Chapter 18: The Boardroom Conversion
The city sprawled beyond the glass like a circuit board, pulsing with tiny lights of ambition and desperation. Julian sipped his whiskey, the ice clicking softly against the crystal. On the plasma screen flanking his desk, a dozen live feeds played out silent dramas. A couple arguing in a kitchen. A man crying alone in a car. A woman dancing in her underwear, lost in music. Pathetic. Predictable.
His eyes lingered on the upper-right quadrant. Ethan’s apartment. The feed was murky, obscured by the peculiar metaphysical interference that cloaked the space, but he could make out shapes. A man moving frantically over a still, pale form on a cheap rug. The rhythm was familiar, obsessive. Julian smiled. The Cuntpuppet was performing admirably. The neighbor was fully, beautifully ruined.
But that was a finished painting. He needed to start a new one.
He let his gaze drift across the grid until it landed on a feed marked CHEN, MARCUS – VERTEX DYNAMICS. The corner office was all arrogant angles and spectacular views. The man himself stood at the window, back to the room, a silhouette of tailored confidence. Marcus Chen. Forty-one. A carnivore in the tech sector. Built a billion-dollar data-mining empire by eviscerating competitors and buying politicians. He was known for his cold eyes and his colder pre-nuptial agreements. A man who believed he was the apex predator in every room.
Julian’s smirk deepened. He loved apex predators. They made the most entertaining prey.
He finished his whiskey, savored the burn, and snapped his fingers.
The air in his own sanctum folded. One moment he was leaning back in his chair; the next, he was standing three feet behind Marcus Chen, the faint scent of ozone and whiskey displacing the office’s filtered, lemon-scented air.
Marcus didn’t hear him. He was on a call, his voice a calm, cutting instrument. “…and if they can’t meet the revised KPIs by Friday, clean house. I don’t pay for sentiment. I pay for deliverables.”
Julian cleared his throat.
Marcus spun, his expensive shoes whispering on the polished concrete. His face, all sharp planes and controlled disdain, flickered with pure shock before settling into aggressive confusion. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”
“Julian. A well-wisher,” Julian said, hands in his pockets. He took in the room. The Eames chair. The brutalist sculpture. The photograph of Marcus summiting some wind-blasted peak. A shrine to a very specific, very hollow kind of power.
“Security,” Marcus barked, jabbing a button on his desk console. Nothing happened. He jabbed it again. Silence. He reached for his phone. It was dead. All the screens in the room—the stock tickers, the data flows—flickered and went black.
A sliver of real fear entered Marcus’s eyes. “What is this? A shake-down? You’ve picked the wrong fucking mark.”
“Not a shake-down,” Julian said, stepping closer. He circled Marcus, who stood rigid, fists clenched. “An evaluation. You’ve spent your life building this.” Julian gestured to the view, the office. “Collecting trophies. Dominating hierarchies. It’s so… terrestrial. I’m here to offer an upgrade to your core programming.”
“Get out,” Marcus hissed. “Before I throw you out that window.”
Julian laughed, a genuine sound of delight. “You could try. But let’s stick with my plan. It’s more fun.”
He didn’t snap his fingers this time. He simply thought it, and the reality of Marcus Chen rewrote itself.
It began with the suit. The ten-thousand-dollar, navy wool Zegna masterpiece began to shimmer. It didn’t disappear. It melted. The fabric lost its structure, softening, flowing like dark liquid over Marcus’s frame. It tightened, clinging to every contour of his torso, his arms, his legs. The color deepened to a glossy, inky black. The texture became unmistakable: latex. Sheer, second-skin latex.
Marcus looked down, a choked sound escaping his lips. He clawed at his own chest, but the material was seamless, fused to him. It squeezed his ribs, plastered itself to the planes of his abdomen. He could feel every breath amplified, the coolness of the air on the exposed skin of his neck a shocking contrast to the tight, encapsulating sheath everywhere else.
“What—?” he tried to say, but his voice was a rasp.
The transformation continued inward. A heat, unfamiliar and deep, bloomed in his groin. It was an ache, a demanding, visceral pulse that overrode the panic in his brain. He felt himself hardening against his will, his cock swelling, trapped within the constricting latex. The material over his crotch thinned, became a mere film, then split with a soft, deliberate rrrip.
His erect cock sprang free, jutting obscenely through the tailored slit. It was fully hard, flushed dark, a bead of clear pre-cum already welling at the tip. He looked at it in horror, as if it belonged to someone else.
“Better,” Julian murmured, walking a slow circle around him. “Functional.”
The internal rewrite was more profound. The drive that had governed Marcus Chen for two decades—the hunger for market share, for accolades, for crushing wins—simply evaporated. It was scooped out of his psyche like a melon ball. In its place, a new directive flooded the vacuum, thick as syrup, urgent as a heartbeat: Need to be filled. Need to be used.
It wasn’t a thought. It was his new central nervous system. His ambition was replaced by a single, all-consuming lust, and it was pointed not outward, but inward, at his own body as a vessel.
He tried to summon his anger, his famed ruthlessness. The concepts felt distant, childish. All he could feel was the tight clutch of the latex, the throbbing, exposed vulnerability of his cock, and a deep, empty craving in his ass. His hole clenched involuntarily around nothing, a hungry, embarrassing pulse.
“My board…” Marcus whispered, but the sentence died. He didn’t care about his board. He cared about the terrifying, growing need to be bent over his own desk.
“Your board will find a very convincing, very boring AI running things within the hour,” Julian said, leaning casually against the desk. He picked up a heavy, polished stone paperweight, hefted it, and set it down. “You have a new full-time position. Cocksleeve. The benefits are… immersive.”
“No,” Marcus gasped, but his body betrayed him. His cock twitched, leaking another string of pre-cum that dripped onto the dark latex of his thigh. The emptiness inside him was a physical ache, a hollow socket begging for a plug.
“See, you’re already getting it,” Julian said, his eyes sharp with amusement. “The mind fights. The body knows its purpose. Let’s expedite the training.”
He didn’t move. He just willed.
Marcus’s body pivoted against his will. He stumbled toward the massive desk, his shiny latex-covered knees bumping against the hard edge. His hands, trembling, flattened on the cool surface. His back arched, presenting his ass, still sheathed in the glossy black material. The pose was one of utter submission, and his body sang with a humiliating rightness.
“Please,” Marcus begged, the word foreign on his tongue. He had never begged for anything.
“Please what?” Julian asked, his voice a lazy drawl. He hadn’t moved from his spot.
“I… don’t…”
“You do. Say it. What does that needy hole want?”
Marcus squeezed his eyes shut. The craving was a scream in his bones. “It wants… to be fucked.”
“Louder. And dirtier. You’re not at a shareholder meeting.”
“It wants to be used!” Marcus shouted, the admission tearing out of him. “It needs to be fucked raw!”
“Better.”
Julian appeared behind him. Not having walked, simply being there. Marcus felt a presence, a heat. He felt his latex-encased ass being parted by hands. A thumb, slick with something cool and wet, rubbed roughly over his pucker, which was already fluttering weakly, desperately.
He braced. This was violation, this was the end of everything he was.
The thumb pushed in. Not gently. It was a crude, stretching intrusion. Marcus cried out, a sharp, ragged sound.
“Tight,” Julian mused, working the thumb in deeper, twisting. “Corporate tight. We’ll fix that.”
He removed his thumb. Marcus heard the sound of a zipper. The clink of a belt. Then, the blunt, immense pressure of a cockhead nudging against him.
There was no more preparation. No more asking.
Julian slammed forward, sheathing himself in one brutal, tearing thrust.
Marcus’s world exploded into white, searing pain. It was a fullness so extreme he thought he’d split in two. He screamed, his forehead slamming against the desk, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth wood.
“Fuck! God! It hurts!” he sobbed.
“It’s supposed to,” Julian said, his voice calm, almost conversational. He didn’t move for a moment, letting Marcus feel the full, crushing invasion. Then he pulled back and pistoned forward again.
The pain began to mutate. The rough, burning stretch was still there, but beneath it, the engineered need in Marcus’s core began to respond. It recognized the filling. It welcomed the brutal friction. The pain began to lace with sparks of shocking, degrading pleasure. His cock, trapped between his belly and the cold desk, leaked steadily, a useless dribble.
Julian set a punishing pace. He fucked him with a detached, analytical ferocity, each drive of his hips slamming Marcus’s body into the desk’s edge. The sound was obscene: the wet slap of skin against latex, the guttural grunts from Julian, the choked, weeping gasps from Marcus.
“This is what you are now,” Julian panted, gripping the latex at Marcus’s hips, using him for leverage. “A hole. A tight, CEO-grade hole for cocks. Your only function is to take it. To feel it. To need it.”
With each word, each devastating thrust, the truth of it cemented in Marcus’s rewired mind. The data flows, the mergers, the power lunches—they were ghost memories, faint and ridiculous. This was real. The ache of fullness. The sting of the stretch. The shocking, unwanted jolt of pleasure when Julian’s cockhead grazed some deep, betrayed spot inside him.
His own hips began to move, a tiny, helpless rocking back against the violation. He hated himself for it. He did it anyway.
“That’s it,” Julian growled, feeling the submission. “Take it. Milk it. Be a good sleeve.”
The fucking became rougher, more animalistic. Julian’s hands gripped harder, leaving bruises under the latex. His rhythm lost all pretense of control, becoming a frantic, driving chase for his own climax. Marcus was just a thing, a vessel being ruthlessly used, his own pleasure irrelevant except as a gauge of his own degradation.
Julian came with a harsh shout, his body locking, pulsing hot jets deep into Marcus’s bowels. The feeling of being filled, claimed, seeded, triggered a final, catastrophic surrender in Marcus. His own orgasm ripped through him, dry, agonizing, an empty spasm of his untouched cock against the desk. He shuddered violently, tears and snot smearing the polished wood.
Julian pulled out, a slick, wet sound. He took a step back, zipping his trousers.
Marcus collapsed, sliding off the desk to the floor. He lay in a heap of glossy black latex and trembling limbs. The feeling of emptiness returned immediately, more acute than before, now that he knew what could fill it. Julian’s spend leaked from his used hole, a warm, shameful trickle down his inner thigh.
Julian adjusted his cuffs. He looked down at the ruined man on the floor. Marcus’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but they weren’t seeing the architectural details. They were turned inward, watching the collapse of a universe.
“The need will grow,” Julian explained, his voice returning to its smooth, conversational tone. “It will become a physical itch, a mental scream. You’ll find yourself presenting this,” he toed Marcus’s latex-covered ass with a polished shoe, “to anyone who walks in. The delivery man. A junior analyst. The cleaning crew. You’ll beg for it. Your old life is a dream. This is your waking truth.”
Marcus didn’t respond. A fresh bead of pre-cum formed at the tip of his still-hard cock. His body was already asking for more.
“Have fun with the new venture,” Julian said. He snapped his fingers.
He was gone. The ozone scent faded.
The office screens flickered back to life. Data streamed. A muted news channel played. The door was locked.
On the floor, Marcus Chen slowly drew his knees up. The latex squeaked. The movement made him acutely aware of the empty, clenching ache inside him. He looked at his reflection in the glass door of a cabinet. A shapely, glossy-black form, with a flushed, leaking cock jutting out. A desperate, hungry hole hidden behind.
He reached a trembling, latex-sheathed hand back, fingers finding his slick, stretched entrance. He pushed two fingers inside, whimpering at the familiar, shameful stretch. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.
He began to sob, raw, heaving cries that shook his frame. Even as he cried, his fingers worked in and out, fucking himself with a frantic, clumsy rhythm, trying and failing to quiet the scream of his new existence. His other hand fisted his own cock, stroking in time, chasing a relief that would never come, only a sharper, deeper need.
Outside, the city lights twinkled, indifferent. Inside, the apex predator was gone. Only the cocksleeve remained, rocking on the floor of its cage, already dreaming of the next hard use.