Chapter 6: The Interview
The rain streaked the floor-to-ceiling windows of the sixty-second floor, blurring the Seattle skyline into a watercolor smear of grey towers and bruised clouds. Inside, the silence was a tactical weapon, measured and expensive. The air smelled of ozone from the electrostatic air filters and a faint, crisp note of Marcus Thorne’s cologne.
Marcus leaned back in his Eames chair, a king surveying a threatened kingdom. His suit was a testament to bespoke tailoring, his watch a sliver of platinum beneath his cuff. Before him, financial projections glowed on a silent monitor, a spreadsheet of quiet disaster.
“The numbers are soft,” Marcus said, his voice a low, controlled baritone meant to convey unshakeable authority. He tapped the screen. “The board smells blood in the water. Our innovation pipeline is clogged. Market share is eroding. We need a paradigm shift, Croft. Not a tune-up. A reinvention.”
Julian, seated across the vast fossilized wood desk, appreciated the performance. The clenched jaw beneath the groomed stubble. The way the man’s index finger tapped a staccato of suppressed panic against the armrest. Here was a creature of pure, refined will, a self-made monument to discipline and ruthless acquisition. He was, Julian thought, deliciously rigid. A sculpture begging for a hammer.
“Reinvention is painful,” Julian said, his tone conversational. He didn’t touch the tablet before him. “It requires the old self to be… unmade. Are you prepared for that, Marcus? To let go of everything you think defines you? Your drive. Your control. Your… particular tastes.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “My tastes are irrelevant. We’re discussing corporate strategy.”
“Everything is relevant,” Julian murmured. He let his gaze wander the room—the abstract art worth more than most homes, the shelving unit holding first edition novels never read. A life of collected trophies, all hollow. The boredom was a physical weight in Julian’s chest. This needed to be… brighter. Softer. Messier.
With a synaptic flicker, no more conscious than a heartbeat, he rewrote the core code.
It wasn’t an overlay. It was a foundation swap. Decades of masculine ambition, the love of complex mergers and the scent of fear in a competitor’s eyes—these were gently lifted away like archival tissue. In their place, he spun a new substrate: a deep, wiring-level conviction that true power, true success, was fluid. It was submission. It was openness. It was the profound, blissful satisfaction of being a vessel for superior will, measured in swallowed loads.
Marcus shivered. A full-body tremor that made his expensive suit ripple. He blinked, his eyes losing their laser-focus on the spreadsheet. They drifted to Julian’s hands, resting calmly on the desk. Strong hands. Capable hands.
A strange, warm looseness spread through Marcus’s groin. The stern frown on his face softened, then twitched. A giggle escaped him—a high, unexpected sound that seemed to startle even him. He slapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes widening.
“Oh my god,” he squeaked, the baritone gone, replaced by a lighter, more breathy register. “I’m so sorry! That was, like, totally unprofessional!” He giggled again, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably. The financial crisis on the monitor seemed suddenly distant, silly. All those boring numbers. What mattered was the man across from him. The dominant energy radiating from him.
Julian watched the psyche reconfigure itself. The hard angles of the CEO’s posture were melting. Marcus’s shoulders slumped, then rolled forward in a coy, inviting way. He uncrossed his legs, recrossing them the other way, letting his knee fall open.
“The, um, the paradigm shift you mentioned,” Marcus said, biting his plump lower lip. “Does it, like, involve you? Personally?”
“It might,” Julian said, allowing a smile.
That was all the permission the new Marcus needed. He practically vibrated out of his chair. He slinked around the desk, his walk an exaggerated hip-sway he’d never performed before but now felt as natural as breathing. He dropped to his knees on the thick, dove-grey carpet, looking up at Julian with huge, pleading eyes.
“I want to be reinvented,” he breathed, his fingers fluttering to Julian’s belt. “I’m so stiff and icky. All this pressure. I just wanna be… useful. I wanna be a good boy. Your good boy.”
His executive hands, which had signed billion-dollar deals, fumbled with the belt buckle with a clueless, frantic energy. He got it open, popped the button of Julian’s trousers, and yanked the zipper down. He nuzzled the growing bulge in Julian’s boxer briefs, inhaling deeply. “Mmm, you smell like power. Like real daddy energy. Fuck my spreadsheet, daddy. Fuck my whole world.”
He pulled the briefs down, freeing Julian’s cock. It was semi-hard, thickening in the conditioned air. Marcus cooed with delight. “Oh, wow. It’s so… perfect. Can I? Please? I’ll be so good. I suck dick, like, amazingly. It’s my best skill. Way better than leveraged buyouts or whatever.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He opened his mouth, slicking his lips with a thick coat of saliva, and took the head inside. He swirled his tongue around the corona, moaning as if tasting the finest champagne. “Mmm! Yes! So salty! So manly!”
He began to bob, his technique transforming from frantic to expert with each passing second. His brain was downloading a lifetime of imagined skill. He deep-throated with an eager, choking abandon, his nose burying in Julian’s pubic hair. Tears of effort and joy streamed from his eyes, cutting tracks through his meticulously applied anti-aging moisturizer. He came up for air, gasping, a rope of spit and pre-cum connecting his lip to the glistening shaft.
“Am I doing good, sir?” he panted, his voice a wrecked parody of a needy twink. “Does my throat feel good? It’s yours. My throat is a corporate asset. You should acquire it.”
“Deeper,” Julian said, his hand coming to rest on Marcus’s perfectly styled hair.
Marcus sobbed with happiness and obeyed, taking the entire length again, his throat convulsing around the intrusion. The sounds were obscenely wet, gulping, desperate. He serviced with a frenzy, one hand working the base of Julian’s cock, the other cupping and gently kneading his own balls through his suit pants. He was rock hard, leaking a dark spot onto his $5,000 trousers.
Julian let him work, watching the CEO of a Fortune 500 company dissolve into a single, desperate purpose: pleasing cock. The projection screen still glowed, charts now witnessing this new, oral quarterly report.
After several minutes, Julian tightened his grip in Marcus’s hair and pulled him off. Marcus looked up, dazed, his lipstick smeared (he wasn’t wearing lipstick, but his lips were now a swollen, reddened mess), eyes glazed with worship.
“I’m gonna cum,” Julian stated.
“Yes! Please! In my mouth! I need it!” Marcus begged, opening his mouth wide like a baby bird, sticking his tongue out. “Feed me your cum, daddy! I’m so empty! I need your deal-sealing protein! It’ll make me smart! It’ll fix the projections!”
Julian pumped his shaft twice, and with a low groan, released. Thick, hot jets splashed across Marcus’s waiting tongue, over his gums, coating the back of his throat. Marcus gulped eagerly, making loud, sloppy sounds of enjoyment, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Some of it spilled from the corners of his mouth, dripping onto his crisp white shirt and tie.
When it was over, Marcus diligently licked Julian clean, swallowing every last drop. Then he sat back on his heels, sighing with profound contentment. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the mess further.
“Oh my god,” he whispered, a blissed-out smile on his face. “That was, like, the best merger ever. I feel so… liquid. So owned.” He looked past Julian, out at the rainy city. “All those people down there… they have no idea. They’re playing such boring, hard little games.” He giggled, high and light. “I have the secret now. The secret is being a cocksleeve. It’s, like, way less stress.”
He climbed to his feet, his legs wobbly. He looked at his soiled shirt and tie, then giggled again. “Oopsie. Board meeting in twenty. Better change!” He skipped—actually skipped—toward a private door that led to his executive washroom and closet.
Julian adjusted his clothing. He could hear Marcus in the other room, humming a pop song, rummaging through racks.
When Marcus re-emerged, he was transformed. He wore a tight, lavender crewneck sweater and slim-fit white trousers. The power suit was discarded. His hair was tousled. He carried a leather folio, which he clutched to his chest like a schoolbook.
“Ready!” he chirped. “I’m gonna go tell the board the new strategy!”
“And what is the new strategy, Marcus?” Julian asked, standing.
Marcus’s eyes sparkled with vacuous certainty. “Synergy through service! We’re gonna pivot to a client-centric, orally-focused fulfillment model! If they want the contract, they have to suck the dick! It’s, like, a total game-changer!” He leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. “Wish me luck! I’m gonna go try and suck off old Mr. Henderson from Legal! He’s got a big, grumpy dick, I just know it!”
He blew Julian a kiss and pranced out of the office, leaving the door wide open.
Julian walked to the window. The rain was easing. Down on the street, people moved like ants, oblivious to the paradigm shift sixty-two stories above. He thought of Carol, hollowed out and humming over her laundry. Of Harry and Nina, bound in their dark, possessive liturgy. And now Marcus, a giggling apostle of a new, sticky gospel.
And now Marcus, a giggling apostle of a new, sticky gospel. Julian stood at the window a moment longer, feeling the idea crystallize. A single converted soul was a curiosity. A converted ecosystem was a masterpiece. He closed his eyes, not in concentration, but in lazy appreciation, and let the concept blossom from Marcus’s mind like a psychic stain, seeping through the drywall, whispering through the HVAC vents, seeping into the coffee in the break rooms.
It wasn’t a command. It was a revelation, landing softly in every mind under the company’s roof. A sudden, obvious truth: Marcus Thorne had cracked the code. Success wasn’t about grit or innovation. It was about aperture. It was about becoming an open, willing vessel. Your worth was measured in swallowed loads, taken cocks, and the eager presentation of every orifice. Promotion was a reward for prowess on your knees. Bonuses were paid in jizz. The stock price would tick upward with every muffled moan from a conference room.
On the trading floor below, a junior analyst named Liam felt a strange warmth as he stared at a stalled commodities report. The numbers blurred. A vivid, tactile daydream of his supervisor’s thick fingers in his mouth, the taste of stamp ink and scotch, overwhelmed him. His own hand slid under his desk. Across the pod, his rival Clarissa watched him, her own throat feeling suddenly empty and needy. She unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, her mind clear for the first time all day.
In Legal, Mr. Henderson, a sixty-year-old with a face like a clenched fist, was mid-sentence about liability clauses when Marcus bounced in. “Hey, Henderson! Guess what?” Marcus sang, dropping to his knees and crawling across the Persian rug. The old lawyer stared, his diatribe dying. Marcus’s hands were on his belt. “The new merger strategy is so exciting. Let me show you!”
Henderson’s initial roar of protest died in his throat, replaced by a shocking, porous welcome. He felt the young CEO’s hot mouth on him, and a lifetime of repressed, rigid desire surged forth, ugly and magnificent. He grabbed Marcus’s head, his knuckles white, and fucked into that willing throat with a grunting rhythm that shook his dignified frame. “That’s it,” Henderson slurred, his eyes rolling back. “Suck the precedent right out of me, you ambitious little cunt.”
Marcus gagged, tears of joy streaming, hands clutching the lawyer’s bony hips. He was doing it. He was closing the deal.
The change was viral, beautiful in its efficiency. In the innovation lab, engineers debated protocols on their knees, sucking each other off between lines of code, cum dripping onto blueprints for products that no longer mattered. In Marketing, the new “client engagement” workshop involved a circle of interns on their hands and knees, being used by the senior branding team. The air was thick with panting, slapping flesh, and the sweet-acrid smell of sweat and sex.
“Take it, you fresh meat,” a VP grunted, hammering into a sobbing, smiling young man. “Brand loyalty starts in the ass. You’ll understand our market penetration now, won’t you?”
“Y-yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”
Julian walked the halls, a ghost. He passed a glass-walled conference room where a pivotal teleconference with Japanese investors was underway. On the screen, concerned faces listened. In the room, the CFO, a severe woman in her fifties, was bent over the table, her skirt around her ankles, as the Head of Sales plowed into her from behind. She maintained perfect eye contact with the camera, her voice only hitching slightly as she delivered her earnings forecast.
“Our Q3 projections… ah… are extraordinarily robust,” she panted, a smile flickering on her lips. “We are experiencing… oh god… unprecedented inflows. Deep, liquid inflows.”
Marcus was everywhere, the fermenting heart of it all. Julian found him in a janitor’s closet, on his knees again, servicing a hulking, grim-faced security guard. The guard had his hand fisted in Marcus’s lavender sweater, guiding his head roughly. “C’mon, Mr. Big Shot CEO,” the guard muttered, his cap pushed back. “You wanted access to all areas. Well, you got it. Now clean my fucking pipe.”
Marcus slurped eagerly, making obscene, grateful noises. His phone buzzed incessantly on the floor beside him. The stock ticker. He glanced at it, saw the green arrow shooting upward, and redoubled his efforts, humming around the guard’s cock.
The day dissolved into a wet, noisy symphony of ascent. By 4 PM, the office was a debauched carnival. Ties were used as leashes. A copy machine hummed, its glass smeared with the prints of a woman being taken from behind against its warm surface. Someone had ordered in smoothies, and they sat sweating, forgotten, next to bottles of lube.
Marcus, covered in a mosaic of drying fluids, staggered to the central balcony overlooking the main trading floor. He leaned on the railing, his body humming with a profound, emptied satisfaction. Below him, hundreds of employees paused in their various couplings, their faces turning up to him, shiny with sweat and devotion.
“Team!” he shouted, his voice hoarse from overuse. He gestured wildly at the massive digital ticker flashing record-breaking numbers. “Look! Look what we did! We fucked our way to the top!”
A ragged, euphoric cheer erupted. A senior director, naked from the waist down, pumped his fist.
“It’s so simple!” Marcus cried, spit flying from his lips. “Every time you swallow a dick, the stock splits! Every time you get your ass railed, we land a new client! I’m so proud of you! Be sluts! Be gorgeous, hungry, cum-drenched sluts for the company!”
The cheering grew louder, mingled with moans as people resumed their tasks with renewed fervor. Marcus turned, beaming, and saw Julian leaning against the doorway. He stumbled over, wrapping his arms around Julian in a sticky, fragrant hug.
“You see?” Marcus whispered, his breath hot against Julian’s neck. “They get it. They finally get it. It’s so much better than those boring meetings.”
Julian extricated himself, adjusting his cuff. He looked past Marcus, at the thriving, carnal factory he’d authored. He thought of the house in Bellevue, its quiet desperation now replaced by this roaring, libidinal engine. Different aesthetics, same fundamental rewrite. The boredom receded, just a little, replaced by the quiet thrill of a sculptor stepping back from very wet, very noisy clay.
“Indeed,” Julian said. He gave Marcus a pat on the cheek, his fingers coming away damp. “Very good.”
“Very good.”
The words were a dismissal. Julian turned to leave the cacophony of the trading floor, the scent of sex and ambition now a cloying perfume. He didn’t need to see more. The pattern was set, the engine would run itself on a new, obscene fuel. But as his hand touched the cool steel of the exit door frame, he paused. A final, finer adjustment occurred to him. Merely witnessing the external carnival was becoming predictable. The true art, he reflected, was in the interior civil war.
He glanced back at Marcus, who was now being lifted onto the balcony railing by a group of cheering, half-naked VPs. They were positioning him, laughingly, for the entire office to see. Marcus threw his head back in that giggling, empty ecstasy. Julian focused. With a thought as delicate as a neurosurgeon’s scalpe, he didn’t add or rewrite. He subtracted.
He peeled back the shimmering, giggling bimbo persona like a latex mask. The foundational desires, the wired compulsions—the need to serve, to swallow, to be used—those he left, soldered directly into Marcus’s brainstem. But the cheerful, vacant consciousness that had housed them? He dissolved it. He restored the original Marcus Thorne, every memory, every ambition, every shred of his former, rigid identity. He dropped that restored man, screaming inwardly, back into the body that was currently being spread open on a cold steel railing sixty-two stories above the city.
The change was instantaneous and absolute.
Marcus’s blissful shriek cut off. His eyes, which had been rolled back in vacant pleasure, snapped into focus. They were once again the sharp, assessing eyes of a CEO. They took in the scene: his own bare ass in the air, his lavender sweater rucked up, the rough hands of his Head of Operations gripping his hips. He felt the chilled air on his exposed hole, the aching, violated fullness of having been used repeatedly for hours. The phantom taste of a dozen different cocks coated his tongue. Memory flooded him—every debasing act, every giggling pronouncement, every eager, slobbering service he’d performed. He remembered it all as his own action.
“What the FUCK?” The roar tore from his throat, but it was a thin, strained sound. “Get off me! All of you! What in god’s name is happening?”
The VPs paused, confused. The Head of Operations, a man named Derek, leaned close. “Mr. Thorne? You said we should celebrate the Nasdaq spike. You told me to… to take my dividend.”
“I said no such— ah!” Marcus’s denial became a sharp gasp as his own body betrayed him. Derek had not fully withdrawn. The slight movement sent a lightning bolt of wrong, filthy pleasure up his spine. His cock, which he now realized was painfully hard and dripping, twitched against the cold railing. The sensation of being filled, the profound physical craving for it to continue, was a tsunami overwhelming the crumbling levees of his mind. He tried to clench, to push the invader out, but his muscles, trained over hours, instead fluttered weakly, greedily.
“You’re… you’re fired,” Marcus choked out, his forehead pressed to the metal. “All of you. Arrested. This is… this is assault.”
Derek chuckled, a low, possessive sound. He didn’t pull out. He pushed in, just a little, a torturous half-inch. Marcus’s body welcomed it, a traitorous sigh escaping his lips. “See?” Derek murmured to the others. “He’s just being coy. It’s part of the new management style. Look how his body is begging for it.”
It was. Marcus could feel it, a humiliating, eager pulse deep inside him that was entirely separate from his screaming psyche. He saw Julian then, standing by the door, watching. Their eyes met. Understanding, cold and absolute, flooded Marcus. This was him. This was the consultant. This was the ruin.
And yet. A deeper, more horrifying current surged beneath the terror and rage. As he stared at Julian—the sharp, amused eyes, the knowing smirk—a wave of pure, chemical attraction, more potent than anything he’d ever felt for any woman or man in his former life, washed through him. It was a magnetic, visceral pull from his guts to his throbbing cock. This man had unmade him. This man was the architect of this hell. And Marcus’s body, his very nervous system, craved his approval with a desperation that felt like starvation.
“You,” Marcus whispered, the word swallowed by the office’s din.
Julian simply smiled and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
That tiny gesture was a match dropped in gasoline. The conflict in Marcus shattered. His mind was a blizzard of revulsion. His body was a single, unified demand. Derek chose that moment to finally move, drawing back and slamming home.
“NO!” Marcus screamed, but it melted into a ragged moan. His hands, which had been trying to push away, now clawed at the railing for purchase. His back arched, presenting himself further. “Stop… you have to stop… god, don’t stop…”
He was crying, hot tears of shame scalding his cheeks. Each brutal thrust from Derek hammered the reality deeper. The pleasure was undeniable, a raw, grating ecstasy that burned through his resistance. He came first, untouched, his cock jerking and spilling uselessly onto the window glass below, a humiliating surrender. Derek followed moments later, grunting, pumping his release deep into the CEO.
When Derek pulled out, Marcus slumped, spent and soiled. The crowd began to disperse, the spectacle over. He slid bonelessly from the railing, his soiled white trousers pooling around his ankles. He knelt on the floor, trembling, trying to piece his shattered dignity together. The impulses didn't subside. The empty, used feeling in his ass wasn't a relief; it was an aching vacancy. The sight of the drying mess on his stomach made him feel sick. And it also made his spent cock give a feeble, interested twitch.
He looked up. Julian was walking toward him now, the only man in the room still fully dressed, untouched by the filth. He stopped a few feet away, looking down. Marcus stared at the polished leather of his shoes.
“What did you do to me?” Marcus asked, his voice hollow, all the boom gone.
“I showed you a more efficient path to success,” Julian said mildly. “You seemed to embrace it. Wholeheartedly.”
“That wasn’t me.” The protest was weak.
“Your body seems to disagree.” Julian took another step. His foot was close to Marcus’s kneeling form. The scent of his cologne, something dark and expensive, cut through the stench of sex. Marcus inhaled it despite himself. His head swam. The urge to lean forward, to press his face against Julian’s ankle, was so powerful it locked his muscles.
“It’s like a sickness,” Marcus mumbled, staring at the perfect knot of Julian’s tie. He wanted to undo it with his teeth. He wanted to choke on it.
“It’s clarity.” Julian shifted his weight. The motion drew Marcus’s eyes to the front of his trousers. The shape there, even at rest, was obscenely compelling. Marcus’s mouth watered. A fresh, humiliating drip of Derek’s cum leaked out of him and down his thigh. He shuddered.
“Please,” Marcus said, not knowing what he was asking for. Release? Death? More?
“Please, what?” Julian’s voice was a soft trap.
Marcus’s mind fought a war he could not win. The CEO calculated a thousand strategies: attack, plead, negotiate, threaten. The body Julian had remade offered only one solution, one all-consuming need. His tongue felt thick. The words that came out were not his, and yet they were the truest thing he’d ever said.
“Please let me suck your cock.” He said it to the shoes. “I need it. I can’t… I can’t think until I taste you. I’ll be good. I’ll be better than them. Just… please.”
Julian was silent for a long moment. Marcus waited, the anticipation a torture worse than the act. He was panting softly, his breath fogging the polished leather.
“Clean your face first,” Julian said, his tone devoid of mockery or mercy. It was a simple instruction. “You’re a mess.”
A broken sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped Marcus. He lifted his hands, saw they were trembling, and wiped at the streaks on his cheeks with his sweater sleeves. He swiped his tongue over his lips, swallowing the salt of his own tears and the lingering, foreign bitterness. He shuffled forward on his knees until he was nestled between Julian’s feet. His fingers, clumsy with shame, found the zipper. He looked up, a final, silent question in his eyes.
Julian gave that faint nod again.
Marcus buried his face in the fabric, inhaling the musk of him, and took the soft weight into his mouth. He worked with a frantic, focused intensity that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with desperate, craven need. This was the source. This was the root of the ruin. He needed to consume it, to swallow it down, to make it a part of him so the screaming in his head would stop. He sucked with a relentless, technical precision, hollowing his cheeks, using his tongue in ways he’d never known, each motion guided by the new, filthy instincts woven into his nerves. He felt Julian harden against his seeking tongue, and a pathetic sense of accomplishment bloomed in his chest.
When Julian finally came, it was with a quiet sigh, as if mildly inconvenienced. The hot flood hit the back of Marcus’s throat. He gulped it down greedily, not missing a drop, milking the shaft with his lips until it was soft. He rested his forehead against Julian’s thigh, spent, hollowed out, the taste a brand on his soul. The chaotic urges settled, not gone, but momentarily sated. The clarity was horrifying. He saw his future in a flash: running this company, commanding billions, all while his body remained a perpetually hungry, begging secret. A sophisticated, public mind forever shackled to a private, slavish cunt.
Julian stepped back, tucking himself away. He looked down at the broken, kneeling man who was once a titan. The civil war was perfectly contained, a perpetual motion machine of anguish. It was more interesting than the house in Bellevue. More nuanced than the giggling apostle.
“Carry on, Marcus,” Julian said, and turned to leave for good.
Marcus knelt on the cold floor, the taste of his master on his tongue, the phantom rhythms of the office orgy still echoing in the air, and knew he would. He had no other choice. Every cell in his body, every corrupted nerve, was in unanimous, wretched agreement.