The navy-blue suit jacket stretched taut across Ethan’s broad shoulders as he hunched over his laptop, the crisp white dress shirt beneath straining slightly against the thick muscles of his chest and arms. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing powerful, veined limbs dusted with dark hair that tapered down to strong wrists adorned with a simple silver watch. The thin silver frames of his glasses caught the fluorescent office light as he squinted at the spreadsheet on his screen, his hazel eyes, flecked with green under the harsh lighting, flickering with concentration. His clean-shaven jaw tightened imperceptibly as he tapped a pen against his thigh, the tailored wool of his suit pants hugging the dense muscle of his legs, the fabric pulling slightly at the thick curve of his quads every time he shifted in his chair.
A shadow fell across his desk. Ethan glanced up, his brows lifting over the rims of his glasses. Maya leaned casually against the cubicle partition, her manicured fingers drumming against the laminate. "Hey, Drummond," she said, her voice bright with office-friendly cheer. "Eric just asked me to let you know to stop by conference room B at five thirty today. After you wrap up."
Ethan’s pen stilled mid-tap. His spine straightened subtly, the movement causing the fabric of his jacket to pull tighter across his back. "What for?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral despite the sudden tension coiling in his shoulders.
Maya shrugged, the strap of her purse sliding down her arm. "No clue. I’m just the messenger." She adjusted the strap, then grinned. "But hey, the squad’s doing karaoke up in Midtown tonight if you wanna join. Sarah’s already promised to butcher at least one Beyoncé song."
Ethan’s lips twitched, though his gaze flickered back to his screen for a half-second too long. "Sure," he said distractedly, his fingers tightening around the pen.
Maya lingered, studying him with a tilt of her head. "You good?"
"Yeah," Ethan said quickly, flashing her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Just buried in numbers."
She nodded, unconvinced but too polite to push. "Well, don’t work too late. Or at least save some energy for terrible singing."
Ethan chuckled weakly as she walked away. The second she rounded the corner, his shoulders sagged slightly, his breath escaping in a quiet, controlled exhale. He glanced at the clock on his screen: 5:26 PM. Four minutes. His fingers flexed against the edge of his desk, his knuckles whitening briefly before he forced himself to relax. He adjusted his tie, the dark silk smooth beneath his fingers, then rolled his shoulders back, the fabric of his suit pulling taut again across his frame.
The office hummed around him, awash in keyboard clacks, murmured conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter, but Ethan barely registered any of it. His mind raced, flipping through possibilities like a deck of cards, each one more unsettling than the last.
His phone buzzed against the desk. Oliver’s name flashed on the screen, followed by a text: Roommate dinner tonight or are you ghosting me again?
Ethan’s thumb hovered over the screen. He typed out a quick Might be late, then deleted it. Rewrote: Not sure. Will text you. He hesitated, then added: Don’t wait up.
He locked his phone without sending it.
The clock ticked to 5:28.
Ethan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the stiff collar of his shirt. He closed his laptop with a quiet snap, then stood, his polished dress shoes clicking against the tile as he straightened his jacket. His reflection in the darkened monitor was crisp, professional- broad shoulders, impeccable tailoring, the faintest sheen of sweat at his temples betraying nothing but the office’s aggressive air conditioning.
He took a slow breath.
Then he walked toward conference room B.
Ethan's fingers curled around the cold brass handle of the conference room door, hesitating just long enough for his pulse to hammer twice against his throat. The blinds were drawn tight, blanketing the glass with a uniform darkness. No shadows moved beyond them. He inhaled through his nose, exhaled, and then pushed the door open.
The oak panel swung inward with silent precision. Conference Room B yawned before him, cavernous under the sterile glow of recessed lighting. A mahogany table stretched like a runway, its polished surface reflecting the crisp white cuffs and muted ties of four senior directors seated at the far end. All men. All watching him. Their collective gaze pressed against his skin like the weight of a humid afternoon.
Eric Thorne sat centered among them, one hand resting atop a closed leather portfolio. His ash-blonde hair gleamed like brushed metal under the lights. "Ethan," he said, and the name sounded like a command wrapped in velvet. "Close the door behind you. Take a seat." His grey eyes flicked to the empty chair down the table at the end.
Ethan's dress shoes sank into the plush carpet as he stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing off the office's ambient noise. His knees threatened to lock as he walked, but he forced his stride to remain even, his shoulders squared beneath the navy wool. The chair legs scraped softly against the carpet as he pulled it out. He sat, adjusting his cuffs to hide the tremor in his fingers.
Ethan stared at the men in front of his, studying this array of men would could decide his future.
Parker's frame filled his chair like a tailored suit of armor, his shoulders broad enough to strain the seams of his charcoal-gray jacket. Mid-forties, with silver threading through his otherwise jet-black hair that was styled in a ruthlessly precise side part. He had the weathered handsomeness of a man who'd spent his youth playing college rugby and his adulthood crushing competitors in boardrooms. His jawline could've cut glass, shadowed by a five-o'clock stubble so meticulously maintained it looked airbrushed. Deep-set brown eyes, cold and assessing, tracked Ethan like a hawk circling prey. Beneath his shirt, the hint of pecs and a thick, corded neck suggested he still lifted weights religiously.
Harrison, to Parker’s left, was all angles and austerity. Early forties, with a swimmer’s lean build, his navy suit hung off him like a second skin, tailored to emphasize his narrow waist and long legs. His hair, dark blond and swept back with a touch of pomade, was thinning at the crown, but he wore the vulnerability like a challenge. His face was a study in sharp planes: sharp cheekbones, a blade-straight nose, and lips so thin they nearly disappeared when he pressed them together. Pale blue eyes, glinting with intelligence, flickered over Ethan with unnerving focus. His fingers, when they tapped the table, were bony and precise, the knuckles pronounced like knots in oak.
Wells was the outlier. Mid-thirties, with the effortless polish of old money and the build of a man who’d never missed a squash game at his country club. His golden-brown hair, swept into a casual tousle, gleamed under the recessed lights like polished brass. His face was boyishly handsome, saved from being pretty by the ruthless set of his square jaw and a faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow. He lounged in his chair with the ease of someone who’d never had to fight for a seat at the table, his navy blazer unbuttoned to reveal a torso that tapered from broad shoulders to a flat stomach. His hands, resting atop a Montblanc pen, were smooth and manicured, the kind that had never seen manual labor.
And then there was Eric.
Eric Thorne didn’t occupy space so much as he carved it out, his presence like a knife pressed to the room’s throat. Mid-thirties, with the lean, controlled physique of a fencer, he sat perfectly still, his ash-blonde hair swept back from a high forehead with military precision. His face was all edges- razor-sharp cheekbones, a blade of a nose, lips so pale they seemed bloodless until they curled into something resembling a smile. His grey eyes, the color of a winter sky just before a storm, held Ethan’s with unnerving focus, the intensity of his gaze making the fine hairs on the back of Ethan’s neck prickle. His suit, midnight black and impeccably tailored, clung to his narrow shoulders and flat torso like a second skin, the fabric so crisp it barely wrinkled when he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
Eric's lips twitched, but didn't quite form a smile. "We've reviewed your performance metrics." He tapped the portfolio once, nails buffed to a dull sheen. "Impressive acceleration in the Midwest portfolio."
One of the other directors- Harrison, from the finance wing- leaned forward, his jaw tightening above his collar. "Your cost-saving projections were twenty-three percent above target." His voice was grudging, as if praising Ethan physically pained him.
Ethan's throat tightened. "Thank you, sir."
Ethan’s fingers twitched against his thigh, his throat working around words that wouldn’t quite form. "So- so I’m not getting fired?" The question tumbled out before he could stop it, raw-edged and too loud in the hushed room.
Eric’s laugh was a sharp, unexpected sound, almost like ice cracking underfoot. "Absolutely not," he said, his grey eyes glinting with something predatory beneath the veneer of amusement. He leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing beneath him. "Quite the opposite, actually." His fingers steepled, tapping once against his lips. "We called you in because we may have... under-leveled you when you joined us."
One of the other directors- Parker, from Mergers- cleared his throat. "Congratulations, we've noticed your work ethic and dedication," he said flatly, though his gaze lingered on Ethan’s shoulders like he was sizing up a racehorse.
Ethan’s pulse stuttered. His mouth went dry. "You- you mean a promotion?" The word tasted foreign, thick with disbelief.
Eric’s smirk deepened. "Consider this an impromptu discussion," he said, rolling the word around his tongue like a lozenge. His gaze dragged down Ethan’s torso, slow and deliberate, before snapping back up. "Analyst II. With the corresponding... compensation adjustments, of course."
Ethan’s breath rushed out of him in a near-laugh, his chest loosening so abruptly he almost swayed in his seat. "Thank you," he stammered, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself. "I’ve been- God, I’ve been working so hard for this." The admission tumbled out unfiltered, too honest, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Harrison exchanged a glance with the man to his left- Wells, from Legal- before shrugging. "Well, this is still an ongoing discussion, you understand," he muttered.
Ethan's pulse stuttered as Eric interrupted. "We just need to see that you remain dedicated and loyal to this firm," Eric purred, his grey eyes glinting like polished steel. The words hung in the air, thick with implication.
"Of course I am," Ethan blurted, his hands gripping the table edge. "I live to work here." The desperation in his own voice made his skin prickle.
Wells leaned forward, his golden-brown hair catching the overhead light as his gaze traveled down Ethan's body with deliberate slowness. "While we'd love to take your word for it," he said, steepling his manicured fingers, "you'll understand we require... tangible proof of loyalty." The silence stretched taut between them. Then, with a smooth motion, Wells pushed his chair back and stood.
Ethan's breath caught as Wells unfastened his dress pants with practiced ease. The zipper's metallic whisper seemed deafening in the quiet room. Then Wells tugged out his cock. Massive, thick, flushed, and already fully erect, it pointed toward straight toward Ethan, stretching what must've been eight inches. Ethan's throat went dry. It twitched heavily in Wells' grip, the veins standing proud against the flushed skin.
"Come here," Wells commanded, nodding toward the mahogany table. "Get on it. And put that talented mouth of yours to use." A smirk curled his lips as he added, "Eric's told us all about it."
Ethan's fingers dug into the table's polished edge, his knuckles blanching white against the mahogany. "I- I can't," he stammered, the words scraping his throat raw. His pulse hammered against his collar, hot and erratic. "It's not- I'm not-" The denial died halfway, strangled by the weight of four pairs of eyes locked onto him.
Wells chuckled, low and smooth, as he stroked himself lazily. "Don't care," he murmured, tilting his head with the casual cruelty of a man who'd never been denied anything. "What you are, Drummond, is employable. Or not." His thumb swiped over the head of his cock, smearing precum like a promise. "Your choice."
Ethan's gaze flicked to Eric, desperate, but the older man merely arched a brow, his expression unreadable. "Harrison?" Ethan tried, voice cracking. "Sir, please-"
"Son," Harrison interrupted, his voice as dry as the briefs he drafted, "you don't have a choice." He leaned forward, the overhead lights carving shadows into his sharp cheekbones. "Comply, and be rewarded. Resist?" He shrugged, the motion precise as a guillotine's descent. "Well. Let's not dwell on punishments."
The silence thickened, pressing against Ethan's ribs like a vise. He could feel the sweat beading at his temples, the starched collar of his shirt suddenly suffocating. His reflection in the conference table's sheen was fractured- broad shoulders hunched, silver-framed glasses askew. A stranger.
Wells sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Christ, Thorne, you said he was eager." He gave his cock another idle tug, the flesh glistening under the fluorescent lights. "Disappointing."
Eric's lips twitched. "Oh, he is." His grey eyes never left Ethan's face. "Aren't you, Ethan?"
Ethan's breath hitched. The air tasted like leather and expensive cologne, cloying in his lungs. His mind raced- Oliver's text still unanswered on his phone, the rent due next week, the student loans gnawing at his bank account. The promotion. The raise. The fucking future.
Wells slowly stepped toward Ethan, the scent of his bergamot aftershave clashing with the musk of his arousal. He cupped Ethan's jaw, thumb pressing insistently against his bottom lip. "Last chance, pretty boy," he murmured. "Open up, or get out."
Ethan's body moved before his mind could protest. His knees hit the carpet as he slid from the chair, the wool of his suit pants scraping against the hardwood beneath. The table's edge bit into his thighs as he leaned forward, his trembling hands braced against Wells' hips. Up close, the man's cock looked even more obscene. Thick and veined, the head flushed an angry red. The scent of salt and musk filled his nostrils, dizzying.
"Good," Wells purred, fingers tangling in Ethan's hair. "Now show us what that mouth can do."
Ethan's lips parted. The first touch of skin against his tongue sent a jolt through him. He gagged instinctively, but Wells' grip tightened, forcing him deeper. The weight of it filled his mouth, the taste flooding his senses as his throat convulsed. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
Above him, Harrison chuckled. "Looks like he's got talent after all."
The other directors watched in silence, their collective gaze like a physical weight pressing against his skin. Parker's fingers drummed once against the table, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the stillness.
Ethan's knees spread instinctively, his body responding to the unspoken expectation in the air. "Look at him," Harrison muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Practically salivating."
"That's it," Wells praised, his voice rough. "Just like Eric said. You were born for this." His thrusts grew more insistent, the head of his cock nudging the back of Ethan's throat with every push.
Ethan's eyes watered, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard as Wells fucked into his mouth with slow, measured strokes. The wet sounds of it filled the room, mingling with the quiet shifting of fabric as the other directors adjusted in their seats.
Parker cleared his throat. "He's better than you described, Thorne."
Eric's smile was razor-thin. "I never exaggerate."
Wells abruptly shoved Ethan’s head back with a wet pop, his cock slipping free from Ethan’s lips with a trail of spit. He smirked down at Ethan’s flushed face, wiping the moisture from his shaft against Ethan’s cheek before tucking himself back into his tailored pants. "Enough," he said smoothly, stepping away. "My turn to watch."
Ethan gasped, throat raw, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as Wells strolled back to his seat, adjusting his blazer with casual arrogance.
Parker leaned forward, his rugby-thick forearms flexing as he undid his belt with deliberate slowness. The zipper hissed open, and his cock sprang free- thinner than Wells' by a good measure but just as long, uncut, and already flushed dark at the tip. A heavy vein ran along the underside, pulsing visibly. Parker stroked himself once, his grip swallowing the girth effortlessly. "Come and get it, Drummond," he rumbled, voice like gravel. "Show me how much you want this promotion."
Ethan swallowed hard, pushing himself up from his knees. His legs trembled slightly as he took a step toward Parker, but before he could round the table, Wells’ voice cut through the air like a whip.
"Ah-ah." Wells twirled his pen between his fingers. "Not like that." His lips curled into a smirk. "Get on the table. Crawl."
Ethan froze, his skin prickling under four pairs of watching eyes. The mahogany surface gleamed under the fluorescent lights, smooth and unforgiving. His reflection stared back at him. Disheveled, lips swollen, tie askew. He hesitated only a second before hoisting himself onto the table, the wood cool against his palms.
The first crawl forward sent a jolt of humiliation straight to his core. His dress pants stretched tight over his ass, the fabric pulling taut with each deliberate movement. Parker’s gaze burned into him, tracking the way Ethan’s shoulders rolled, the way his hips shifted as he advanced.
"Good boy," Parker murmured, spreading his thighs wider as Ethan neared. His cock twitched against his stomach, glistening at the tip. "Now put that pretty mouth to work."
Ethan lowered himself onto his elbows, the edge of the table digging into his chest. The scent of Parker’s cologne mixed with musk as he leaned in, tongue darting out to lap at the bead of precum pooling at the slit. Parker groaned, fingers tangling in Ethan’s hair, guiding him down further until the head pressed against his lips.
"That’s it," Parker growled, hips jerking upward to fill Ethan’s mouth in one rough thrust. "Take it like you fucking mean it."
Ethan’s jaw ached immediately, the stretch almost unbearable as Parker bottomed out against his throat. Tears pricked at his eyes, blurring his vision of Parker’s clenched jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he watched Ethan struggle.
Harrison chuckled darkly from across the table. "Christ, Parker. You’re going to ruin him before I get a turn."
Parker ignored him, rolling his hips in shallow pulses, the wet sounds of Ethan’s gagging filling the room. His grip tightened, forcing Ethan’s nose into the coarse thatch of dark hair at his base. "Breathe through it," he ordered, voice rough with pleasure.
Ethan’s fingers scrambled against the tabletop, nails scraping the polished wood as he fought to endure. Above him, Eric watched silently, his grey eyes hooded, fingers steepled against his lips like he was observing a particularly fascinating business transaction.
Then, without warning, Parker yanked Ethan off, his cock slipping free with a lewd sound. He patted Ethan’s cheek, smearing spit across his skin. "Not bad," he mused. "But let’s see how you handle the next round." His gaze flicked to Harrison. "Your turn."
Ethan’s stomach dropped. Harrison’s smile was razor-thin as he stood, already unbuckling his belt.
Harrison’s fingers worked methodically, loosening his belt with the same precision he used to dissect quarterly reports. The zipper hissed open, revealing a cock that was neither as thick as Wells’ nor as long as Parker’s, but it had an intimidating leanness to it, the shaft straight and rigid like a steel rod. The head was flushed a deep red, already glistening. Ethan’s throat tightened reflexively.
"On your back," Harrison commanded, nodding toward the table. His voice left no room for debate.
Ethan’s breath shuddered as he rolled onto his back, the mahogany cold against his spine. His dress shirt rode up, exposing the taut plane of his stomach, the dark trail of hair leading beneath his belt. The overhead lights burned his eyes, but he didn’t dare close them. Not with Harrison looming over him, those pale blue eyes dissecting him like an unbalanced ledger.
Harrison gripped Ethan’s tie, yanking it loose with one sharp tug. The silk slithered free, pooling beside Ethan’s head like a discarded noose. "Open," Harrison said, thumb pressing against Ethan’s lower lip.
Ethan parted his lips, but Harrison didn’t immediately push in. Instead, he traced the seam of Ethan’s mouth, smearing precum in a slow, deliberate line. "You’re going to take it all," he murmured. "And you’re not going to gag. Understood?"
Ethan nodded, pulse hammering in his throat.
Harrison’s smirk was fleeting. Then he fed his cock into Ethan’s mouth, inch by relentless inch, until the tip nudged the back of Ethan’s throat. Ethan’s body tensed, his fingers clawing at the table’s edge, but he forced himself to relax, to let Harrison sink deeper. The taste was sharper than Wells’, saltier, with a faint hint of expensive aftershave clinging to the skin.
"Good," Harrison muttered, fingers twining in Ethan’s hair. "Now stay still."
He began fucking Ethan’s mouth in shallow, precise thrusts, each one measured and controlled. Ethan’s jaw ached, his saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth, but he held himself rigid, letting Harrison use him with clinical detachment.
Across the table, Wells chuckled, lazily palming himself through his slacks. "Looks like Harrison’s found his new stress reliever."
Parker grunted in agreement, his hand still idly stroking his half-hard cock. Eric, though, said nothing. He merely watched, his grey eyes unreadable, fingers steepled against his lips like he was calculating the ROI on Ethan’s humiliation.
Harrison’s thrusts grew harder, his breath hitching slightly, signaling the first crack in his icy demeanor. His grip tightened, forcing Ethan’s nose into the coarse blonde curls at his base. "Swallow," he ordered, voice rough.
Ethan’s throat convulsed as Harrison came, the hot spill bitter against his tongue. He gulped reflexively, throat working around each pulse, until Harrison finally pulled out with a wet sound.
Harrison tucked himself back into his pants, adjusting his belt with brisk efficiency. His expression was as impassive as ever, save for the faint sheen of sweat at his temples. "Adequate," he said, though the slight tremor in his hands betrayed him.
Ethan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, chest heaving. His reflection in the table’s surface was shattered- tie gone, shirt rumpled, lips swollen. A whore’s face.
Then Eric stood.
The room went still. Even Wells stopped fidgeting.
Eric rounded the table with measured steps, his polished oxfords clicking against the hardwood. When he reached Ethan, he placed one hand on the table beside Ethan’s hip, leaning down until his breath ghosted over Ethan’s cheek. "You’ve done well," he murmured, so softly the others might not have heard. "But we’re not finished."
Ethan’s stomach clenched. Eric’s fingers trailed down his chest, skimming over his belt buckle. "Take these off."
Ethan’s hands shook as he unbuckled his belt, the leather slipping through his fingers. The button of his pants popped open, the zipper grating in the silence. He hesitated just for a second, but Eric’s cold stare brooked no resistance.
He pushed his pants and briefs down past his hips, exposing himself to the room. His cock, thick and flushed, curved against his stomach, already half hard. The air prickled against his bare skin, humiliation crawling up his spine as Eric's gaze lingered, assessing.
Ethan’s thighs tensed as he shimmied his pants lower, the fabric catching briefly on the thick musculature of his quads before pooling at his knees. Years of disciplined weight training had carved them into dense, powerful slopes. A light dusting of dark brown hair covered the tanned skin. His glutes, high and firm even in this vulnerable position, clenched reflexively as cool air licked between his cleft. The deep groove there was shadowed now, taut with unspoken tension.
His cock, still trapped against his abdomen by his rumpled shirt, was a flushed, heavy weight that was thick at the base where prominent veins branched along the shaft, the uncut foreskin having retracted halfway to expose the swollen crimson head. Precum beaded at the slit, glistening under the recessed lights.
Eric’s fingers, cool and precise, tapped once against Ethan’s kneecap. "Sit up," he murmured, voice low enough that the others had to lean forward to hear. "And remove the rest."
Ethan obeyed, his biceps flexing as he pushed himself upright against the polished mahogany. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his dress shirt. As the first button slipped free, a sliver of his chest became visible: the hard plane of his pectoral, dusted with the same dark hair that trailed down his torso. His nipples, peaked from adrenaline and the room’s aggressive AC, stood out against the warm hue of his skin.
The shirt parted further, revealing the sculpted ridges of his abdomen. Each oblique flexed subtly as he worked the buttons, his breathing shallow. The final button gave way, and Ethan shrugged the shirt off his broad shoulders, letting it slide down his arms to join the discarded heap of his clothing.
His upper body was a study in disciplined symmetry: the thick column of his neck, the delts that rounded perfectly into sculpted arms, the way his lats flared beneath his armpits, tapering down to his narrow waist. A faint sheen of sweat highlighted every contour, catching the light along the groove of his sternum, the dip above his hip bones. His collarbones stood in sharp relief, shadows pooling in the hollows beneath them as he exhaled shakily.
The collective exhale from the men was thick with approval- low hums, the creak of shifting leather chairs, the wet sound of Wells licking his lips. Ethan’s skin prickled under their stares, his pulse hammering against the fragile veneer of composure.
Eric’s voice cut through the humid air. "Harrison," he said, smooth as a blade sliding from its sheath, "please help Ethan get properly dressed."
Ethan blinked, his brows knitting together. "What-?"
Harrison was already moving, his lanky frame unfolding from his chair with predatory grace. He crossed to the far corner where a sleek black duffel bag sat, previously unnoticed. The zipper’s rasp was obscenely loud as he yanked it open. Ethan craned his neck, catching glimpses of black leather, polished metal, and something that glinted like surgical steel under the recessed lights. His stomach dropped.
Harrison’s bony fingers emerged first with a blindfold. Thick, padded, the straps dangling like a promise. Next came a set of wrist cuffs lined with fleece, then a pair of rigid metal bars connected by a short chain. The final item made Ethan’s breath hitch: a collar, wide and studded, with a heavy O-ring at the front.
Eric’s smile was a razor’s edge. "Harrison, do the honors."
Ethan’s back hit the table as he recoiled. "Wait-no, I didn’t agree to-"
Wells’ palm slammed down on the mahogany, rattling Ethan’s bones. "Shut up and behave," he snapped, his golden-brown eyes gone dark. "Unless you’d rather we revisit the terms of your employment?" His thumb stroked the head of his cock where it strained against his slacks. "I’m sure HR would love to hear about your... performance today."
Ethan’s protest died in his throat, dread curling in his stomach as Harrison approached his naked body, arms full.
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