The door to Conference Room A loomed like a guillotine blade, polished oak gleaming under the sterile office lights. Ethan flexed his fingers at his sides, his palms slick enough to leave streaks on his tailored trousers if he dared wipe them. The second hand on his watch ticked audibly. Oliver stood rigid beside him, the silver chain at his throat catching the light with every shallow breath.
A muffled voice drifted through the door. Eric’s, low and amused, talking to someone. Then silence. The knob turned with a quiet click.
The door cracked open just enough to reveal a sliver of Eric’s ash-blonde hair, perfectly combed as ever. "Ah, right on time," his voice purred through the gap. "Do come in. And please shut the door behind you." The last phrase curled like a threat.
The door swung inward to reveal Eric leaning against the edge of the reconfigured conference table, his tailored suit immaculate despite the late hour. But it was Wells who dominated the room lounging in a chair like a predator in his den. Golden-brown hair gleamed under the recessed lights, swept into that effortlessly tousled style that cost. His face was all aristocratic angles- the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the square jaw that could’ve been chiseled from marble, lips curled in a smirk that didn’t reach his cold blue eyes. The navy blazer hung open to reveal a torso that tapered from broad shoulders to a flat stomach, the crisp white shirt beneath straining slightly over pectorals that suggested private trainers rather than genuine labor.
Then Ethan’s gaze dropped lower, drawn like a magnet to the way Wells’ thighs were spread deliberately, the fabric of his tailored trousers pulling taut around the unmistakable outline of his cock. Thick, even half-hard, the head pressing against the zipper with a faint damp spot darkening the wool. The sight sent a jolt of heat through Ethan’s gut, his own cock twitching traitorously in response.
Oliver’s sharp inhale beside him pulled Ethan’s attention to the room’s bizarre centerpiece. The conference table was gone. In its place stood a makeshift plywood wall, stark white against the corporate beige, with two large holes cut at waist height, both just wide enough to fit a man’s hips through. The edges were sanded smooth and padded with cloth. Behind it, a long table ran horizontally toward the back wall, positioned precisely at waist level, its surface lined with fresh towels and what looked like… lube bottles.
Eric traced a finger along the edge of the nearest hole, his smirk widening. "Innovative, isn’t it?" His voice dripped with faux enthusiasm. "We’re calling it the ‘performance review booth.’ HR loves creative team-building exercises."
Eric's polished Oxfords clicked against the hardwood as he circled the makeshift booth, his fingers trailing along the padded edges. "Wells, actually, was inspired after some recent travels through Europe," he mused, glancing at the golden-haired man lounging with predatory ease.
Wells chuckled, crossing one ankle over his knee in a movement that pulled his trousers tighter around his thick thighs. The damp spot at his zipper darkened further. "As it turns out," he drawled, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, "the Europeans do have a few things left to teach us." His cold blue eyes flicked to Ethan, lingering on the way his throat worked as he swallowed.
Oliver's fingers twitched at his sides, his knuckles blanching white. Ethan could practically hear his teeth grinding from where he stood.
Eric hummed in agreement, stepping closer to the booth. "You see, over there, they've mastered the art of mutual benefit." He tapped the plywood lightly. "This design ensures both parties remain... optimally positioned."
The taunt hung in the air like a struck match. Oliver's chest rose sharply and Ethan could see the pulse hammering in his temple.
Wells stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. He prowled toward Oliver with deliberate steps, stopping close enough that the heat of his body radiated through the space between them. "Problem, Li?" His breath ghosted over Oliver's jaw, citrus and mint clashing with the sharp scent of his cologne. "You look like you've got something to say."
Oliver's throat bobbed. Ethan could see the war in his eyes, defiance wrestling with the memory of Eric's threats. After a beat, Oliver exhaled sharply through his nose and turned his head away. Wells smirked, satisfied, and stepped back to admire his handiwork.
"Good boy," Wells murmured, dragging a manicured thumb along Oliver's clenched jaw before turning toward the booth. "Well, our friends went through all the effort of constructing this for us, we should get some use out of it. Hop up boys."
Ethan exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers flexing at his sides. "Do we have to?" he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. The words tasted bitter, sticking to the roof of his mouth like cheap whiskey.
Eric’s laugh slithered through the air, cold and polished, the sound of ice cubes clinking in an empty glass. "Of course not," he purred, adjusting his cufflinks with deliberate slowness. His grey eyes flicked to Ethan’s throat, watching his pulse jump. "But if you value your jobs, and I suspect you do, then I’d strongly suggest you comply."
Ethan’s jaw tightened. A muscle twitched in his thigh as he took a slow step forward, then another, his Oxfords scuffing faintly against the hardwood. He turned his head slightly, catching Oliver’s gaze. "C’mon, man," he muttered, voice rough. The plea hung between them like a noose.
Oliver’s nostrils flared. For a heartbeat, Ethan thought he might bolt, might shove past Wells and take the consequences. But then Oliver’s shoulders slumped imperceptibly, and he fell into step beside Ethan, his movements stiff with reluctance.
They circled the booth’s front wall, plywood stark against the corporate beige, and climbed onto the padded table behind it. Ethan’s fingers trembled as he slid his legs through the nearest hole, the padding pressing cool against his thighs. Oliver mirrored him on the left, his breathing shallow and uneven.
"Lie back," Eric commanded, leaning against the wall’s edge with casual dominance. His polished Oxford tapped an idle rhythm against the floor.
Ethan hesitated, then obeyed, lowering himself onto the padded surface with slow precision. The wall’s hole framed his legs from mid-thigh down, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. Oliver followed suit, his exhale shuddering as his back hit the table.
Ethan turned his head to the left. Oliver’s throat bobbed visibly, a hard swallow that made his silver chain glint under the fluorescent lights. His dark lashes fluttered once, twice, like he was fighting to keep his expression neutral. Ethan’s own pulse roared in his ears.
Wells circled the table with feline grace, his fingers trailing along the edge. "Remarkable craftsmanship," he mused, tapping the plywood. "No splinters. Very considerate."
"Hands above your heads, please," Eric murmured, his voice deceptively soft as he withdrew two polished leather cuffs from his breast pocket. The buckles gleamed under the fluorescent lights as he approached Ethan first, his fingers lingering against the thick tendons of Ethan's wrist before securing the cuff with clinical precision. Ethan's bicep flexed involuntarily, the veins in his forearm standing stark against his tan skin as Eric tightened the strap with a final, decisive tug. The cuff bit into Ethan's flesh, the leather warm from Eric's body heat in contrast to the cold metal of the buckle pressing against his pulse point. With a lingering touch, Eric fastened Ethan's other wrist and cinched it tight to the table.
Oliver flinched when Eric turned to him, his dark eyes darting to Ethan's restrained wrists before reluctantly lifting his own arms. Eric's smile was a blade as he fastened the cuffs, his thumb brushing deliberately over Oliver's racing pulse before cinching the strap tighter than necessary. Oliver's breath hitched, sharp and involuntary, as Eric leaned down, his ash-blond hair brushing Oliver's forehead. "Breathe," Eric instructed, the word a mockery of comfort. Then he stepped back, surveying his work with a collector's satisfaction.
Ethan's fingers twitched against the table's edge, his biceps straining as he tested the restraint. The cuff held firm, the leather creaking faintly with the movement. Across from him, Oliver's chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, his lean torso stretched taut beneath his unbuttoned shirt, the silver chain pooling in the hollow of his throat.
Wells moved like a shadow on the other side of the plywood wall. His hands closed around Ethan's ankles, warm and deliberate, and pulled. Ethan's thighs slid through the hole, the padding catching against his skin until his ass popped free on the other side, suddenly exposed. A shudder ran through him as Wells lifted his right leg, bending it at the knee until his calf pressed flat against the wall's top edge. The cuff locked around his ankle with a definitive snick. Wells repeated the process with his left leg, leaving him spread wide, legs suspended in the air.
Oliver's breath hitched as Wells repeated the process on him, his body tensing when the first ankle cuff clamped shut. "Wait-" he started, hips jerking in reflexive resistance. Wells' palm cracked across his asscheek with a sound like a gunshot, the impact reverberating through the booth. Oliver froze, his thighs trembling, as Wells finished securing his ankles as well.
"Better," Wells purred. He stepped back to admire his handiwork- two perfect asses framed by the plywood holes. Ethan's muscular thighs strained against the cuffs, his powerful legs trembling with the effort of staying still. Oliver's leaner frame twitched occasionally, his body betraying him with involuntary shivers.
Wells turned to Eric with a slow, feline grin, his cold blue eyes flickering with predatory amusement. "Oh," he murmured, voice dripping with faux concern as he tapped his chin thoughtfully. "We didn't undress them." The words hung in the air, thick with implication.
Eric chuckled, low and dark, his fingers already dipping into the inner pocket of his tailored suit jacket. "Don't worry, Wells," he purred, extracting a sleek switchblade with practiced ease. The polished metal caught the overhead light as he flicked it open with a sharp snick, the blade gleaming like a sliver of ice. "That's what tools are for." He tossed it handle-first to Wells, who caught it midair without breaking eye contact.
From another pocket, Eric produced a second knife that was smaller and sharper, its edge honed to a lethal precision. He tested the blade against his thumb, humming approvingly at the sting. "Shall we relieve them of their clothing?" he asked, tilting his head toward the booth where Ethan and Oliver lay restrained.
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