The suit jacket hung crisp and navy blue over broad shoulders, the starched white collar of the dress shirt digging slightly into a tanned neck. Beneath the polished oak desk, completely hidden by its bulk, were only snug-fitting black briefs. Ethan Drummond, 25, ran a hand through his thick, dark brown hair – neatly combed for once – and adjusted the silver-framed glasses perched on his nose. His hazel eyes scanned the laptop screen intently, a focused frown creasing his clean-shaven jawline. "Yes, absolutely," he said smoothly, his voice steady despite the frantic thumping of his heart against his ribs. "My experience with the Henderson project directly aligns with the scalability challenges you mentioned."
Across the digital divide, Mr. Eric Thorne leaned back in his plush leather chair. Thorne was perhaps in his early-thirties, with sharp, angular features framed by neatly trimmed, ash-blond hair. Cool grey eyes assessed Ethan through the screen, his expression unreadable beneath the expensive cut of his own charcoal suit. "You mentioned the Henderson file had significant budget overruns," Thorne countered, his tone crisp and probing. "Walk me through how you managed stakeholder expectations when those numbers ballooned." Ethan shifted slightly in his chair, the smooth leather cool against his bare thighs under the desk. He launched into a detailed explanation, his hands gesturing precisely above the keyboard.
Out of the corner of his eye, movement registered. Marmalade, Ethan's hefty ginger tomcat, had silently leapt onto the far corner of the desk. The cat’s fluffy tail swished dangerously close to the slender crystal vase holding a single white orchid – Ethan’s mother’s prized possession, placed there for 'good interview vibes'. Panic flared. Ethan didn't think. He just moved. "Hold on!" he blurted, pushing his chair back with a scrape as he lunged sideways, arm outstretched to intercept the cat.
He caught Marmalade just as the cat’s tail brushed the vase’s base. The vase wobbled violently but stayed upright. Ethan let out a shaky breath, clutching the purring cat to his chest. Relief washed over him for a split second. Then, ice flooded his veins. He was standing. Fully upright. Directly in front of the laptop camera. The crisp navy suit jacket and pristine white shirt ended abruptly at his waist. Below, clearly visible from mid-thigh down, were only the tight black briefs, clinging to his muscular legs and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. On the screen, Eric Thorne’s grey eyes widened. His sharply defined jaw dropped open slightly. A sharp, audible gasp crackled through the laptop speakers.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Ethan froze, the warmth of Marmalade against his bare chest suddenly scalding. Thorne’s gaze didn’t waver, traveling deliberately from Ethan’s flushed face down the broad planes of his chest, visible even through the jacket, past the hem of the shirt, and lingering on the briefs hugging his powerful thighs and groin. The interviewer’s initial shock hardened into something unreadable, his cool grey eyes narrowing with intense scrutiny. Ethan’s own hazel eyes darted frantically between the screen and the damning view below his waistline. “Fuck!” The curse ripped out, raw and panicked. “Sir, I-I can explain! The cat… the vase… I wasn’t…”
Thorne leaned forward slowly, elbows resting on his polished desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The expensive charcoal fabric of his suit pulled taut across broad shoulders. A faint, unsettling smile touched his lips, not reaching his cold eyes. “Explain?” His voice was low, smooth, and utterly controlled, a stark contrast to Ethan’s ragged breathing. “Mr. Drummond, that’s quite… unexpected.” He paused, letting the silence hang heavy. “Perhaps we can move past this… indiscretion.” His gaze remained fixed, unwavering. “If you provide a little… demonstration of your… flexibility. Right now.”
Ethan sank back into his chair like a puppet with cut strings, the leather suddenly icy against his bare skin. Marmalade squirmed free and vanished. Ethan’s hand trembled as he adjusted his glasses, his hazel eyes wide with disbelief and dawning horror. The crisp white shirt felt constricting over his pounding chest. “Demonstration?” His voice cracked. “Sir, I… I don’t understand. What do you mean?” He swallowed hard, the flush spreading from his face down his neck, visible above the stiff collar. Desperation clawed at him – the rent due, the student loans, the months of rejections. This job was his lifeline.
Thorne’s smile widened, predatory. He tapped a manicured finger against his lips. “I think you know precisely what I mean, Ethan.” The deliberate use of his first name sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. Thorne’s grey eyes flickered with unmistakable intent, lingering pointedly below the desk line. “Show me your commitment. Your… enthusiasm. Make this awkward situation disappear.” He leaned back slightly, the command clear in his posture. “Consider it a unique… skills assessment.”
Ethan’s knuckles whitened on the edge of his desk. The air conditioning felt like ice against his exposed skin. “Sir, please…” he stammered, his voice thick with humiliation. Thorne cut him off, sharp as a blade. “Stand up.” The command brooked no argument. Ethan hesitated, his breath catching, the desperate need for the job warring violently with the violation unfolding. Slowly, trembling, he pushed his chair back and rose. The suit jacket draped open, framing the crisp white button down shirt above the stark black briefs. Thorne’s gaze tracked every movement, hungry and assessing. “Good. Now, remove the jacket. Slowly.” Ethan’s fingers fumbled with the smooth navy wool, his hazel eyes locked on the screen, pleading silently. The jacket slid off his broad shoulders, landing heavily on the chair behind him. He stood taller now, the crisp white shirt sleeves stark against his tanned arms.
“The tie,” Thorne murmured, his voice low and hypnotic. “Take it off.” Ethan’s hand rose to the dark silk knot at his throat. Each loop felt like a tightening noose. He pulled it loose, the fabric whispering against his collar, before letting it slither down onto the jacket. Thorne’s cool grey eyes never wavered. “Unbutton the shirt.” Ethan froze, panic flaring anew. “Mr. Thorne… this isn’t…” Thorne’s expression hardened instantly. “If you want this job, Ethan, you will comply. Button by button. Now.” With shaking fingers, Ethan obeyed. The stiff white cotton parted, revealing the defined planes of his chest, the smooth skin over firm pectorals, the faint trail of dark hair descending below the briefs’ waistband. He stared straight ahead, face burning, refusing to meet Thorne’s rapt gaze.
“Finally,” Thorne breathed, leaning impossibly closer to his own camera, his face filling Ethan’s screen. “The shirt. Off.” It wasn’t a request. Ethan’s jaw clenched. He gripped the shirt fabric, knuckles straining. The silence stretched, thick with tension. Thorne raised an eyebrow, a silent threat hanging in the air. With a ragged exhale, Ethan peeled the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall silently onto the growing pile. He stood fully exposed now above the waistline: sculpted torso gleaming faintly with a sheen of nervous sweat, powerful arms hanging stiffly at his sides, clad only in the tight black briefs that left nothing to Thorne’s imagination. The interviewer’s eyes roamed freely, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. “Excellent,” he purred. “Now… let’s discuss your… performance.”
Thorne’s gaze lingered, tracing the lines of Ethan’s torso. “Turn around,” he commanded softly. “Slowly.” Ethan flinched but obeyed, pivoting on bare feet. The briefs hugged the powerful swell of his glutes, the defined musculature of his back visible beneath the taut skin – the latissimus dorsi flaring subtly from his spine down to his narrow waist, the ridges of his lower back muscles dipping beneath the elastic waistband. Thorne made a low, appreciative sound. “Very… capable physique, Ethan. Now, face me again.” Ethan turned back, his hazel eyes burning with shame, his jaw set rigidly. Thorne leaned back, steepling his fingers again. “Your dedication shows. Now, demonstrate its application.”
“What… what do you want?” Ethan’s voice was raw, barely above a whisper. Thorne’s smile was coldly triumphant. “Show me your flexibility, Ethan. Show me how… accommodating you can be.” He paused, letting the implication hang heavy. “Touch yourself. Slowly. Where I can see.” Ethan froze, the command slicing through him. His gaze darted to the laptop screen – Thorne’s grey eyes were fixed, expectant, predatory. Below the desk, Ethan’s hands trembled violently. The desperation for the job warred with visceral disgust. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the silent room. His hand hovered, inches from the black fabric straining over his groin. Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “Now, Ethan. Or this interview ends… disastrously.” Ethan closed his eyes briefly, a tremor running through his powerful frame. His fingers brushed the taut fabric.
Thorne leaned forward, captivated. Ethan stood exposed: six feet of sculpted athleticism. His torso was a landscape of defined muscle – broad shoulders flowed into sharply etched pectorals that tapered down to a narrow, ridged waist. Every abdominal muscle stood out in stark relief, a washboard etched beneath smooth, tanned skin that glistened faintly with nervous sweat. The black briefs clung desperately, revealing the powerful swell of his quadriceps, thick cords of muscle wrapping around his thighs like sculpted steel. Below, his calves were sharply carved, anchoring him firmly on the hardwood floor. Even in his humiliation, the raw physicality was undeniable, a testament to years of disciplined training.
His hand moved hesitantly over the straining fabric of the briefs. Thorne’s breath hitched audibly through the speakers. “Yes,” he hissed. “Like that. Show me your… dedication.” Ethan’s jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. His hazel eyes, wide with shame and panic, remained fixed on Thorne’s rapt face on the screen. He felt like an insect pinned under glass. His fingers traced the outline beneath the briefs, the involuntary response beneath the fabric betraying him despite his revulsion. Thorne’s grey eyes tracked every minute movement, his own hand subtly adjusting his expensive charcoal suit jacket. A bead of sweat traced a path down Ethan’s temple, past his clean-shaven jawline, and dripped onto the defined curve of his collarbone.
The silence stretched, thick with tension and violation. Thorne leaned impossibly closer, his face dominating Ethan’s screen. “Harder,” he commanded, his voice low and thick with undisguised hunger. Ethan flinched, his hand freezing. The absurdity, the horror of it crashed over him – standing half-naked in his apartment, obeying this grotesque command for a chance at survival. His knuckles were white where his other hand gripped the edge of the desk. Thorne’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do it, Ethan,” he growled, the veneer of professionalism utterly gone. “Or walk away from this job. Forever.” Ethan’s breath hitched. His fingers pressed down.
A choked gasp escaped Ethan’s lips as his own touch, rough and unwilling, elicited a traitorous physical response beneath the thin black fabric. His sculpted torso tensed, every defined abdominal muscle locking tight, the ridges standing out starkly against his sweat-slicked skin. Thorne’s gaze devoured the sight, a predatory satisfaction settling onto his sharp features. “There,” he breathed, his voice raspy. “That’s the dedication I was looking for.” Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the naked appraisal, the utter degradation. His powerful shoulders hunched forward slightly, a posture of defeat utterly at odds with the athleticism of his frame.
“Look at me,” Thorne ordered sharply. Ethan’s hazel eyes snapped open, wide and burning with humiliation. Thorne’s grey eyes held him captive. “Keep going,” he murmured, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Show me how… thoroughly you commit.” Ethan’s hand moved mechanically, each stroke a violation amplified by the unblinking digital gaze. He felt the heat radiating from his own skin, heard the ragged sound of his breathing filling the silent room. Below the waistband, the black briefs strained obscenely. Thorne made another low, appreciative sound in his throat. “Good,” he purred. “Very good.” The praise felt like acid.
Ethan’s breath hitched again, this time with a jolt of pure, unwelcome surprise. Despite the icy dread flooding his veins, despite the sheer horror of the situation, a traitorous heat bloomed low in his abdomen. It was visceral, unstoppable – a purely physical betrayal. His eyes widened fractionally, disbelief warring with the undeniable tightening beneath his fingers. How? How could his body react like this? The flush that had stained his neck and face deepened, spreading down his chest as he felt the fabric grow impossibly tauter, the outline beneath becoming unmistakably rigid against his trembling palm. A choked sound escaped him, half-groan, half-protest. Thorne’s predatory smile widened into a grin of pure triumph. “Ah,” he breathed, leaning forward until his face filled the screen. “There it is. Dedication indeed.”
The unwanted arousal surged, fierce and humiliating, fueled by adrenaline and the relentless scrutiny. Ethan’s sculpted torso tensed further, every defined muscle standing out in sharp relief against his sweat-slicked skin. His powerful thighs trembled slightly, the thick cords of muscle beneath the briefs tightening involuntarily. He tried to focus on the cold floor beneath his bare feet, the faint hum of the laptop fan, anything but the horrifying reality unfolding under his own hand and Thorne’s rapt gaze. Yet the sensation intensified, a raw, pulsing heat that contradicted every ounce of his revulsion. His knuckles were bone-white where his other hand gripped the desk edge, the polished wood biting into his skin, a desperate anchor against the rising tide within him.
Thorne watched, utterly absorbed. His grey eyes tracked every involuntary twitch, every hitch in Ethan’s breathing, every bead of sweat tracing paths down the defined planes of his chest and abdomen.
"Enough teasing," Thorne commanded, his voice low and thick with undisguised authority. "Pull it out. Through the fly. Now." His gaze remained fixed, unblinking, on the straining black fabric.
Ethan froze mid-stroke, his hand jerking away as if scalded. "No!" The refusal ripped out, raw and desperate. His hazel eyes snapped to the screen, wide with genuine panic. "Mr. Thorne, please... this is too far. I can't—" His voice cracked, the flush on his tanned skin deepening to crimson. He instinctively angled his hips away, his powerful shoulders tensing defensively. "This isn't... I won't."
"Enough teasing," Thorne commanded, his voice low and thick with undisguised authority. "Pull it out. Through the fly. Now." His gaze remained fixed, unblinking, on the straining black fabric.
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