Ethan surfaced from unconsciousness in slow, disorienting waves. The first thing he registered was the low murmur of voices, Eric’s crisp baritone threading through the static in his skull.
“I must say, Wells,” Eric mused, his tone clinical yet pleased, “he performed even better than I had hoped.”
Wells’ answering chuckle was viscous, predatory. “And look at the build on that boy,” he purred, the sound accompanied by the faint rustle of fabric as he shifted closer. “I so rarely get to fuck a man blessed genetically like that.” A pause, then, softer, hungrier, “and what a cock too.”
Ethan’s body reacted before his mind could catch up. A weak twitch of his thighs and a stuttering breath enough to betray his return to awareness. The vibrator still buried in his ass chose that moment to buzz back to life, a sharp, jagged pulse that wrenched a broken moan from his throat. His hips jerked involuntarily, his spent cock giving a feeble twitch against his stomach.
Then, blessed relief. The toy slid free with a slick pop, leaving his hole gaping and empty, the sudden absence almost as dizzying as the intrusion had been. Ethan gasped, his rim fluttering weakly around nothing, the oversensitive muscle struggling to clench.
Cool metal clicked as the cuffs released his wrists and ankles, the pressure on his arms and legs vanishing abruptly. The spreader bar followed, the chains rattling as it was unclipped. Finally, the collar. The leather peeled away from his sweat-slicked throat, the O-ring’s weight lifting from his throat.
The blindfold came off last. Ethan blinked against the sudden light, his vision swimming into focus blearily. He was still sprawled across the mahogany table, his body a wreck.
His chest rose and fell unevenly, the sculpted planes of his abdomen streaked with dried cum. Some had splattered up to his collarbones, crusted in the dusting of dark hair there. More had pooled in the hollow of his navel, now cracked and flaking as his muscles trembled beneath it. His cock lay heavy against his thigh, half-hard still, the flushed head smeared with his own spend. The thick vein along its underside pulsed faintly, oversensitive and twitching.
Between his legs, the mess was worse. His hole, puffy and stretched, leaked a slow trickle of cum onto the table- Wells’, Parker’s, Harrison’s, maybe Eric’s too, all mixed into a single, shameful drip. The skin around it was reddened, the tally marks stark against his tanned flesh. His thighs, thick with muscle, were streaked with lube and sweat, the dark hair there matted and damp.
Wells’ shadow fell over him, the man’s golden-brown eyes raking over Ethan’s ruined form with open appreciation. “Get dressed,” he said simply, tossing Ethan’s rumpled shirt and pants onto his chest. The fabric stuck briefly to the drying spend on his skin before sliding off. “And head home.”
Ethan’s fingers shook as he reached for his clothes, his body protesting every movement. His hole clenched around nothing as he sat up, fresh wetness seeping out as gravity took hold. The air smelled of sex and leather and him.
Eric watched from the doorway, his grey eyes unreadable. “Don’t be late tomorrow,” he said, and left, the click of his oxfords fading down the hall. Wells followed him out.
Alone, Ethan swallowed against the ache in his throat and began the slow, humiliating process of putting himself back together.
---
The elevator doors slid open to a burst of noise. Cheers, the sharp pop of confetti cannons, a chorus of Congratulations! pummeled Ethan and he froze mid-step, his polished Oxfords squeaking against the marble floor. The entire office had transformed overnight: streamers in the company’s navy and gold, a banner stretched above the cubicles proclaiming Analyst II Ethan Drummond!), a cake perched on a table. His stomach lurched.
His suit today- charcoal gray and tailored to cling to his broad shoulders and tapered waist- felt like a costume. The silk tie slithered against his collarbones like a noose. Beneath the crisp fabric, his body was a minefield of bruises: fingertip-shaped constellations on his hips, the ache in his thighs from being forced wide for hours, the raw sting between his cheeks where his hole still twitched at the memory of violation. Every step sent fresh lightning up his spine.
“There’s the man of the hour!” Maya materialized at his elbow, her magenta nails digging into his bicep. “Jesus, Drummond. Tough leg day at the gym last night?”
Ethan blinked. “What?”
She gestured vaguely at his stance, pointing to the slight hitch in his gait, the way his quads trembled when he shifted weight. “The limp. I get the same way after squatting heavy.” Her grin turned conspiratorial. “Though damn, whatever you’re doing is working. Those pants are fighting for their life across your thighs.”
Heat crawled up Ethan’s neck. “I… yeah. Leg day.”
Maya snorted, dragging him toward the cake table. “You gotta hook me up with your connections. Two weeks in and already promoted?” She lowered her voice conspiratoriily. “Spill. Who’d you blow to make this happen?”
Before he could stammer a reply, Maya laughed and brightly proclaimed, "We must get you some cake, it's never too early for cake after all."
Ethan’s breath caught as Wells’ gaze locked onto him across the office floor. The man’s golden-brown eyes flickered with something unknown before he gave a slow, deliberate nod. Beside him, Eric stood in his usual razor-sharp suit. A smirk curled the corner of Eric’s mouth as he mimicked Wells’ nod. Then both men turned and vanished into the hallway without a word.
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