men who had fought for position just to stand below it.
I had never thought of myself as someone men watched. Now I could not stop watching myself being watched.
Tony felt it. His thumbs were still inside the waistband and he felt my erect cock tightening the shorts. He did not move his hands away.
"There your cock goes again," he said softly. "Always ready to be milked."
He held me there a moment, thumbs teasing the head of my cock, his eyes on my face.
Then he reached to the small bag at the bar counter and produced the brown bottle, holding it between two fingers.
"One breath. Mike's orders."
He held it under my nose himself, his other hand firm at my hip.
I leaned in and breathed.
The warmth spread through me fast, loosening everything it touched. The rooftop. The city. Tony's hands. The monitors.
Tony watched my face.
"Our star," he said softer this time. Both hands squeezed my hips once more, before releasing me. "Now go close this deal."
I came back through Nash's floor the way he had told me to. Nash was waiting near the center of the room. He stopped me with a hand at my shoulder and turned me once, his other hand at my waist, while the room watched. Someone started a slow clap. Another man joined. By the time Nash released me half the department was clapping and the other half was watching the monitors where Harry's camera was catching the whole thing live.
I crossed the floor in my flip flops and felt every eye follow me to the glass door.
I did not look back.
At just after one in the afternoon Max met me at the building entrance with the sealed package.
He held it out and looked at me with a calm, serious expression.
"Rock Hard Men Construction," he said. "Brett Callahan. Site hut at the edge of the sidewalk. I will be with you the entire time." He held my eyes. "Tony briefed you?"
"Yes," I said.
"Good." Max straightened the bow tie at my throat, then smoothed his palm down my chest, a gesture that was half professional and half something else. "The contract is in the package. Brett may want to talk numbers before he signs. I will handle that part. Your job is to model for Brett exactly what you as the brand are made of."
I nodded.
Max looked at me for a moment longer.
"You know why Mike brought you to Sydney?" he asked.
"The brand?" I asked. "The rugby team? The office?"
"All of that," Max said. "And the films, Brad. Harry has been building the library since your first week. The Milk Me channel. The stream. The magazine covers." His eyes stayed on mine. "That was always part of the plan. Mike envisioned this in Philadelphia. He saw your potential before you saw it yourself."
Part of me had learned quickly. The red lights blinking. Harry's camera constantly being inches from my face. The way Mike said they will remember this without ever explaining who they were.
I had just never thought it out loud.
"Does it change anything?" Max asked.
I thought about Franco's text. About Duny and the Penn athletic teams. About Timothy's voicemail from thirty thousand feet. About Jirko's elegant words. About Grayson Knight's twelve Philadelphia men asking how to reach Mike. About Carlos making his entire Brooklyn office stop working. About Cooper's straightforward pride. About Rhys Reeves sending that second text about the white wrestling singlet.
Eight men from across the world seeing my rising success.
"No," I said.
Max reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a small blue pill, holding it between two fingers. He looked at me the way he always did before something important. Direct. Certain. Like he already knew exactly how the afternoon was going to go.
"Mike's orders," he said. "Take it."
I did not ask what it was. I had learned not to ask. I placed it on my tongue and swallowed. Max watched my face until he was satisfied. A sly smile crossed his face. A man watching something he had been looking forward to finally arrive. Then his hand slid from the bow tie down my chest and stopped just above the waistband, his fingers playing with my pubic hair for a second. He looked at what his hand was touching.
The pill hit my system fast, warmth spreading low through my body, my cock throbbing hard against the thin neon fabric. I became suddenly aware of every man standing near me, their size, their smell, the heat coming off their skin. Max glanced down and gave a small satisfied nod. Then he tapped my chest once, light against my skin.
"Now you are ready," he said. "Let's go."
Max held the doors and we stepped out together onto the pavement.
The Rock Hard Men Construction crew working near the building saw us the moment we came outside.
The same men from this morning, hard hats and work shirts and the focused attention of men who had clearly been waiting for me. The first one to spot me nudged the man beside him. Then they all stopped.
The neon lime green shorts in the sun left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The bow tie at my throat somehow completed the outfit. From the looks on their faces they recognized me before I had taken five steps from the front glass doors.
A slow whistle cut through the afternoon air.
"There he is again," someone said. "Told you he would be back."
Max walked beside me, his hand just above my ass. As we walked his fingers slipped inside the back of my shorts and down into my cleft, pressing against my hole, feeling the warmth and moisture there. He said nothing. His hand stayed exactly where it was.
Brett Callahan was near the site hut. Athletic and fit, with the kind of body that came from hard physical work rather than a gym, his muscular forearms tanned under a work shirt with the sleeves torn off at the shoulder. Dark hair curling slightly on his forehead and at the top of his chest. A face that made people stop and look, striking features, blue eyes, the confident beauty of a man who had always known he was being looked at by other men.
He was attractive. My body responded to him instantly.
Max caught his eye and gave a slow wink. Brett smiled and looked straight at me.
"Brad," he said.
"Brett," I said.
Max extended his hand. "Max. I handle Brad's physical appearances and the Slutwear USA partnership logistics."
Brett shook it firmly, his eyes already returning to me. "Good to meet you both." He nodded toward the hut. "Come inside."
The hut was larger than it looked. Site plans and coffee cups on the long table. A small television in the corner. And on the wall beside it, pinned carefully among the safety notices and schedule sheets, a glossy magazine page slightly creased at the edges.
My face. The Bar Ho shorts. The Slutwear USA logo.
Brett saw me looking.
"The men put it up the day it came out," he said. "Good for morale." He paused. "We have twelve sites across New South Wales. That page is in every one of those huts."
I gave a small nod. "Tony mentioned your many work sites."
"Then Tony will have told you we are serious," Brett said.
"He did," I said.
Brett studied me carefully. "We want to sponsor Slutwear USA. Logo on our vehicles, our equipment, our gear, our site huts. In return we want you at our site launches, our end of project events, our crew gatherings. His eyes stayed on me. “Especially in the tiny thing you are wearing right now.”
Max pulled the package from under his arm and handed it to me to present to Brett. "Contract is inside. Terms are straightforward. I can walk you through the numbers."
"In a moment," Brett said.
Behind me the door opened and several of the crew filed in. Five of them, filling the small space with the smell of sweat and the charged energy of men who had been waiting for this moment since the magazine was released. They spread out through the hut.
I set the package on the table.
"Slutwear USA outfit samples and the sponsorship contract," I said.
Brett looked at the package. Then at me. His blue eyes moved over my tiny neon shorts, my bare chest, my bow tie, in the intentional way of a man who had been thinking about this all week.
"We will get to that," he said.
Max stood at the far end of the table with his copy of the contract open in front of him. He watched the room carefully, occasionally nodding at Brett and his crew. It was clear he approved of the attention focused on me. This was exactly how Mike wanted the Slutwear USA brand presented.
Brett stepped around the table. The other five construction men closed the space around me. One near the slightly opened door. Two along the wall. One sitting down on the bench, forearms on his knees, eyes fixed on me. One standing close enough that I could smell the sweat on his skin.
I stood in the center of the hut.
Brett's hands went to my waist. He looked at me the way he had from across the sidewalk a few moments earlier, like he already knew exactly what he wanted.
"You know what we said when the magazine came out?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"We said Mike's Office Boy looks like he was made for this." His hands stayed at my waist. "We were right."
Then the crew moved in. Hands found me from every direction simultaneously. Brett's hands stayed at my waist while another pair landed firmly on my shoulders. Someone behind me pressed both palms flat against my back and slid them slowly downward. Someone crouched under Brett in front of me, eye level with my crotch, his face upturned, looking at me with an expression that was nothing but pure lust.
The shorts did nothing to stop them. Fingers worked the waistband from behind, pulling the fabric down my glutes and exposing them fully to the cool air conditioning of the hut and to the rough hands that claimed them immediately. The man crouched pulled the neon shorts the rest of the way down my legs, lifting each of my feet free.
Brett watched his crew work with the sharp eyes of a foreman overseeing a job.
One of the crew said quietly, almost to himself, "Fuck, he really is a porn star."
Not to me. To the room. Confirming something they already knew.
Brett leaned in until his mouth was close to my ear. "We have watched your films every night this past week," he said. "Every single one of us." His hands spread across my glutes, fingers pressing deep into the muscle. "We have been counting down for this afternoon."
The men lifted me onto the table. The site plans were pushed to the floor. Hands spread me open and arranged me, positioning me on my back. My legs were lifted toward my shoulders, held there by two of the crew, one on each side, exposing my hole completely under the hut's overhead light.
Brett stood between my raised legs and looked down at me for a long moment, his tanned handsome face, his blue eyes fixed on mine.
"Beautiful hole," he said quietly. He lowered his head and his tongue found my entrance. I arched off the table with a moan that surprised even me.
He took his time with me, holding me open while he rimmed me with his wet tongue for several minutes. His hands gripped my thighs and held me right where he wanted me.
One of the crew members stepped to the head of the table. Built the way all of them were built, athletic through the arms and chest, his work shirt open at the collar. He freed his cock, already hard, and held it in front of my mouth.
"Open up, mate," he said.
I did not hesitate. My lips closed around him, his head fell back, and his hand came to rest on top of my head. I knew this was how Max wanted me to act.
Brett stood and pressed himself against my entrance. He pushed in slowly, watching my face as he did. My mouth engulfed the cock I was sucking and another moan came out of me that made the handsome man above me groan in return.
Brett began to move. Long and deep, each thrust rocking my body up the table. His hands held my hips with the strength of a man who worked with his hands every day, positioning me exactly where he wanted me with each stroke.
The crew rotated without missing a beat. One gave way to another, dirty blond hair, broader through the shoulders, who cupped my jaw with one hand and guided me with a steady commentary of whispered praises that I felt as much as heard. His cock was thick, leaking precum, and he used my mouth with the same persistence as Brett.
My cock was being stroked throughout, one of the crew at the side of the table, his hand milking me without stopping, spreading my own precum along my shaft with each stroke. Another pair of hands found my nipples and stayed there, teasing them lightly, the sensation running through my body.
The little brown bottle appeared. Max stepped forward from the end of the table and held it under my nose.
"Give them everything, Brad," he said quietly. "Do not hold back."
I breathed in once on each side. The hut grew very warm and very close, every sensation building and blurring at the same time in exactly the right way.
Brett fucked me deeply, through it all his eyes watching my face, missing nothing. He was beautiful in the way that physical men are beautiful when they are doing something they are genuinely good at.
"You feel just like the films," he said. Not loudly. Just to me.
I stole a glance at Max. He nodded once more.
The man in my mouth groaned and tightened his grip on my face and released his cum down my throat, thick and warm, his whole-body shuddering as I worked him through it. I swallowed and he stepped back and was immediately replaced by the third, who took my face in both hands and looked down at me with an expression of gratitude before turning me toward him.
Brett's pace changed. The long-controlled thrusts gave way to something more urgent and harder, the table moving beneath us, the coffee cups rattling on the shelf nearby, the small television shifting in its mount on the wall. All of it trembling in the air of a hut being used exactly as the foreman intended.
When Brett pulled out without warning and left my stretched hole exposed, another member of the crew turned me onto my hands and knees into the downward frog yoga position. My head, shoulders, chest resting on the table, knees spread, ass in the air. He fucked me from behind with one firm push and then bent forward and put his lips close to my ear and said things that made my body respond before my mind had registered the words. He fucked me with a focus that had me grabbing the edges of the table and pressing back against him.
A hand reached under me and gripped my cock. I cried out.
"Easy," the man behind me said, not slowing at all. "We have got you, Office Boy."
The fifth man came to my mouth while the fourth continued behind me. The man working my cock never slowed. My whole body felt occupied at once, taken in every direction, and I surrendered to all of it.
Max smirked with approval.
“Make the men happy,” he said.
I lost track of exactly what was going on. I knew only heat and hands and the sounds made by men who had waited a week for this afternoon and were making the most of every minute of it. The crude praise was constant, comments on my body and my responsiveness and the way I took everything offered to me.
The last release was Brett's. He had waited, watching his crew, directing the room with small signals and quiet words, and now he took his place again and entered me. He fucked me with total attention, his hands at my hips holding me exactly where he wanted me until the very last moment when he drove and held there and I felt him release deep inside me, his breath escaping in a long exhale.
I came without a hand on me. My cock shot across the table below me in long, hard pulses while Brett remained inside me and the man who had been stroking me wrapped his hand around my shaft and worked me through every wave until I had nothing left, my head resting still on the table as I breathed.
The hut was quiet.
Six working men. One table. One unforgettable workday in Sydney. Brett Callahan and his crew had just given me the most intense gang fuck.
Brett looked down at me with those blue eyes and said, "Good boy."
Up on the executive floor of the Milk Me Company, Mike stood at the window looking down at the site hut below. Harry stood beside him, the camera on its mount, the long lens angled toward the hut's windows and the gap where the door had been partially left open.
The red light blinked steadily.
Harry adjusted the lens angle, capturing the moments as they came through the openings, the movements inside the hut, the sounds that carried faintly up to their window where the two men stood.
Mike watched the hut with a hopeful look on his face.
"Is it a perfect scene?" he asked.
"It is a perfect scene," Harry said.
Mike nodded. His eyes stayed on the hut below.
He was smiling now.
Brett signed the contract a few minutes later using his own pen. He pressed it flat against the table and signed his name clearly at the bottom. Max countersigned on behalf of the Milk Me Company and Slutwear USA, his handwriting very neat.
Brett looked at me once while he signed.
"Tell Mike we are very happy with the arrangement," he said.
"I will," I said.
Brett turned the signed contract toward me and kept it a moment.
His eyes found mine.
"You are exactly what the magazine said you were," he told me.
Max took the contract. Tucked it under his arm and turned toward the door.
We stepped back out into the afternoon Sydney sun.
The Rock Hard Men crew still working outside turned when I came out of the hut. They saw the look of me immediately. My skin was flushed and damp. My hair was pushed back and still carrying the evidence of dried cum. On my chest, my collarbone and in my pubic hair were white traces of what had happened inside that hut, the marks of a young American man who had given a Sydney construction crew everything they had been looking at on their wall for a week.
People on the sidewalk slowed when they saw me. A man in a suit stopped walking entirely. Max slowed our pace. The man stared. So Max let him.
One of the construction men touched the brim of his hard hat with a grin on his face.
Another gave a long low whistle, the appreciative kind.
A third said simply, "You are going to be a legend."
I flashed several months back and thought about the night I had snuck naked into Carlos's bedroom just to be seen through a glass door. I remembered being nervous putting on a transparent singlet for two men in a Philadelphia wrestling room. I had not known what I was yet. I was just a young man who said yes to what was asked of me and my job at the Milk Me Company.
Max stepped in front of me. He looked me over once and then placed his hand on my ass and we walked back toward the building together.
The sun was warm on my bare chest. The bow tie still sat at my throat, small and perfectly in place, the only piece of clothing that had remained on me all afternoon.
"Brett is a good man," Max said quietly as we walked. "Mike will be pleased."
"The contract is signed," I said.
He held the door and we went back inside.
The lobby reacted when I came back through the doors. The monitors caught me immediately, Harry's cameras picking up my return and running it live across the building. The security desk guard gave a small nod.
I crossed the marble floor in my flip flops.
The lobby was quiet as I walked through.
Tony stepped off the escalator as I reached it, jacket on now, phone in hand. He stopped when he saw me and looked me over. His eyes moved across my chest, my hair, the dried remains of cum still visible on my skin.
His face broke into that wide warm grin.
"Brett texted me," he said. "Said you were exceptional."
"He signed the contract," I said.
Tony laughed. "I knew he would." He reached out and straightened the bow tie at my throat, his eyes dropping briefly to the state of my chest before coming back up. "Mike is waiting. Go up."
He stepped aside and I went up the escalator.
Mike's door was open.
He was at the window when I walked in, looking out over the hut. Harry was at a station set up in the corner, the monitor showing the feed from the afternoon's window camera. The red light blinked steadily.
Mike turned when he heard my flip flops.
He looked at me for a long moment. The shorts. The bow tie. Dried cum plainly on my skin, the flush still in my face, the evidence of the encounter with the construction men still visible on my body hair and across my chest. Then he crossed the room toward me and his hand came to rest on my shoulder.
"How does it feel?" he asked quietly. "Knowing that you are our brand now."
I held his eyes.
Something shifted in my chest. The same shift I had been feeling for the last few weeks, the one I had finally stopped trying to name.
"Proud," I said.
Mike held my shoulder for a moment longer. Then he nodded, slow.
"Another incredible performance," he said. "My Chosen Jock."
The red light blinked steadily in the corner.
Max stood beside a smiling Harry, his arms crossed, watching the feed with the satisfied look of men pleased by what had just happened in the hut.
And I stood exactly where Mike had placed me, breathing, present, fully lit, completely seen.
His Office Boy.
His Brand.
His Porn Star.
His.
Author is Brad
My email is [email protected]. Feel free to reach out. I always enjoy hearing from readers.
I love getting men excited, whether it is through my writing, watching me grind out reps in skin tight gear at the gym, showing off online, or moving my body on a stage.
I will stay hard for you in every way that matters.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
