Chapter 12: Midday Taste Test
The fluorescent buzz of the office was a drone in Josh’s skull, a white noise that did nothing to silence the echo of his own gasped pleas from the night before. His fingers, poised over his keyboard, were clean. They looked like his fingers. But they felt like instruments that had been used to dig a grave. He stared at the lines of code on his screen until they blurred into senseless glyphs.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He didn’t jump. He just stiffened, a prey animal going rigid.
“Jessica. Supply audit. Now.” Greg’s voice was a low, pleasant rumble, perfectly professional for anyone passing by. His fingers dug in, just on the safe side of painful, and pulled him up from his chair.
Josh stood, his legs unsteady. He didn’t look at Greg. He looked at the path to the supply closet, a narrow hallway past the kitchenette. It was a ten-second walk. It felt like a mile.
Greg steered him, one hand still firm on his shoulder, the other holding a clipboard like a prop. He kicked the closet door open and shoved Josh inside, following quickly and closing the door behind them. The click of the lock was a sound Josh had come to know as well as his own heartbeat.
The closet was tomb-quiet, lit by a single, flickering bulb. The air was thick with the chemical tang of bleach, printer toner, and dust. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with reams of paper, boxes of pens, and industrial cleaning supplies.
Greg tossed the clipboard aside. It clattered against a mop bucket. From his back pocket, he produced the small, ornate wooden box. He held it up, letting the weak light gleam off the carved lid.
“Forgot something at my place last night,” Greg said, his affable mask gone, replaced by a flat, predatory focus. He dropped the box. It hit the concrete floor with a decisive thud, the lid popping open. Knotted, used condoms spilled out like pale, bloated grubs across the gray floor.
Greg unbuckled his belt with one hand, the leather rasping loud in the confined space. With the other, he fisted his hand in Josh’s tie and yanked him forward, then shoved him down. Josh’s knees hit the hard floor amidst the scattered condoms and a fallen ream of copy paper.
“Pick one,” Greg demanded, his cock already half-hard, pushed against the fly of his chinos.
Josh stared at the spill of latex at his knees. His mind, sluggish with trauma, tried to retreat. This was work. This was a Tuesday. The smell of coffee from the kitchenette was still faint in his nostrils. The dissonance was a dizzying sickness.
“I said pick one, you dumb bitch.” Greg’s voice held a spark of impatience. He kicked the box, sending a few more condoms rolling towards Josh. “Choose a flavor. Vintage or fresh. Your call.”
Josh’s hand trembled as he reached out. His fingertips brushed one. It was drier, dusted with lint from Greg’s pocket. An older one. He picked up another. It was cooler, the contents still a loose fluid within. From the bar. From the bathroom sink. His stomach lurched.
“Hurry the fuck up,” Greg said, pulling himself free from his pants. His cock sprang out, fully erect now, thick and veined. He slapped it against Josh’s cheek, leaving a damp smear. “My dick’s getting lonely. Choose, or I’ll choose for you. Maybe I’ll make you throat two at once.”
The threat galvanized a spasm of motion. Josh’s fingers closed around the cooler, damper condom. He held it up, a grotesque offering.
Greg grinned. “Sentimental. I like it. That’s a good one. You remember making that? Remember your cunt dripping all over the bathroom floor while I filled it up?” He took the condom from Josh’s limp hand. With a sharp, practiced motion, he untied the knot.
The smell hit immediately—a potent, sour musk that cut through the bleach. Greg pinched the open end, holding it over Josh’s head like a chef about to drizzle sauce.
“Open,” he commanded. “Let’s see if you remember the taste. Let’s see if your whore mouth recognizes its own work.”
Josh’s lips were sealed shut, a last, pathetic fortification. He looked up at Greg’s face, at the receding hairline gleaming under the bulb, at the eyes bright with cruel delight.
Greg’s expression hardened. He dropped the condom. It landed in Josh’s lap with a wet, sickening slap. Then his hand was in Josh’s hair again, twisting, forcing his head back until his neck screamed. Greg’s other hand grabbed his own cock, aiming it at Josh’s face.
“Fine. We’ll do it live. You want the direct feed? You can have it. Open your fucking mouth for your alpha. Now.”
The pain was precise. The command was absolute. Josh’s jaw unclenched. Greg didn’t wait. He shoved the head of his cock past Josh’s lips, bumping against the back of his throat. Josh gagged, tears springing to his eyes.
“Suck it clean, Jessica,” Greg growled, beginning to piston his hips forward in short, brutal thrusts. “Suck the memory of your own slop off my dick.” The taste was skin, salt, and the pervasive, inescapable ghost of Greg’s cum. Josh’s tongue moved, a wet, helpless muscle. He sucked, the rhythm forced upon him by the thrusts into his mouth. His nose was filled with the man’s pubic scent.
Greg fucked his face with a workmanlike rhythm, his balls slapping against Josh’s chin. He looked down, watching his cock disappear into the wet, stretched O of Josh’s mouth. “That’s it. Use that tongue. You filmed so pretty last night. You think Barry would want to see this? A little midday pick-me-up?”
The mention of the video, of Barry, sent a fresh wave of shame through Josh. His body betrayed him again; a low, choked moan vibrated around the invading flesh. Greg felt it and laughed, a harsh sound in the tiny room.
“You like that idea? You like being our little star?” He pulled his cock out, a string of saliva bridging it to Josh’s swollen lips. He was gleaming wet. “But I’m not done with you.”
He turned Josh roughly, forcing him onto his hands and knees atop the spilled paper and condoms. The rough carpet bit into his palms. Greg kneeled behind him, yanking Josh’s trousers and boxers down to his thighs in one violent pull. The cold closet air hit his exposed skin.
There was no preamble. Greg spat once, a gob of saliva that landed on Josh’s entrance. He rubbed the head of his cock through it, a crude, inadequate lubrication. “This cunt’s always so ready for me,” he muttered, and then he was pushing inside.
The burn was a raw, tearing familiarity. Josh buried his face in the crook of his arm, biting the fabric of his dress shirt to stifle a cry. The condoms beneath his knees shifted and slid.
Greg seated himself fully with a deep grunt, his stomach pressed against Josh’s back. “Fuck, yes. Tight little office pussy. Best perk of the job.” He began to move, setting a hard, driving pace that rocked Josh forward with each thrust. The shelves around them rattled faintly.
The rhythm was mechanical, punishing. Each inward drive forced a punched-out gasp from Josh’s lungs. Greg leaned over, his breath hot and ragged in Josh’s ear. “You gonna come for me again? Huh? Like you did last night watching your own tape? You gonna cream your alpha’s cock in the supply closet like the desperate slut you are?”
Josh shook his head, a feeble denial muffled by his arm. The friction was a torment, a painful chafing that sparked tiny, unwanted flashes of sensation. He felt himself being stretched open, used, a hollowed-out vessel.
“Yeah you are,” Greg hissed. He snaked a hand around Josh’s hip, his fingers seeking and finding Josh’s own limp cock. He gripped it, jerking it in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation was a trap. Pleasure, sick and unwelcome, began to coil alongside the pain, a snake waking in his gut.
“That’s it… feel it,” Greg panted, his strokes becoming sloppy, erratic. “You’re gonna come on my dick. You’re gonna milk me dry in this fucking closet.” His finger swiped over the head of Josh’s cock, spreading pre-cum, adding a slick, treacherous slide.
Josh’s body tensed. A low whine escaped him. The coil snapped. An orgasm wrenched through him, vicious and empty, as he spilled over Greg’s pumping fist. His internal muscles fluttered violently around the shaft buried inside him.
The convulsions triggered Greg’s own climax. With a final, deep grind, he slammed home and held, pulsing as he filled him. Josh could feel the hot, urgent flood, a claiming in the most literal, biological sense. Greg stayed lodged inside for a long moment, panting, his weight fully on Josh’s back.
Finally, he pulled out with a wet, sucking sound. The subsequent gush of fluids was immediate, dripping down Josh’s thighs onto the paper below. Greg stood, tucking himself away.
Josh collapsed onto his side, curled into a ball amidst the ruin of paper and latex. He shook, his trousers still around his knees, the cold air and the sticky warmth between his legs a horrifying contrast.
Greg buckled his belt, adjusted his tie. He looked down at Josh, then at the mess. He picked up the untied, empty condom from where it had fallen. He dangled it over Josh’s face.
“Almost forgot the souvenir,” he said. He dropped it. It landed on Josh’s chest with a damp, final plop. “Hold onto that. A memento of your first audit.” He then began scooping the other spilled condoms back into the wooden box, snapping the lid shut.
He unlocked the door, opening it a crack to peer out. The hallway was clear. He looked back at Josh, who hadn’t moved.
“You’ve got five minutes,” Greg said, his voice once more perfectly normal, the voice of a colleague stating a fact. “Clean up. The bleach wipes are on the second shelf. Don’t forget your souvenir.” He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.
Josh lay on the floor. The taste of Greg was in his mouth. The feel of him was leaking out of his body. The empty condom clung to his shirt. The hum of the office continued, just beyond the door. He was part of the inventory now, another item to be used and restocked. He closed his eyes, and in the darkness, all he could see was the play button hovering over his own terrified face, waiting to be pressed again.
The play button dissolved into the chemical darkness behind his eyelids. The hum of the fluorescent bulb replaced the digital whine in his ears. It was the only sound, aside from the wet, steady drip between his legs onto the torn, semen-stained copy paper.
He moved eventually. His limbs unfolded stiffly, each muscle protesting. The used condom slid from his chest, landing with a silent, gummy tap beside his head. He stared at its collapsed, empty shape, a gossamer snake skin. He pushed himself up. The cold air on his exposed skin was a shock. He fumbled with his trousers, pulling them up over the sticky mess. The fabric clung unpleasantly.
He found the bleach wipes on the second shelf. The sharp, sterile scent cut through the room's thicker odors. He cleaned himself mechanically, the coarse texture scraping his sensitive skin. He wiped his thighs, his groin, his hand. The wipe came away stained with pink and murky white. He scrubbed his mouth, his tongue, until his gums burned with the taste of artificial citrus and poison. It didn't matter. The other flavor was underneath, in the lining of his stomach.
He balled the soiled wipes and the empty condom into a fist. He opened the door a crack. The hallway was empty. He stepped out, a ghost leaving a crime scene. He walked to the men's room, deposited the evidence in the sanitary bin, and stood at the sink. He looked at his reflection. His eyes were hollows. His tie was crooked. He fixed it.
He was halfway back to his desk when Greg's door opened. Greg leaned against the frame, holding a coffee mug, looking for all the world like a man deep in thought. "Jessica. A word."
Josh stopped. He could feel a slow trickle inside him, a damning warmth. He followed Greg back into his office.
Greg closed the door softly. He didn't sit. He sipped his coffee, looking Josh up and down. "You missed a spot," he said, nodding towards Josh's collar. "Just there."
Josh's hand went to his neck. He felt nothing.
"Not there," Greg chuckled. "It's a metaphor. You look like hell. Sit." He gestured to the client chair.
Josh sat. The leather squeaked beneath him.
"Gotta keep up appearances, Jess," Greg said, circling the desk to sit in his own throne-like chair. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a confidential tone. "The audit went well. Inventory's been... updated." He smiled. "But we need to think about team building. Morale."
He opened a drawer. He didn't pull out the wooden box or his phone. He pulled out a glossy flyer. He slid it across the polished wood.
Josh looked at it. It was for "Nexus-Con," an anime convention. The graphic was a splash of neon colors and exaggerated, large-eyed characters. One, a female warrior with impossible armor and flowing purple hair, winked coyly.
"You're coming," Greg said. It wasn't an invitation. "With me. This weekend. Two-day pass." His eyes glittered with a new, horrifying kind of excitement. "Got you a cosplay outfit and everything. Gonna be a real bonding experience."
Josh’s breath stopped. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He stared at the winking anime girl. His mind conjured the small box of condoms, the video on the phone, the taste that wouldn’t leave. This was a new folder in his archive of humiliations. A public one.
Greg watched the refusal form and die on Josh’s face. He smiled wider. "It'll be fun. You'll get to be someone else entirely for a whole weekend." He let the implication hang, oily and repulsive. "We can even stream some of it. Barry would get a kick out of that. A live show."
The word 'stream' clicked into place like a bolt locking a door. It wasn't just a private collection anymore. It was potential, perpetual broadcast. His face, his borrowed shame, on a screen for anyone. The anime girl’s winked promise seemed to curdle on the page.
"So," Greg said, clapping his hands together once. The sound was a gunshot in the quiet room. "Saturday. Ten AM. I'll pick you up. You be ready. Wear something cute underneath." He stood, the meeting clearly concluded. "Now get back to work. You've got code to write."
Josh stood. His legs held him, barely. He turned and walked out, the flyer left on the desk. He didn't need it. The winking girl was burned onto his retina. He returned to his desk. He placed his hands on the keyboard. He stared at the screen. The lines of code remained senseless.
He could feel it inside him, a slow, cooling leak. A reminder. And ahead, a weekend of crowded corridors and costume, with Greg’s hand on his elbow and a camera in his pocket. The play button wasn't just on a screen anymore. It was hovering over his entire future, waiting for Greg to press record.