1.
Bill surveys the meeting room, reading the tension in every jaw and furrowed brow. To most, the overlapping voices—the sharp edge of a developer, the nervous response of a new analyst, the relentless tap-tap-tap of a pen—would sound like chaos. But to Bill, it’s texture. He always keeps a hand on the fabric of the workflow, feeling for the spot where things get knotted. He knows when something’s off before the numbers ever show it.
This week, the quarter's biggest initiative is going sideways. Bill felt it days ago—a snag in the weave—the heightened pitch of conversations, a slight defensiveness and impatience. The analysis just confirmed what he already knew.
His team of twelve planned the initiative, and now it’s their job to get it back on track. They’re the longest-tenured staff in the company, hand picked by Bill, and the group with the highest engagement scores. The ones who dig in when things get messy.
Looking around the table, he sees his reports, the directors of planning and analysis, and their reports in turn. It’s not the big meeting room, just Bill’s office—cramped for the full team, a little too warm, but everyone squeezes in anyway. They like it here, away from the prying eyes of other—frankly, lesser—teams.
“Can we get Comms in here? We need everyone,” Bill says. Ben’s thumb is on his phone, already texting.
As the room fills, Bill rubs his temples, tamping down a headache. He turns to the team, slips out of his houndstooth suit jacket, and drapes it over the back of his chair. He rolls up his sleeves—a small, silent signal that he’s about to get to work. “Let’s white board it.”
The frustrated murmurs die down and anticipation builds. This is Bill's domain—his particular brand of magic.
He catches the new hire looking a little wide-eyed. "Vinh," Bill says, catching his gaze, "this isn’t on your official orientation plan, but you’ll get something out of it. Don’t worry if you don’t catch everything. You’ll pick it up as you go."
He moves to the glass board, marker in hand. His trim 6’4” frame is typically composed, reserved, but now it’s animated. He pushes his chestnut brown hair back as he jots down heading in different colors, but the silky strands fall back into place, above his heavy-lidded eyes. "Let’s get it out of our heads and see where we’re tangled," he says, voice inviting but direct.
He starts mapping out the threads, asking sharp, pointed questions, pulling the team in. He doesn’t dictate—he steers, nudges, waits for someone to spot the gap or contradiction. Bill wants conflict on the table, not hidden. "Go to the conflict. That’s where the solution is," he reminds them—a line they’ve all heard before.
By the end, the board is a messy topography of arrows and boxes. Everyone can see the shape of the puzzle, the flow, and, for the first time all week, a path out begins to emerge. Bill makes sure every voice is heard, even Vinh.
He leans back, rubbing marker off his fingers. "Right," he says. "I think that'll do for the moment. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a serious coffee."
As he heads for the door, he catches a low exchange between Vinh and Ben, the seasoned colleague.
"Is he always like that?" Vinh asks.
Ben grins, eyes darting toward Bill. "His whiteboards are famous. People practically make popcorn when he pulls out the markers."
“They call him the 'problem whisperer,’” Ben adds, just loud enough for Bill to hear.
Vinh shakes his head, smiling. "He's… such a dad."
Ben smirks, meeting Bill’s eye. "That’s Bill."
Bill shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips as he steps out.
2.
Bill’s internal clock is already ticking off the minutes until his gym session. He prefers to go before sunrise, when everyone else is still sleeping—a built-in advantage for the day. But early Zoom meetings this week have forced the ritual into his lunch break.
Entering his usual cafe, he catches the subtle shift in the room—the way people unconsciously straighten or make way as he passes. He doesn’t have to say much; the suit, the posture, do the talking—the brown and tan houndstooth suit impeccably tailored to his long-waisted, athletic build, the fitted shirt framing his throat just so. He’s not flashy, but anyone looking can see the care.
Joining the short line, his gaze sweeps over the space, always assessing for the soft spots. A raised eyebrow from a man ahead, a reflexive smile from a guy waiting for his drink. Bill returns both. Easy acknowledgments, the small interactions that make the days more pleasant.
When he reaches the counter he sees the barista is new—he knows the regulars. A trainee, he guesses, judging by his flustered juggling of orders. He doesn’t know the rhythms yet. As the customer ahead steps aside to wait for her drinks, Bill steps up.
Catching the eye of the new barista, he leans in, his voice low, smiling, careful not to signal there’s a problem: “I couldn’t help but overhear the order ahead of mine. That grande is supposed to be decaf. The iced drink’s not. You’ve got them reversed.” He glances at the cup in the kid’s hand, giving him a chance to catch up and save face.
The trainee blinks, then nods, correcting the orders. Bill looks away, but with a small, encouraging smile. “You got it. It’s a lot at first.”
The barista turns, a little steadier now. “What can I get for you?”
Bill orders: “A doppio In a demitasse, please. Not paper.” It’s a small thing, but Bill savors the ritual: the modest heft of the cup, the tight turns of the demitasse spoon in it, the aroma curling up as he waits. He’s preserved these five minutes for himself—no interruptions, no phone, just the pleasure of the moment.
The kid’s hands trail over the cups on the hood of the espresso machine, and when he reaches the rarely used demitasse, Bill gives the slightest nod.
Finishing up, Bill sees the rookie still looking a little off-kilter. He leans in, just a little closer. “You must hear this all the time, but you have the bluest eyes.”
The barista flushes, surprised. “Not really. People don’t say that.”
Bill just winks, a knowing half-smile. “They think it,” he says, playful, taking his espresso and moving to the tableside bar.
Phone turned down, he stirs the crema, breathing in the scent, letting himself savor the pause carved out of the day. He almost doesn’t need to drink it—it’s the ritual, the possibility that matters.
There’s a voice at his side. “Excuse me.”
Bill turns. The man beside him is in his thirties, a corporate type in a navy suit, the crisp collar of his shirt pressed into a thick neck that suggests a serious gym habit. He’s eyeing Bill, gaze direct, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“That was nice of you,” the man says, voice low. “You’re going to have a barista with a crush on you, if my radar’s right.”
Bill shrugs, smiling. “Just giving the kid a break.”
The man’s eyes sweep over Bill, clear in their appreciation. “And maybe not just the barista. I’d be kicking myself all night if I didn’t at least try.” He gestures vaguely toward the door, then back at Bill. “Drinks? Dinner? Or we could just skip straight to something more… direct, if you’re as busy as you look.”
The offer hangs for a moment—blunt, but not desperate. Bill’s eyes flicker, a tiny shift in his composure—calculating, considering.
Then he’s back, easy smile in place. He shakes his head, a soft, almost imperceptible no, but keeps the man’s gaze.
“I appreciate the invitation,” Bill says, warm but firm. He pauses, bites his bottom lip, shakes his head. “And frankly, a man with your looks—you make it hard to decline—you make me hard—but I’m afraid I can’t. Thank you.”
He downs the espresso in a single, practiced motion, gives a last sling nod, and turns. He places the cup carefully in the bus tub before heading out—leaving the man standing there, maybe a little surprised, but not deflated.
Back on the sidewalk, the city noise comes up around him, but for a moment Bill feels lighter—five minutes well spent, everything in its place.
3.
At the gym, Bill’s suit is swapped for gym gear, simple but well made. Flattering. Now in his forties, Bill remains lean and disciplined, and he intends to stay that way. He takes a deep satisfaction in the way his body responds, and a quiet pleasure in knowing it's noticed.
This gym is a costly indulgence—soft lighting, abundant space, the hum of machines mingled with low conversation. Mostly professional gay men. The atmosphere is relaxed but charged—like everyone knows the dance without needing to say a word.
When he sets down a barbell with a controlled thud, he’s aware of a guy watching from the next rack. Mid-twenties, with a sharp jaw and a muscular compact build. He has the young, hungry look of one of the start up tech bros—the ones who think they’re behind if they’re not in senior leadership by twenty seven.
“That set looked brutal,” he says, voice low but clear over the gym noise. “But you handled it like a pro.”
Bill wipes sweat from his brow on his forearm. “Thanks. Just trying to keep up. Doesn’t get easier with age.”
The guy grins, eyes lingering. “You don’t look so old.” His gaze drifts over Bill’s long form, then locks with his eyes. “I’m Tre. Noticed you a few times this week.”
Bill nods, a slow smile breaking. “Bill. Usually here in the mornings, but this week’s busting my balls.”
Tre steps a little closer, lowering his voice. “If you ever want a spotter, or someone to cool down with, I’m around.”
Bill’s eyes flicker. “I might take you up on that.”
He returns to his weights, finishing the set with steady focus. Sweat runs down his temples as he racks the barbell and wipes his face with the inside of his shirt, flashing the soft hair on his abs.
Bill isn’t totally surprised when the shower door slides open behind him. “Mind if I join you?” Tre’s voice is low, confident.
Like everything else at the gym, the shower stalls are top quality—thick glass doors tinted for privacy—discreet.
Bill meets his gaze and shifts slightly, offering space, a silent invitation. His own cock, stirring, responds as Tre steps in, moving closer until their shoulders are almost touching.
Tre brushes Bill’s arm, a light, exploratory touch and Bill’s breathing deepens, his chest rising and falling visibly, water streaming down the subtle swells and down the furrows of his abs.
Fingers trail against Bill’s hard cock, drawing a low growl out of him. “I… can’t,” he says, low, eyes fixed on Tre’s. “But you can—I’d like you to.” He steers Tre’s hand to his own erection, palming it firmly into Tre's grasp.
Tre looks slightly perplexed, but takes the cue, stroking his cock. “That’s it,” Bill says, the white of his teeth showing. “Good boy.”
The sound of smacking skin begins slowly and then fills the shower stall, the two men’s eyes fixed. Bill’s lets his fingers trail up Tre’s sides, cutting the falling water into slick streams over his supple, young muscles. Bill’s own cock throbs, held tight in one fist. “So fucking hot. Show me more, Tre.”
His guest chuckles. “You’re fucking crazy, man.”
Bill’s fingers just graze the swell of Tre’s chest, his stiff nipples. “You gonna cum for me, boy?”
“Yeah, daddy,” Tre grunts, double-fisting it—holding his thick cock at the base with one hand, beating it with the other.
“Show daddy what you’ve got,” Bill says under his breath, his face turning slightly, lips so close it’s a near kiss—excruciatingly close.
“Oh fuck,” Tre groans, “oh fuck.”
His beating gets more frantic and Bill’s grin broadens. “I’m ready for you, Tre.”
Tre shoots a jet of hot white cum that splats Bill’s hip. “Oh FUCK,” he gasps, his chest shuddering, surges of cum following.
Bill rests a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “So fucking hot.” His own cock aches in his fist, but goes without a single stroke, even as Tre’s first shot runs down his thigh, in the shower water.
Tre leans against the heavy glass wall, panting, his eyes fluttering open to meet Bill’s, a look of spent satisfaction and lingering admiration. “Thanks, daddy,” Tre murmurs, voice low and playful.
Bill smirks, a spark in his eyes. “Glad to help.”
Tre grins. “So, what’s the follow-up? Drinks? Dinner?”
Bill shrugs, smirking. “I don’t really do that.”
Tre raises an eyebrow. “No hooking up at all?”
Bill smiles, sharp. “If I did, I’d be all over you.”
Tre laughs, stepping closer. “You keep in good shape for a guy who doesn’t hook up.”
Bill just smirks, then turns back to his weights. “I have to get back to work.”
4.
Bill emerges from the gym’s locker room, already back in his work clothes—hair damp, the slight flush of exercise still lingering, jacket over his shoulder. He cuts a line through the sidewalk traffic without trying.
He flips through his phone, scanning the twenty-four work emails that arrived during his workout. The afternoon is already packed, and his time with Tre cut into that just a bit, making the time tighter.
He lets himself take a look at his personal Signal, where messages wait from guys he’s met online. Their photos, their stories, their asks, their confessions of things they longed for—a constant stream he can’t help but invite. Bill has a presence online, firewalled from his work life assiduously—but one he’s cultivated over the years.
His phone buzzes—a familiar sigh.
“Hi, Mom,” Bill answers, his voice immediately softening, patient but steady—the same tone he uses in the boardroom, but with a thread of weariness he keeps tucked away.
“Billy, you won’t believe the internet again,” she says, her barely repressed anxiety bubbling up. “It’s just gone! That young man said to ‘restart the router’ but I don’t even know what that is! Is it the same as the modem? I can’t check my emails, I can’t see Facebook…”
Bill listens, thumb rubbing the phone’s case. He pictures the tangle of wires, the blinking lights his mother finds baffling. Like so many of her calls, this is a domestic puzzle a husband might be put to work on, except Bill’s dad has been absent a long time.
He recalls her showing up in fifth grade to pick him up hours early. “Your father perjured himself in divorce court!” she’d said, needing a witness to the injustice, even if it meant him missing classes.
He passes other men on the street, some glancing his way—the fitted shirt, the long legs in light houndstooth, the faint flush on his cheeks. Without thinking, Bill offers a brief, easy smile—a reflex, the casual flirt in him.
“Did you think you should try calling Arthur?” she asks, her anxiety spiking. “He’s so good at these things.”
Bill hesitates. “What? No, Mom, I’ve got it,” he says, gently steering. “Let’s just get this sorted.”
He breaks down the steps clearly and calmly, like a whiteboard session in miniature.
As he nears the office, “Oh! It’s working! You’re a miracle, Billy!” she exclaims.
Bill hangs up, stopping outside the door.
The aplomb with which he handled the crisis feels effortless—ingrained. But the appearance of effortlessness is what makes it draining. The familiar weight settles on his shoulders, a quiet exhaustion. He calculates the fastest route home, the most efficient trains or buses. Another problem to solve, another plan to execute.
He takes one more stop to look at his own messages—a last moment to steep himself in his other life. One is a photo of a guy’s load on his belly. “Thinking of you.”
“That’s hot,” Bill replies. “My cock approves.” The response comes in: “Best thing a boy can do is get his dad off.”
A familiar satisfaction settles over Bill—the particular reward of fulfilling a need, of providing that very specific release for someone else.
This role play’s harmless, but a constant reminder of the men, some young, some even older than himself, who found their own kind of submission in his presence. They weren't necessarily boys in age, but they were boys in what they craved—a specific gap he knows how to fill. Every man had a son in him, and Bill knows how to give them what they crave.
5.
Back on the job, Bill dives into the relentless flow of meetings, calls, and decisions. The day blurs, but his calm stays steady, focused on the end game.
His own office, unlike the frenetic pace of his work, is a testament to order: desk surfaces gleaming, meticulously organized, devoid of personal clutter. The only exception is a single, understated silver frame facing his chair, angled subtly away from direct view—his team knows Arthur, of course. But otherwise, it’s a hint into a life he keeps private.
As the afternoon thins, Bill spots Vinh hunched over his desk, shoulders tight, face pale behind the monitor. The kid looks like he’s bracing for the worst.
“Hey, Vinh,” Bill says softly.
Vinh startles, blinking up. “I—I think I screwed up. The Miller brief. I think I made… some miscalculations. I’m so sorry.”
Bill pulls up a chair and sits beside him. He doesn’t sigh or scold—just waits as Vinh pulls up the spreadsheet. “Okay, show me the work—how did you get here?”
The kid looks like he might faint. “I don’t know.”
Bill takes a deep breath. “Alright,” Bill says after a quick scan. “Not great. But not a disaster.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “Honestly? I did worse in my first month. Sent a spreadsheet with half of one client's salaries to another.” He lets that hang, watching Vinh’s shoulders loosen.
“Here’s the plan. Draft a short apology. Keep it simple, own the mistake. Send it to me first—I’ll review it. Let him know he’ll have the correct version tomorrow. We’ll work on it in the morning. Fresh eyes. I’ll… I’ll call Miller in the morning, smooth things over.”
Vinh nods, relief flooding his face. “Thank you. I’m really—”
Bill cuts him off, hand on his shoulder. “You’re new. But you did the right thing telling me.” He locks eyes with Vinh. “Do better next time.”
He straightens and looks around the open floor. A few heads still bent over screens, the air thick with fatigue.
Bill raises his voice just enough: “That’s enough for today, everyone. Go home. Get some rest.”
There’s a ripple of surprise, then grateful movement—people logging off, stretching, exchanging tired smiles.
Bill gives Vinh a weary half-smile. “That means you too. We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”
He waits as the chairs scrape back and the office empties. Only then does he gather his things, jacket slung over his shoulder, already picturing the quiet of home.
6.
At 5:30 PM, Bill slips inside, shuts the door, and lets the silence settle over him. He shrugs off his jacket and throws it over the back of a chair, sets his bag down with a soft thud—no care for order now.
"Arthur?" His voice is softer, stripped down.
Arthur appears from the kitchen, drying his hands. He’s settling into his fifties—eyes crinkled at the corners, hair just thinning. He’s thicker now, like Bill likes, filling out his blue oxford. Sturdy.
Bill crosses to him, pressing his head under Arthur’s jaw. Arms come up around him, pulling him in so his face sinks into the crook of Arthur’s neck, taking in his clean scent.
“Tough day?” Arthur’s voice is quiet.
Bill nods, face buried in Arthur’s shirt. “Big messes. Mom called. The new guy fucked up. I have to do damage control tomor—”
Arthur shushes him “It’s okay, my boy.”
Bill shudders. The words undo something in him and he loosens, breath coming out slow. Arthur’s hand works the back of his neck, thumb pressing at a knot until Bill nearly slumps onto him. Arthur’s fingers trail down Bill’s spine, coaxing him closer, until Bill’s hands come up, holding on tight.
Arthur kisses his temple, then raises his face. First to read each other’s gaze, then to kiss his mouth. Bill opens for him, lets Arthur decide the pace.
They move toward the bedroom, bumping into walls, peeling off clothes as they go, the long houndstooth legs trailing on the dark wood floor. At the foot of the bed Bill glides down to his knees, pulling Arthur close. He presses his face into the firm belly—skin warm, a trace of sweat and soap.
He nuzzles lower, mouthing at Arthur through his briefs, needy. Arthur stands still, hand in Bill’s hair, thumb stroking behind his ear. “You can have it,” he says, voice gone rough.
Bill pulls Arthur’s cock free—thick, heavy, already hard. He buries his face against it, breathing deep, hands braced on Arthur’s thighs. He licks a slow line up the shaft, then takes Arthur into his mouth, slow at first, then deeper, working Arthur with his tongue and throat.
Arthur groans, hand tightening in Bill’s hair, hips rolling forward just a little. “Fuck yeah. That’s a good boy.”
Bill shudders again, an involuntary groan, the words going right through him. He works Arthur harder, eager now, the taste and weight and heat of it all that matters. Arthur holds him there, not forcing, just present, guiding.
When Bill breaks contact for a breath, his eyes watering, Arthur pulls him up. He kisses Bill hard, then pushes him back on the bed, onto his belly. In full surrender. Arthur kneels between Bill’s legs, big hands traveling up Bill’s thighs, spreading him open. “Tell me you want it.”
“Fuck me,” Bill murmurs, his head nodding against the sheets, feeling the tension in his back dissipate. Bill often tops Arthur, but today isn’t one of those days.
Arthur takes the container from the bedside table and smears a thick lotion onto his palm and presses it into Bill’s cleft, fingering him, drawing long sighs and deep breaths. He strokes himself with more of the lotion and lines up. He presses in slowly, inch by inch, watching Bill bites his lip and then gasps, hands gripping the sheets.
Arthur leans down, mouth by Bill’s ear. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”
Bill muscles tense and then release, his body going loose under Arthur’s weight. Arthur starts to move—slow at first, then building, each thrust steady and deep. The room fills with the sound of the creak of the bed, Arthur’s rough breathing, Bill near whimpering.
Bill lifts his rear, wanting Arthur deeper in him, to contain his thick cock, driving so much pleasure into him. “Fuck me,” he pleads.
Arthur’s hand finds Bill’s, fingers laced together, pinning his arm above his head. “You give it all day. Let me take care of my boy.”
He pulls Bill up by the hips to ride him harder, letting Bill stroke himself, and adding his hand to the job. Arthur’s hips snap harder, his grip bruising on Bill’s hips. Bill’s cock leaks through their fingers, the first sign of the coming release.
“Oh fuck,” Arthur groans, losing his own control. “You’re making me cum in you.”
Arthur shoots, deep inside, with a grunt and his hardest thrust. Then a wave of short pumps, the rest of his load coming in hot bursts. He clutches at Bill, fingers pressed into abs and pecs, letting his comforting weight rest on Bill.
“Cum for your dad,” he rasps, grinding the last of his erection into Bill. “Show me.”
Bill strokes himself hard and follows, his load shuddering out onto the bed, his entry milking Arthur. The sounds he makes are half sob, half laugh, and he drops onto the mattress, the world narrowing to the weight and heat and the mess between them.
Then Bill lies there, Arthur’s weight pinning him, their hands still joined—the soft hair of his chest against Bill's back, his curved belly filling the small of Bill's spine. And they breathe.
7.
After shifting to find their places, Bill’s head rests on Arthur’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall. Sweat still dries on their skin. The earlier part of the day feels faded, distant.
Eventually, Arthur stirs. “Hungry?” he murmurs, voice soft against Bill’s hair.
Bill groans at the thought of getting up but adjusts his limbs, untangling.
They pull on boxers and t-shirts and move to the kitchen, where Bill settles on a stool at the marble island. Arthur pulls two chilled Manhattans from the refrigerator—mixed before Bill came home, knowing the moment he’d crave it—a part of their daily check-in. He deftly pierces two Luxardos on each skewer, settles them in the cocktails, and slides one across the counter.
“Two Luxardos each?” Bill asks, grinning. “Did we win the lottery?”
“Every day,” Arthur replies, setting two lye rolls in the oven to warm. The vegetables he prepped earlier tumble into a pan with a soft sizzle, chicken searing in another. There’s the scent of Zaatar, oils being released.
As Arthur cooks, Bill’s gaze falls on the solid line of his back, the steady rhythm of his movements. At certain angles, the line of his jaw and the curve of his lips are so like Bill’s father, he thinks. Memory plays tricks.
He remembers the moment, soon after they'd met, when the true shape of their connection first revealed itself.
It had been a few weeks, maybe a month in. They were just... being. Tangled on a worn sofa in Arthur’s old apartment, content after a night out. Arthur’s voice, husky with sleep, murmured, “I almost called you son.”
Bill’s breath caught, a sudden, unfamiliar heat blooming in his chest. “Did you?” he whispered, voice trembling.
“Just a reflex,” Arthur responded, a hint of curiosity.
Bill pulled him closer, pressing his face into Arthur’s neck. “If you’re testing the waters,” he said softly, “feel free to wade in.”
Fourteen years later, the dynamic sustains. Not a constant, overt performance, but an undercurrent, and a chord they could strike when needed.
Eyes on his work, Arthur asks, “So. How was your day—really?”
Bill feels lighter, grounded. “Not that bad. Had a funny thing happen at the gym.”
“Oh?” Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow. He glances at Bill’s phone. “And your boy harem? Signal burning up?”
“Lively,” Bill answers with a chuckle.
Arthur rests his elbows on the bar, beaming at his husband. Bill lets his shoulders drop and sits there, finally still.
END
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