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.
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Office Boy
After what unexpectedly happened with Tony in his office that morning, the rest of my workday slipped by in a blur. I moved through vendor calls and confirmations, aware that word of my hire had already spread. Several vendors mentioned how excited they were to be working with me, some flirting openly without trying to hide it. A few commented on my American accent; others told me how young and handsome I looked on screen. I pretended not to notice — but I did.
Mike left early for his meeting at the Sydney City Hall to discuss next week’s athlete conference. Over three hundred sport-minded men were arriving in the city to explore investment opportunities, including with the Milk Me Company. Before he walked out, Mike told me to head home early and get some rest. Almost as an afterthought, he added that he had scheduled a massage for me the next day, saying I looked “tired” in a way that made my face blush.
Heath drove me home shortly after. By the time I reached my apartment, exhaustion had caught up with me. I showered, lay down for “just a minute,” and fell asleep by 7:00 PM.
When the morning sunlight peeked through the curtains, I lay still for a moment, letting my mind settle and the day ahead come into focus. A note from Jai—everyone’s favorite concierge—reminded me what Mike wanted me to wear. I went straight to the shower, letting the warm water loosen my muscles and wash away yesterday. By the time I stepped out and dried off, I felt ready to begin the day.
I walked into my closet and found the outfit exactly as Jai had described—the dark navy thong, the thin white shirt, and the white seersucker pants. Charles had carefully tailored all three pieces for me.
I slipped into the thong first, the soft fabric hugging my hips with a smooth, firm hold. The waistband rested low, tracing the shape of my hips, while the back disappeared between my muscular glutes. Every angle emphasized my athletic shape—the strength in my legs, the round curve of my ass, the body I had built through wrestling. The navy thong felt barely there, yet impossible to ignore, doing exactly what it was designed to do.
Then I slipped on and buttoned the thin, snowy-white shirt, letting it rest against my chest and shoulders. The top was left open as instructed, revealing part of my upper chest while still looking professional.
Finally, I pulled on the seersucker pants. As they slid on, I understood exactly what Charles had intended. Every seam traced the shape of my thighs with careful precision. The white material was incredibly light, cupping my glutes without any excess fabric. The tailoring was deliberate—precision-tight. In the light, the navy outline of my thong showed clearly through the fabric. The outfit looked polished and athletic, designed to draw attention. I was not sure if I should feel proud or nervous.
Charles had warned me with a smile that the new pieces he was making were meant to flatter, but standing in front of the mirror, I realized he meant more than that. The outfit was not just well fitted—it was revealing. Every curve of my body felt highlighted, shaped with such care that it seemed intentional. Knowing he had pinned and adjusted every inch after measuring my build made the fit feel personal, as if the clothes were designed only for me.
“You have no idea how much your colleagues enjoy the way you have been dressing for work,” Heath said as we pulled away from the curb. “Those seersucker pants especially—people are going to have a hard time pretending not to notice how they fit over that ass of yours. Whoever dropped this outfit idea in the Suggestion Box clearly had a sense of humor.”
“Um… thank you,” I said. “I hope the wardrobe recommendations are helping me fit in with everyone.”
Heath let out a soft laugh. “Oh, Brad, you are doing much more than fitting in. Mike told me yesterday that you are becoming the company’s New Star. People notice you the moment you step off the elevator—your glutes, your legs, the way your waist tapers. You move through the company like a fitness model on a runway.”
The rest of the ride shifted into a lighter conversation. Heath asked if I had found time to go dancing at the Oxford Nightclub.
“Not yet,” I said. “Maybe Friday night.”
Heath lit up. “Oh, if you go to the Oxford, you should wear something that shows off your athletic legs and that ass. With the build you have, you were made to stand out in a crowded dance club.”
My pulse jumped at how casually he said it.
After Heath dropped me off, I did not even make it halfway up the sidewalk before the street construction crew turned their heads in my direction. The bright morning sun hit the seersucker fabric just right as I walked by, making the outline of my thong impossible to miss.
One young worker stopped his hammer swing and shouted, “Walk back this way, Baby Boy! Damn—look at that ass! You are candy to my eyes!”
Another worker leaned against a barricade up ahead, openly staring from my chest down to my hips. “Brother… you are a hot, muscular young man. That outfit? Perfect. That thong? Even better.”
The group’s whistles and loud catcalls made my stomach twist with embarrassment. I whispered to myself, “I hope I make it through the day.”
Inside the company’s first-floor lobby, a few men were scattered across the space, most of the staff still on their way in. Even at the early hour, their reaction was immediate.
The moment I stepped inside, heads lifted. Conversations trailed off. A couple of men paused mid-stride to take me in. The open white shirt showing my upper chest, the tight seersucker pants hugging every curve of my thighs and ass, the visible strap of the navy thong—they did not just look. They stared.
A few men even turned their bodies slightly just to follow me with an obvious appreciative gaze.
One of the department managers muttered under his breath, thinking I could not hear him,
“God… Brad is unreal.”
I could feel my face blush as I crossed the foyer toward the elevator, like I was walking under a spotlight. Their eyes never left me, almost claiming me just by looking—admiring every inch they could see.
When the elevator arrived on the first floor, I felt a subtle shift behind me—more footsteps than usual, more bodies closing in. By the time the doors slid open, a crowd of men had gathered as if they all needed to ride up at the same time.
They waited for me to step in first.
I moved to the center of the elevator, and they packed in behind me, around me, pressing close. The elevator, normally empty at this hour, filled fast—shoulders brushing mine, chests pressing into my back. The air felt thick with male energy. I tried to stay calm, hoping no one noticed how nervous I felt.
When I finally looked up, Tony was there—facing me, close enough that our bodies nearly touched. He looked at my open collar, then at me. He smiled.
“I like your shirt today,” he said softly, his voice warm near my cheek.
“I do not mind wearing lighter fabrics,” I managed.
His eyes flicked down my torso, then back up. “I can tell.”
The elevator began to move upward, the space tightening around us.
And then it happened.
A hand slid between the front of my thighs.
Not brushing—grabbing. Full, deliberate pressure against my bulge, fingers testing how hard I already was.
I sucked in a breath.
Another hand claimed one side of my ass, squeezing firmly through the thin seersucker fabric. With the pants being paper thin, the grip felt like a bare palm. A second hand joined it, groping the other cheek, massaging, exploring.
The fingers were not timid. They lifted, pressed, spread— handling me like I had no say in their behavior.
Then a third hand struck—fingers sliding between my cheeks and finding my thong strap. Not just a tug, but a firm pull, drawing it up deep until the thin string disappeared.
A soft moan left my lips.
The men did not pause as the hand at my bulge tightened its grip, the thumb tracing the outline of my cock through the seersucker. They all touched me with confidence that left me unsure how to react.
Someone behind me murmured, low and hungry, “Good boy…”
I froze.
I could not move. I could not see who was touching me. I was pinned in place—pressed between bodies, forced to stare at Tony and the elevator doors while unseen hands groped me in the cramped space.
Tony acted like he did not see any of it. But his eyes told another story.
“So,” he whispered, his chest brushing mine, “how is your morning so far?”
I whimpered, quiet and humiliated, aroused all the same, as Tony’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.
“Yeah,” he whispered, “that is what I thought.”
My office was on one of the top floors, which meant that with each stop, the same thing happened—men squeezing past me, their hands brushing my hips, my thighs, my lower back. Sometimes the touches felt “accidental,” but most of the time they were not.
When the elevator finally emptied, the constant bumps and groping faded. The last few riders stepped off, leaving only Tony and me as we continued toward the executive floor. The sudden quiet made the space feel smaller, more intimate between us. I could still feel the memory of every hand that had touched me, my body still reacting. Tony said nothing. He just looked at me the way he always did — like he already knew exactly what I was thinking.
Tony let his eyes drift slowly down my body once more, taking in the open white shirt, the tight seersucker pants, the faint outline of the thong riding high between my glutes.
“Brad,” he said softly, “you look incredible today. Those muscles, with that thong underneath those light pants. You are going to be a hit.”
He smiled and leaned closer. “Everyone is going to want to talk to you. New colleagues, new teams, people you have never met—they will be lining up. You are going to be the most popular man in the building today.”
I swallowed, unsure what to say.
Tony continued, his tone turning almost playful. “I might even throw together a little impromptu rugby happy hour up in the company bar after work. The team would love to meet you.”
My heart skipped.
“I would love for them to see you in this outfit,” he added. “Your muscles look impressive under that fabric. Especially your glutes. You are built, Brad. Really athletically built.”
I felt myself blush again.
When the elevator doors opened, Tony stepped out with me and lowered his voice.
“I will message you the happy hour details if I can pull it off,” he said. “Enjoy your massage. I will make sure anything delivered for it is set up exactly how Mike wants.”
I blinked, caught off guard. How did he know about my massage appointment?
Before I could ask, Tony walked away down the hallway, giving me one last slow look over. “You look striking,” he whispered to me.
I slipped into my small office and tried to focus on work right away. My mind kept circling back to the same question: How did Tony know about my massage appointment? Something about it made my stomach anxious.
I had Mike’s computer booted up and his coffee ready by the time he arrived. As always, he greeted me with calm authority and asked me to come into his office to go over the day’s schedule. Just like the other mornings, he gestured for me to stand in the center of the room so he could look over the outfit he had chosen for me.
I did not question Mike. I was becoming more comfortable with the idea of modeling my athletic build—my tapered waist, my bubble butt, my hard-trained quads. But today felt different. Riskier. I was simply wearing what I had been told to wear.
I had begun turning around for Mike when the office door opened and Harry from Security stepped inside. He was a compact, athletic man — built like a baseball shortstop, lean and solid, the kind of body that drew a second look once you noticed how hard he had worked for it. He stopped mid-stride, caught off guard. His stare moved from my shirt to my pants and back up again, slow and deliberate, as though he was assessing how the outfit sat on my body rather than simply looking at it.
“Brad,” Harry said with a low breath, “what a provocative outfit you have on today. I swear, I look forward to seeing what you are wearing every morning.”
Mike chuckled in agreement.
“Yes, Brad. We stocked your clothes closet very well before you arrived from Philadelphia. Whoever put this outfit in the Suggestion Box deserves a free coffee today.”
Harry laughed. “That is brilliant—having employees slip wardrobe ideas for Brad into the box. Who came up with that?”
“The lobby staff called me yesterday,” Mike replied. “Apparently multiple suggestions showed up for what Brad should wear. It seems the whole building likes participating.”
My chest tightened.
Harry kept staring openly, his eyes lingering on the exact places where my pants clung the tightest.
Mike watched me with quiet satisfaction—his Office Boy standing there, completely unaware of how effortlessly I was slipping into a role I did not know was being created for me.
A moment later, Mike shifted the mood with a subtle cue. He guided Harry and me to the large conference table, seating the two of us across from him. Even sitting down, I felt exposed—my seersucker pants pulling snug across my thighs, my open shirt revealing my chest. Neither Mike nor Harry seemed shy about looking.
Mike began outlining plans for next week’s Milk the Boy Athlete Conference. I tried to take notes, but it was difficult to focus with both men glancing at my body as if it were part of the agenda. I learned that most of the conference guests would be staying at several hotels near my apartment.
Then Mike leaned back in his chair, eyes warm and direct. “Brad,” he said, “I would like you to join me and help show our attendees the club scene during their stay.”
My heart jumped. Me? Showing off the nightlife?
Before I could respond, Harry let out a low chuckle.
“That is perfect,” he said. “A young, built man like you can handle going all day and all night. You have the energy for it—and the look.”
My face warmed immediately.
Mike nodded. “We will have an unlimited budget, Brad. Whatever our guests need—drinks, tables, VIP service—we will charge it. Your role will be to make sure they have a great time.”
It felt strange hearing it said so plainly, like I was not being asked but assigned to being the entertainment. A host. A trophy. Something on display.
Our meeting lasted for several more minutes. As Harry stood to leave, he paused at the door and looked back at Mike.
“Mind if I drop a couple outfit suggestions in the box for Brad?” he asked, eyes drifting down my chest, then lower. “I have a few ideas I would love to see him wear around the office.”
Mike smirked, gave him a slow wink, and replied, “I would be happy to look at anything you recommend for our New Star.”
The word Star made my stomach flip. Everyone had started calling me that lately—The New Star. Like I was suddenly someone they all noticed.
As I began to step out of Mike’s office, he called after me and carefully handed me a small blue pill.
“Brad. Your appointment with Arad is set for 1:00. Tony helped coordinate it. It will be up in one of the locker room offices. Take this little blue pill now. It might help your senses even more during the massage.”
I froze halfway into the hallway. The massage. At work. Up in the locker room.
Before I could respond, Harry—who had been lingering just outside—turned back toward Mike and said loudly,
“I already set the lighting for the massage. Soft. Warm. Perfect for him.”
Why was Harry involved? Why were they talking about the lighting? It was just a massage, was it not? I had become overwhelmed. Embarrassed.
I swallowed the blue pill.
For the next several hours, I kept one eye on Mike’s schedule and the other on research for Sydney’s club scene. I even emailed Tony and Heath for their favorite theme nights; both replied quickly with bold suggestions on where we should take our guests and even what I should wear.
When my phone’s alarm buzzed at 12:30, I wrapped up my work and headed to the locker room for a quick shower before the massage. But the moment I pushed open the door, I nearly ran straight into Tony and Harry. They were just leaving—together.
Both of them paused to look me over slowly, their eyes traveling across my open shirt and tight seersucker pants.
“All set for you, Brad,” Tony said, his voice warm.
Harry added, “The lighting is perfect. Just relax and enjoy.”
They exchanged a knowing glance before walking out, leaving me standing there, heart thumping.
I stopped trying to question why they were so involved. If Mike wanted the two of them preparing my massage, then that is what they needed to do.
I took my time in the shower. After the stressful morning of conference planning, the heat felt incredible, steam circling around me and loosening my muscles. I caught my reflection in the mirror that lined the shower cubicle. My body looked pumped, toned and strong at the same time.
When I slid the door open, a soft white terry-cloth robe was waiting right outside my stall. I had not seen anyone place it there. Someone must have been watching.
I left my towel behind and slipped into the robe, the fabric brushing lightly against my hips and glutes as I walked down the hallway toward the room Mike had created for my massage.
When I stepped inside, my breath caught for a moment. A striking Middle Eastern man stood waiting for me. Athletic. Impressive. Built perfectly.
Dark, short curls topped his head, and a very short, neatly trimmed black beard shadow outlined his face. His tight white short-sleeve buttoned shirt clung to heavy pecs and biceps, and he had left the top two buttons undone, exposing warm brown skin and a powerful chest. His matching white slacks hugged thick quads and a narrow waist.
He stood just shy of six feet tall, poised and calm, completely at ease. His bright white smile flashed at me the second I entered.
“You must be Brad,” the man said. “The new Office Boy everyone’s been talking about.”
He told me his name was Arad, and that his family was from Tehran. Something about him made it impossible to look away. He was not just attractive; he had a presence that demanded attention. Something about him made my body react instantly, like my muscles did not know whether to tense or melt.
He nodded toward the table. “Slip out of your robe, Brad. Face-down, please.”
I did exactly what he asked.
I untied the robe and let it fall from my shoulders, the cool air brushing against my skin as I climbed onto the massage table. The leather surface felt new, smooth and high quality. Even the headrest was covered in soft fabric so it would not stick to my face. Everything in the room had been prepared perfectly for me.
The lighting confirmed it. Dozens of small spotlights were aimed directly at the table, casting a bright glow on my back and legs, while the rest of the room stayed dim. I thought whoever set up the lights had not been thinking about comfort. They were thinking about presentation. My eyes moved around the room instinctively — the corners, the shelves, the molding above the door — the way you do when something feels deliberately arranged.
The wall to the right of the massage table was covered in a floor-to-ceiling mirror. It seemed like an odd choice for a massage room, and the placement felt too intentional to ignore. From the table, I could see every detail of my body, how my shoulders rested, how my spine aligned, even the angle of my legs. It did not feel decorative. It felt like something meant for observation, as if the room had been designed more for watching.
Arad did not speak. He simply rested his hands on my shoulders, as if assessing me and deciding where to start. His touch was firm and steady, and I felt my muscles slowly relax.
The moment his warm and powerful fingers touched my skin, a soft moan left my lips before I could stop it.
“Good,” he murmured, like he expected that reaction.
He encouraged my legs to spread wider, his palms pressing gently but firmly against my inner thighs until they opened on instinct. Then he reached forward and lifted my arms so they stretched above my head, fully lengthened, leaving every part of me exposed and vulnerable.
He never once offered a towel. Not for modesty. Not for warmth.
My young athletic frame remained fully uncovered, my muscular glutes catching every beam of light, lifted and displayed on the table.
The room felt strange, like a stage built just for my body, making everyone look right at me. I was lying naked, stretched out, lit up like an exhibit while Arad’s hands started their slow, expert work. Every touch drew another quiet, helpless sound from my throat.
“I have never given a massage in a room this bright or in front of a mirror so large,” he admitted, guiding his hands along my back as if checking for alignment. “Normally, I work a few doors down in a much cozier room. Either way, Harry told me not to adjust these lights. He said they were installed specifically for your session.”
“For me?” I whispered into the headrest.
He nodded. “Yes. Harry said the brightness would help the cameras pick up my technique more clearly.”
Cameras. The word floated throughout my mind. I could not tell if Arad meant security cameras or something else entirely.
He sprinkled warm oil across my back, my ass, my thighs, slow, generous streams that made me gasp softly. Then he rubbed it in with long, broad movements that made my muscles loosen in ways I did not know they could.
A moan slipped out. Then another. Quiet, helpless sounds I could not stop. Arad laughed under his breath, amused. “Good. Let it out, Brad.”
His hands felt amazing. Strong, oil-slicked fingers moved over my shoulders, my back, and every muscle I worked so hard to develop. Each motion was slow, meant to help me feel comfortable. I was melting under him.
The stress of my first week, the anxiety about the upcoming conference, even the confusion about the cameras all vanished as his palms relaxed me on his table.
All I could feel was him. All I could hear was my own breathing. All I could do was moan softly as this fit Persian touched me exactly how he wanted, and I could not get enough.
“You are in remarkable athletic shape,” he said. “A body like this, it shows discipline. Dedication. Pride.”
I let out another sigh, unsure how to respond to his compliment.
“However, your muscles are very tight, Brad,” Arad whispered. “Mike was right to schedule you a session, as you clearly need someone who knows how to work your muscles.”
Arad lingered a moment longer at the base of my back, his hands resting with a kind of admiration.
“Athletes like you,” he said quietly, “deserve to have their entire body given proper attention.”
The way Arad said the compliment sent a shock straight to my already-stirring cock as my reflection in the mirror hid nothing.
He worked my lower back, his thumbs digging into the knots with perfect pressure that felt incredible. I let my legs fall open wider, a silent invitation he gladly accepted.
The handsome man’s hands slid lower, cupping my glutes. It was not a move I knew from any massage I had ever received from the team trainer in college. Arad held me there, his thumbs tracing the outer edge of the muscles along my hips and legs. I inhaled, my hips shifting slightly against his touch, making me feel seen in a way I could not explain.
“Such a powerful ass,” he whispered. “So perfectly defined.”
Arad’s fingers continued to move, dipping into the cleft of my ass and spreading me open. The air hit my most private place, causing me to shudder. He poured more warm oil there, the slick lubricant trickling down in a stream. His thumb circled my tight hole. The earlier thought about the room’s cameras and the potential of an unseen audience made every touch feel even more intense.
“Just relaxing your muscles,” he breathed.
My body seemed to loosen the more Arad touched me, moaning freely as he pressed against the tight ring of my rosebud. I resisted for only a second before yielding, allowing the very tip of his thumb to sink inside my hole. Oh, God. My back arched. Although the stretch was minimal, it was a tiny promise of what was to come.
He worked that single finger with expert precision, in and out, a slow rhythm that caused me to want to push back. The bright spotlights above me highlighted each twitch, each clench, each movement I made. I was completely at his mercy.
When Arad added a second finger, the stretch somehow made my cock throb. Precum soaked the leather beneath my stomach.
Arad leaned over me; his lips close to my ear. “You take it so well, Brad. They are going to love watching this.”
They. I did not know why anyone would want to watch me. However, Arad’s masterful touch and the many possible eyes on me made me feel like I was at the edge of something I did not understand.
With a final, deep thrust of his fingers, he found my prostate. Pleasure rushed up my spine. My whole body seized, a cry ripped from my throat as my cock jerked openly, shooting my released cum onto the table beneath me in pulsing waves. The feeling was overwhelming, pulling every ounce of tension from my body. I was a mess.
Arad withdrew his fingers. He ran a soothing hand up and over the curve of my ass as I came down, my breathing unsteady. He said nothing, letting my sounds fill the room.
His voice pulled me back to the moment, soft but firm. “Please turn over, Brad.”
My body felt loose and relaxed, but I managed to roll onto my back, my cock sticking to my stomach. I remained vulnerable and exposed under the glaring lights and in front of the large mirror. Arad’s dark eyes looked over my body before locking onto mine with a hot, intense stare. A moan left my lips as his hand wrapped around my softening erection, smearing my cum over my sensitive cock.
Arad arranged me on the table exactly how he wanted, spreading my legs apart and guiding my wrists together before placing them behind my head. “The cameras are getting a perfect view of your front side,” he whispered. He began to stroke my cock, slow and firm, and I started to harden again in his grasp. “They see how beautiful you are like this. How responsive.”
His other hand found my right nipple, lightly teasing and rolling the peaked nub. He was bringing me back to arousal, far quicker than I thought possible.
He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his warm breath brushing against my lips. “I think the men watching us would want to see more,” he murmured, his voice low and intent. His hand tightened around my cock, fully hard once more, throbbing and leaking fresh precum onto his fingers. “I even want to see more,” he added.
Arad’s dark eyes held mine, searching for my submission, my surrender. I found myself giving in to him without resistance, my body hungry for his touch.
“Are you ready to give them more of a show?” Arad asked, almost teasing. His firm strokes quickened, each one drawing another bead of precum from my tip. I moaned as my hips lifted from the table, searching for more friction, more pressure, eager to please my masseur.
Arad laughed softly. “That’s it, Brad. Let them see how much your body wants this.” He shifted his stance, his free hand sliding up my chest to tease my nipple again. I was completely at his mercy.
“God, you are beautiful like this,” he whispered, his voice full of desire. “You look so desperate, so needy.” His hand on my cock slowed just enough to make me whimper, the tease unbearable. The cameras, the spotlights, and him all fed into the desire taking over me.
“We are giving them a milking performance they will never forget,” Arad said. His hand resumed a quick, relentless pace, driving me toward the edge. My moans grew louder as the tension built again. I was close, so close.
With a deep cry, I came hard, ropes of cum spilling across my chest as Arad milked every last drop from me. My body shook with waves of pleasure as I lay there, completely spent. Although his hand slowed, he did not stop, drawing out my orgasm until I was nothing more than a trembling, gasping mess once more.
“Perfect,” he said, leaning back to admire me. “They are going to love this.” As I lay there under the bright lights, I could not help but wonder what would come next.
“I firmly believe you will keep learning what men want to view,” Arad whispered, his voice low with seduction. “You already have everything it takes—and more—to entertain our hungry eyes.”
I lay there in the afterglow, my breathing still uneven, the oil warm on my skin under the bright lights. The room felt different suddenly — heavier, charged. Arad had stepped back, his hands no longer moving, and I became aware of how completely exposed I was — stretched out on the table, spent and glistening under the spotlights, the mirror showing every detail of my body from every angle. I had the sudden, growing feeling that this was not an ending. It was a pause. Like something had been building toward this long before I walked through the door.
On cue, Harry opened the door and stepped in with a camera in hand, a sly grin on his face. “I hope you do not mind, Brad,” he said, his stare fixed on my oil-slicked body. “Mike and Tony are here as well. We want to make sure this massage setting is fully captured.”
My heart raced as they entered the room, their eyes taking in the scene. Mike's commanding presence filled the space, while Tony's playful smirk hinted at the mischief to come. Arad stepped back slightly, allowing them to take center stage.
“Brad,” Mike said, his voice low and firm, “we have been waiting for this moment. Let us make it unforgettable for the camera.”
Tony’s athletic rugby frame leaned over me as his fingers traced the curve of my thigh. “You have perfect form just lying there,” he said, his voice full of admiration. “All that muscle, all that wrestling power—yet here you are, in a position you never imagined.” I gulped.
“Just relax, Brad,” Harry said. “We are all here to enjoy you spread out on the table. You are doing so well. Just let it go.”
Arad moved in from the other side, uncapping his bottle of oil and pouring a generous amount onto my chest. The warm liquid spread over my pecs before running down my sides. “Such a finely crafted body,” he told the others. “Every inch of Brad begs to be touched.”
The combination of their attention—Mike’s passion, Tony’s energy, Harry’s direction, and Arad’s expertise—was almost too much to handle. My body felt overwhelmed, every touch intensified by the blinding lights and the knowledge that I was being watched, admired, and desired.
Arad’s hands moved in slow, provocative strokes over my body and along my cock. “I hope you are enjoying being the show,” he whispered, his voice low and husky. “Because this is only the beginning.”
“Look at you, Brad,” Mike said, as if admiring a work of art rather than a young man naked and spread out on a massage table. His fingers brushed my shoulder. “Our American Office Boy. Our Star. Laid out just for us.”
Harry’s camera red light blinked steadily, a reminder that this moment was not just for them. “Keep spreading the oil, Arad,” Harry instructed. “I want to see you touch every angle of Brad.”
Mike stepped to the head of the table, his smile warm and possessive. “Brad is so eager to please,” he said. “Our boy does not even realize how handsome he is, or the effect he has on others.”
“Let us get a better look at his best feature,” Tony added, his voice full of trouble. He hooked his hands under my knees, his grip firm, pushing my legs back toward my chest and spreading me open. Cool air brushed over me, and I gasped.
“God, look at that,” Harry said from behind the camera. “An ideal, muscular bubble butt with a tight, pink center. Moist and waiting. Get a close-up of that, Arad.”
Arad’s oil-slicked thumb returned, circling my entrance with smooth pressure. Damn. My head fell back against the table as a low groan slipped from my throat. My cock, already hard and leaking again, shuddered against my stomach.
Mike’s hand found my right pec. He lightly teased and rolled it, a touch that made my back arch from the table. “Such a response,” he murmured. “Your nipple reacts so fast.”
The combined touch of Arad’s thumb and Mike’s fingers short-circuited my thoughts. Pleasure surged through my nervous system. I was their live wire—their toy to use.
Tony leaned in, his breath hot on my inner thigh. “Think he can take more?” he asked, his eyes fixed on where Arad’s thumb worked me open.
“Let us find out,” Mike commanded. “Arad, work that hole.”
With a slick, popping sound, Arad withdrew his thumb. A quiet click followed—more oil. Then the firm press of three fingers, held together, returned against my resisting muscle, and instead of fighting it, I relaxed and let my body respond the way the men wanted.
“Breathe out, Brad,” Arad instructed. I obeyed, exhaling.
“Our Office Boy is taking the fingers,” Tony growled, his arousal clear in the tightness of his voice. He openly pressed against his pants; his eyes locked on the point where Arad’s three fingers disappeared into me.
Harry’s camera lens zoomed in. “Beautiful,” he said. “The way Brad’s body opens for you, Arad. Gorgeous.”
Arad moved his fingers in a slow, deliberate scissoring motion that made me see stars. Each inward press brushed that deep, delicate place, sending pure sensation straight through me.
“I think he needs a little more encouragement,” Mike said smoothly. He looked toward Harry. “The bottle.”
Harry did not miss a beat. He set the camera on a tripod, fixing it on the scene, and pulled a small, dark glass bottle from his pocket. He unscrewed the cap, and a sweet, chemical scent cut through the room’s sandalwood air. Poppers.
He brought it to my nose. “Deep breath in, Brad,” Harry instructed, his demeanor making the act feel obscene. I was too far gone to question it. I obeyed and inhaled.
The poppers hit like lightning—sharp, chemical, blinding—and suddenly nothing mattered except belonging completely to them, to this scene. Everything around me felt blurry and warm as I sensed Arad withdraw his fingers and move aside, allowing Mike to position himself between my raised legs.
Harry’s voice directed from behind the camera lens: “Brad, wider legs—yes—arch your back more—perfect.”
Things began to move fast. I heard a zipper, then felt Mike’s cock slide inside me in a single thrust—no pause, no mercy.
“Look at him,” Tony growled, his palm still working his own hard cock. “He was born for this.”
“See, men,” Mike said, stroking the hair on my leg. “This is how a young man like Brad is taken. His body works for it. Watch.”
I trembled as Mike’s breathing grew louder. I looked up into his eyes as he gripped my legs and pulled my hips toward him. He even encouraged Arad to tease my nipples, rolling them between his fingertips and making me shudder.
“Look at you, Brad… so submissive,” Mike whispered. My breath caught as he leaned closer. “We are going to make sure you are properly taken care of.”
Tony gave a low laugh as he stepped closer, his presence impossible to ignore. I was surrounded, owned, and I could feel my body giving in as I was used like a toy. Cool air moved over my fully exposed body. Then a final moan came from Mike as he finished deep inside me.
Gasping for air, Mike bent down and licked and kissed my feet. He then looked at Arad.
“Now it is your turn.”
Handsome Arad.
Mike pulled back, and the strong Persian man moved easily between my wide-open thighs. I stayed still while every angle was captured.
Arad’s thick cock entered me and pressed deeper—slow and relentless. At the same time, Tony helped lift my hips toward whatever pleasure waited, whatever the audience demanded. Their Good Boy was hard and on display, being gang banged.
The muscles in my ass surrendered once more, clenching and fluttering around Arad’s cock.
“What a presentation,” Mike said. “There is our Good Boy. Look at that beautiful, pink, moist hole swallow Arad’s hard cock.”
The masseur smirked, savoring his moment with my bubble butt. I whimpered, wanting more friction, more fullness, while the camera’s red light continued to blink.
As Arad moved, Harry leaned in and whispered how good I looked, how strong I was, how my body was made for this. I nodded, sweat running down my face. My muscles flexed under their touch, completely exposed, all of me being used.
He stayed deep inside me, moving at his own pace at times, then harder and faster. My body rocked with each push. I could not speak—only moan and gasp, trying to take every inch this jock gave me. I could tell how turned on he was, not just from his movement, but from the way he watched my face, reading how much I wanted him.
From where I was, I could only watch, fully aware of him and of the camera. When Harry urged Arad to take off his shirt and flex, Arad did so with purpose, as if he knew he was meant to be admired. I stayed still, quiet and in awe, my eyes following every detail as the lights framed his body.
At last, Arad groaned and pushed deep one final time. “Fuck, Brad,” he said. I felt him pulse inside me, filling me with warmth. He stayed there, breathing heavy.
Mike leaned over and kissed my forehead, then rubbed my chest. “You are exceptional,” he said. “And we are not done.”
I whimpered again, my body still twitching from everything. I looked up and saw Tony smiling at me, and we both knew he was next.
“Patience, Tony,” Mike said, though his own breathing was heavy. “The star needs his hydration.” He took the bottle of water from the side table, but instead of handing it to me, he poured a slow, cold stream over my chest. The water mixed with the oil and ran down my sides. He lowered his head, his tongue following the path of the water, licking a warm stripe from my navel to my upper chest.
My back arched off the table, a soft sound leaving my lips. The mix of cold water, his hot mouth, and the lingering haze of the poppers was too much. I was oversensitive and shaking, completely in their hands.
Tony could not wait any longer. The sharp clatter of his belt hitting the floor was the only warning I got. His hands, which had only been holding me up moments before, suddenly gripped me with new strength. He was not just touching me now; he was claiming me for the second day in a row.
“Brad, turn over and get on your hands and knees,” Tony said. “I want you ready for me.”
I moved quickly, turning and setting myself so my body was open and ready.
“He is still dripping with oil and ready for you, Tony,” Mike said from the side, his voice low with approval.
Tony moved with control, climbing onto the table and kneeling behind me. His thick, hard cock pressed firmly against my ass, a deliberate pressure.
“You hear that, Office Boy?” Tony leaned forward and spoke low into my ear, his voice heavy with hunger. “The boss says to use your hole.”
I could only manage a moan, pushing my hips back toward him. The smell of his cologne, mixed with the scent of sweat and the lingering aroma of leather and oil, was overwhelming.
Harry’s calm, appraising voice carried from behind the camera. “The angle is perfect. He is presenting himself so well.”
“Fuck, you are still so tight with those powerful muscles,” Tony said. He pushed forward in a slow, steady way. My fingers slid over the oil-slick leather of the table as my focus narrowed to the sensation of being filled and stretched, taken by these athletic men.
Tony’s hips pressed firmly against me. He stayed there for a long moment, letting me feel all of him. My body shook as I felt full and stretched, the feeling strong and intense.
“Look at that, Mike,” Tony said between breaths. “He is taking all of it. Every inch. Give him more from the little brown bottle.”
The bottle was placed under my nose, and I breathed in for several seconds on each side. When I glanced at the mirror, I saw Tony watching me with a slow, pleased smile.
“I see that,” Mike replied, his voice calm. “Now show us what you can do with him.”
That was all the encouragement Tony needed. He pulled back almost all the way, the sensation making me gasp. Then he pushed back into me with steady force, knocking the air from my lungs. He moved in a smooth rhythm, each push rocking my body against the table. The room filled with the sound of our bodies moving together, mixed with my rough breathing and Tony’s low sounds.
“Yes. Right there,” I cried. “Fuck!” The words tore from my throat. I was past shame, past thought. I was a body for their pleasure.
“The camera loves this, Brad,” Harry narrated. “The way your muscles tense with every thrust. The way your ass ripples when he pounds into you. It is impossible to ignore.”
“Milk him, Arad,” Mike interrupted. “I want the camera to catch you stroking Brad’s hard leaking cock once more while Tony uses that perfect ass.”
Arad’s hand moved with calm certainty, reaching under to my aching erection as I dripped onto the leather table. His grip around my cock was firm and deliberate, the friction a sharp contrast to the deep, punishing rhythm Tony kept—everything held steady for the camera.
“Harder, Tony,” Arad said softly, not looking away. “We want him to remember this tomorrow.”
Tony did not answer with words. His reply came in brutal thrusts that made me see stars, his grip tightening on my hips as he held me in place.
“You like that Jock Slut?” he barked, his voice raw. “You like being our new Office Whore, taking my cock while your boss watches?”
The degradation should have bothered me, but it no longer did. I was quickly getting used to the role some of my colleagues expected me to play at the Milk Me Company, even if it did not match the job description I naïvely thought I had accepted.
“He is close,” Mike observed, a note of fascination in his voice. “Look how Brad is trembling. Arad, do not let him come yet.”
Tony’s rhythm stuttered as well. He slowed to a deep, grinding roll of his hips, each movement calculated to press his length against my prostate without pushing me over the edge. I whimpered, pushing back against him, learning to beg for more with my body.
“Not yet, baby,” Tony whispered. He held my hips still, denying me the friction I craved. “We are not done with you.”
The sudden stillness was its own kind of torture. I could feel every pulse and twitch inside me, the ache of my own needy erection, the weight of their collective gaze.
Mike stepped closer, coming to stand beside the table. He looked down at me, calm and commanding, as he reached out and ran a single, controlling finger over my slick, trembling back.
“You are exceeding all expectations, Brad,” he said, his voice low and intimate. His eyes shifted to Tony and Arad. “Now, make him scream.”
I felt his words land.
I heard Tony move behind me.
I was no longer just Mike’s Chosen Jock. I had become the Company’s Chosen Jock.
Author is Brad
My email is [email protected] — I would love to hear your thoughts.
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.
