Chapter 4: Josh chokes silently on Barry's cock under the conference table, tears streaming down his face as his boss casually discusses Q3 projections while fucking his throat with slow, deliberate thrusts.
The bruise on his hip had faded to a sickly yellow-green, a map of the previous Friday. Josh stared at it in the mirror each morning as he dressed, a silent timer counting down to Tuesday at three.
Conference Room 4B was on a quiet hallway, far from the main bullpen. The door was heavy, soundproofed. Josh pushed it open at 2:58 PM.
Barry was already there, seated at the head of the long, polished table. His laptop was open, casting a blue glow on his face. A spreadsheet filled the large TV on the wall, columns of numbers that meant nothing to Josh. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant and stale coffee.
“Close the door,” Barry said without looking up. “Lock it.”
The click of the deadbolt was deafening. Josh stood awkwardly, his notepad and pen feeling like absurd props.
“Sit,” Barry said, nodding to the chair immediately to his right.
Josh sat. Barry scrolled slowly through the spreadsheet. “Your ticket closure rate is acceptable. Your commit comments are lacking detail.” His voice was flat, professional. “You need to be more visible in stand-ups. Speak up.”
“I understand,” Josh said, his own voice thin.
“Do you?” Barry finally turned his head. His eyes, magnified behind his glasses, were devoid of any warmth. They were the eyes of a man reviewing a faulty line of code. “Greg reports satisfactory performance. Kevin says you’re… adaptable. But I need to assess you personally. For the team’s cohesion.”
He didn’t move from his chair. He simply unzipped his trousers. The sound was obscenely loud in the silent room. He freed his cock, already half-hard, thick and veined against the pale fabric of his dress pants. He looked at Josh, then at the space under the conference table.
“We have fifteen minutes before the quarterly sync. Get under there and don’t make a mess. I have work to do.”
A hot wave of shame crashed over Josh. This was worse than Kevin’s grubby couch, worse than Greg’s frantic rutting. This was clinical. Degrading in a whole new way. He slid off the chair and onto his knees on the industrial carpet. The space was dark, cramped, filled with the tang of dust and electrical wires from a power strip. He crawled under the table until he was facing Barry’s lap.
Barry’s hand came down, not to guide, but to grasp a handful of Josh’s hair. He pulled his head forward, aligning him roughly. The head of his cock, now fully hard, pressed against Josh’s lips. “Open.”
Josh parted his lips. Barry pushed in, not with a thrust, but with a steady, inexorable pressure. He was thicker than he looked, and Josh’s jaw ached immediately. He tried to relax his throat, a skill he was learning through brutal repetition.
Above him, Barry let out a soft sigh. Josh heard the click of a mouse, the gentle tap of keys. Barry was scrolling through the spreadsheet again.
He began a slow, shallow rhythm, using his grip on Josh’s hair to puppet his head. In, out. Just enough to fuck his mouth, not enough to let Josh adjust or find a breath. Pre-cum slicked Josh’s tongue, a bitter salt. He focused on a scuff mark on the floor, on the hum of the LCD projector overhead.
“The Q3 projections are soft,” Barry muttered, as if to himself. His hips pushed forward, burying another inch. Josh gagged, a wet, choked sound he couldn’t suppress. The mouse clicking stopped.
A sharp, sudden pain exploded on the top of Josh’s head as Barry smacked it against the solid wood underside of the table. “Quiet,” Barry said, his voice calm. “I’m trying to concentrate.”
Stars swam in Josh’s vision. Tears sprang to his eyes. Barry resumed his slow, measured thrusting. The tapping of keys started again.
“Marketing is over budget again. Useless fuckers.” Barry’s tone was conversational, even as his grip tightened in Josh’s hair, forcing him to take him deeper. Josh’s throat convulsed, his nose pressed into the coarse wool of Barry’s trousers. He could smell starch, and beneath it, the sour musk of sweat. He struggled to breathe through his nostrils, each inhale a desperate, whistling gasp.
Barry picked up pace, his professionalism slipping. The thrusts became harder, more erratic. The conference chair squeaked. The mouse was abandoned. His other hand joined the first, both now fisted in Josh’s hair, controlling him completely.
“Take it, you fucking cunt,” Barry hissed, his administrative drone gone, replaced by a raw, hungry venom. “You’re just a warm hole. A company resource. This is your real job. Sucking cock and taking dick. You think you were hired for your mind?”
He was slamming into Josh’s throat now, each impact a jarring, suffocating punch. Josh’s body shook, his hands braced against the carpet, knuckles white. Spit and tears dripped from his chin. The world narrowed to the pounding in his skull, the burning ache in his jaw, the brutal fullness choking him.
Barry’s breathing hitched. His thighs tensed. “Gonna cum down your fucking throat,” he grunted. “Swallow it. It’s your review bonus.”
With a final, brutal thrust, he held Josh impaled, his cock pulsing as he released. Josh had no choice. The hot, viscous flood hit the back of his throat and he swallowed convulsively, again and again, until Barry softened and pulled out with a wet pop.
For a moment, there was only the sound of Barry’s heavy breathing and the hum of electronics. Then, Barry straightened in his chair. He tucked himself away, zipped up. He adjusted his glasses.
Josh remained under the table, trembling, strings of saliva and semen connecting his lips to the floor.
“The review is concluded,” Barry said, his voice perfectly calm once more. “Your performance is adequate. Needs improvement on the gag reflex. It’s disruptive.” He saved his spreadsheet and closed the laptop. “You have four minutes to compose yourself before the quarterly sync. I suggest you use the time wisely.”
He stood, his polished shoes stepping back from the chair. Josh watched them walk to the door. The lock clicked open. Barry left, pulling the door shut behind him.
Josh crawled out from under the table. His knees were imprinted with the carpet’s pattern. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, the fabric rough against his raw lips. He stumbled to the small water cooler in the corner, filled a cone-shaped cup, and rinsed his mouth, spitting into the wastebasket. He drank another, the water doing nothing to wash the taste away.
In the ghostly reflection of the dark TV screen, he saw a young man with hollow eyes, his hair disheveled. He fixed it with shaking hands. He straightened his tie.
At 3:14 PM, he walked out of Conference Room 4B. The hallway was empty. He could hear the murmur of the quarterly sync already beginning in the main bullpen. He walked towards it, each step automatic. He was a company resource. He had a meeting to attend.
He took his seat at the periphery of the sync, the chatter about sprint quotas and deployment pipelines a distant buzz. A metallic taste, faint but persistent, lingered at the back of his tongue. He kept his eyes on his own hands, folded on the table, and willed them not to shake.
The meeting bled into the late afternoon. When he returned to his desk, the blue light of his monitor was a sickly beacon in the dimming bullpen. A new email notification pulsed.
The sender was an internal address he didn’t recognize, a jumble of numbers. The subject line was blank. The body contained only one sentence.
He says you need to come over tonight and beg properly for his unwashed cock. Don’t be late.
It wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be. The ‘he’ was Kevin. The ‘properly’ was a new threshold. Josh deleted the email. It didn’t matter. The command was etched into him, deeper than the fading bruise on his hip.
He took the bus to Kevin’s neighborhood, the familiar route now a descent. The smell of the apartment building—old grease and damp carpet—hit him as soon as he entered the stairwell. He climbed the steps, each one heavier than the last.
Kevin’s door was unlocked. He pushed it open. The TV was on, a game show blaring. Kevin was on the couch, wearing only stained grey sweatpants. He was unshaven, his greasy hair clinging to his forehead. He didn’t look at Josh. He took a long pull from a beer bottle.
“Close the door,” Kevin said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Josh did. He stood just inside the living room, the scene from the server room playing in a hellish loop behind his eyes. The damp spot on the cushion. The feel of the coarse fabric.
“You got the message.” Kevin finally turned his head. His eyes were flat, bored. “So? You know what to do.”
Josh’s mouth was desert-dry. The words were stones he had to vomit up. “Please,” he whispered. The syllable cracked.
“Louder.” Kevin spread his legs wider on the couch, a deliberate, vulgar display. The fabric of his sweatpants was thin, strained.
“Please,” Josh repeated, forcing volume into his dead voice. “Please, Kevin.”
“Please what?” Kevin prompted, a cruel smile touching his lips. He scratched his stomach lazily.
Josh’s gaze fixed on a rip in the couch arm. “Please let me… let me suck your cock.”
“Not good enough.” Kevin took another swig. “The email said ‘beg properly’. And it said ‘unwashed’. You think I showered for you? I’ve been right here since I got home. Get over here and smell it. Then beg.”
Josh’s feet carried him forward. He sank to his knees on the floor between Kevin’s spread legs. The familiar, musky stench of unwashed crotch, sharp and animal, rose from the fabric. His stomach turned.
“Go on,” Kevin said, his voice a low rumble of amusement.
Josh leaned forward, his nose almost touching the sweatpants. The smell was overpowering, a dense mix of stale sweat, skin, and male musk. He inhaled, the violation sensory and complete. “Please,” he choked out, the foul odor filling his sinuses. “Please, I want to suck your unwashed cock. I need to taste it. Please.”
“Better.” Kevin hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his sweatpants and pushed them down, just below his hips. His cock, flaccid and nestled in a thatch of dark hair, was there. The smell intensified, a raw, intimate foulness. “Get it hard. Use your mouth. And keep begging.”
Josh bent forward. He closed his eyes and took the soft flesh into his mouth. The taste was bitter, salty with dried sweat, profoundly unclean. He worked his tongue around it, feeling it stir and thicken against his will. Each movement of his head made the scent waft up stronger.
“Yeah, like that,” Kevin sighed, sinking back into the couch. He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the TV. “Tell me how much you want it.”
Josh pulled off, a string of saliva connecting his lips to Kevin’s now-half-hard cock. “I want it,” he muttered, the words ash in his mouth. “I want your dirty cock in my mouth.”
“Louder. I can’t hear you over the TV.”
“I WANT YOUR FILTHY COCK!” Josh shouted, the scream tearing from a raw place inside him. It wasn’t desire. It was annihilation.
Kevin grinned, a wide, ugly sight. “There it is.” He fisted his hand in Josh’s hair and guided him back down. “Now shut up and suck. You’re my little fucking cocksleeve. That’s all you are.”
Josh obeyed. He took Kevin’s full, hard length into his throat, the unwashed skin dragging against his palate, the taste embedding itself in his tongue. Kevin kept his hand tangled in his hair, not thrusting, just holding him there, making him service him while he watched television. Occasionally he’d grunt, or adjust his hips, pushing himself deeper on a sigh.
It went on for a long time. Kevin seemed in no rush. This was the lesson, the ‘proper’ begging: total, static submission. Josh’s jaw burned. His knees ached against the hard floor. The game show audience laughed and cheered.
When Kevin finally came, he did so with a low groan, his thighs tightening around Josh’s head. He held him down, pumping his cum directly onto the back of Josh’s tongue. “Swallow every drop, you desperate bitch,” he grunted.
Josh did. The warm, salty-sour fluid mixed with the pre-existing foulness. He swallowed until Kevin pulled him off by his hair.
Kevin looked down at him, his cock glistening with spit. “See? You just gotta ask nice.” He pushed Josh away with his foot. “Now get out. I’ve got shit to do.”
Josh stumbled to his feet. He didn’t look back. Outside, the cool night air did nothing to cleanse him. He could still taste it, smell it on his own face. He walked, not toward the bus stop, but aimlessly, scrubbing at his lips with the sleeve of his jacket until the skin felt raw.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. A calendar alert, blinking with serene neutrality.
Friday. 7:00 PM. Greg.
Friday arrived cloaked in a low, aching dread that had settled into Josh’s bones. The bruise from Barry was gone, but the memory of Kevin’s foul taste seemed permanently etched into his tongue, reappearing with every swallow. He moved through the office day as a specter, his body executing tasks while his mind floated somewhere near the stained ceiling tiles.
At 6:55 PM, he stood outside Greg’s apartment door. He could hear music inside, something with a synthetic, pulsing beat. He knocked.
Greg opened the door, but he was different. He wore a silk robe, burgundy, loosely tied. His face was flushed, his eyes darting with a nervous, glittering energy. He didn’t speak, just grabbed Josh’s wrist and pulled him inside. The apartment was cleaner than usual, the lights dimmed. Candles flickered on the coffee table, their vanilla scent clashing with the sterile air.
“In the bedroom,” Greg said, his voice tight. “I laid something out for you.”
Josh walked down the short hallway. On Greg’s neatly made bed, beside the usual bottle of lube, was a small pile of fabric. Josh picked it up. It was a woman’s lingerie set: black lace panties, a matching bra with light padding, and a silky chemise. The tags were still attached.
A cold, hollow laugh bubbled in Josh’s chest but died before it reached his lips.
Greg appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him. He was sweating. “Put it on.” He licked his lips. “I want you to… I want you to be my girl tonight. Okay? Just for tonight.”
Josh stared at the flimsy black lace in his hands. The fabric felt alien, a mockery of skin. He thought of Barry’s clinical assessment, of Kevin’s foul odor. This was a new circle of the hell, absurd and intimate. He began to undress with mechanical precision, his fingers clumsy on his own buttons.
He stepped into the panties. The lace was scratchy against his hips, the front pouch absurdly empty. The bra was a puzzle; he fumbled with the clips behind his back until Greg stomped over impatiently and fastened it for him, his blunt fingers brushing Josh’s spine. The padding created faint, unnatural curves against his flat chest. The chemise slithered over his head, its hem landing mid-thigh.
Greg stepped back, his breathing audible. His eyes traveled up and down Josh’s body, lingering on the places where the lace hid nothing, where the silk clung to the masculine lines of his torso and thighs. “Fuck,” Greg whispered, almost reverently. “Yeah. Okay. Come here. My pretty girl.”
He pulled Josh against him, crushing the delicate fabric between them. His kiss was wet, desperate, his tongue probing as his hands groped the padded cups of the bra. He bit Josh’s lower lip. “Tell me your name,” he panted against his mouth. “What’s my girl’s name?”
Josh blinked, his mind blank. “Josh,” he mumbled.
Greg’s hand came down, a swift, hard smack on Josh’s ass through the silk. “No. Not tonight. You’re Jessica. Say it.”
The sting bloomed through the thin material. “Jessica,” Josh echoed, the name ash on his tongue.
“Good girl.” Greg turned him around, facing the bed. He pushed the chemise up, bunching it around Josh’s waist, exposing the black lace panties. Greg’s fingers hooked into the waistband and yanked them down to his knees. He poured lube, cold and excessive, directly onto Josh’s asshole, letting it drip down his perineum.
He didn’t bother with fingers tonight. He was too excited, too immersed in his fantasy. He positioned his cock, thick and ruddy, at Josh’s entrance. “Jessica’s a tight little bitch, isn’t she?” he groaned, and pushed.
The stretch was brutal, a dry, tearing invasion made slick only by the cold gel. Josh gasped, his hands fisting in the duvet. Greg sheathed himself fully in one relentless thrust and paused, panting, his body plastered against Josh’s back.
“Yeah,” Greg moaned, his voice shaking. He ran a hand over the chemise, over the padded bra, clutching at the false flesh. “You feel that, baby? You feel how much I want you?” He began to move, a slow, deep, possessive rhythm. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each plunge a re-conquest. “My sweet Jessica. My fucking girl.”
The vulgar endearments poured from him, mixing with the slapping of his flesh and the creak of the bed. He fucked into the silence Josh offered, building his own fantasy on top of it. “You like this dick, don’t you? Tell me you like it, Jessica.”
“I like it,” Josh whispered into the duvet, his voice utterly flat.
“Louder!”
“I LIKE IT!” Josh shouted, the force of it tearing his throat.
Greg whimpered, his rhythm fragmenting into frantic, shallow jerks. He came with a shuddering cry, his nails digging into Josh’s hips through the silk. He collapsed forward, his weight smothering, his sweat soaking through the chemise.
He lay there for a long minute. Then he pulled out. He carefully pulled the lace panties back up over Josh’s thighs, as if dressing a doll. He smoothed the chemise down. He turned Josh around and looked at him, his expression strangely tender, utterly unseeing.
“You were perfect,” Greg breathed, touching Josh’s cheek. “Just perfect.”
Josh stood there, encased in the ridiculous, scratchy lace, Greg’s cum leaking into the fabric. The vanilla candle smoke choked him. He was a placeholder, a canvas for a loneliness so profound it had to invent a woman to fuck. This, somehow, was the deepest violation yet.
Greg smiled, a shy, terrible thing. “Maybe… maybe we can do this again next week.”
Josh said nothing. He simply began to remove the lingerie, folding each piece with a terrifying calmness. He dressed in his own clothes, the familiar fabric now feeling like a stranger’s costume. He walked out while Greg still watched from the bed, a satisfied figure in a silk robe.
On the bus, pressed against a fogged window, Josh realized the shaking had stopped. A terrible clarity had frozen in its place. The schedule was endless. Barry’s cold utility, Kevin’ grubby ownership, Greg’s desperate fantasy—they were just variations on the same act of consumption. He was not a person to them. He was a function.
His phone buzzed. Not a calendar alert this time. A text from an unknown number. It was a photo, slightly blurry, taken from a low angle under a conference table. It showed a face, eyes wide and wet, a thick cock pushing into its mouth.
The text below it read: HR loves a success story. See you Tuesday, 3 PM. Don’t be late.
Josh stared at the image of his own degradation, glowing in his hand. The hollow laugh finally came, a soft, dead sound lost in the bus’s rumble. He deleted the text. He erased the photo. It didn’t matter. The picture was printed on the inside of his skull now, more permanent than any digital file.
He got off at his stop. The night air was cold. He walked, not home, but toward the dim glow of the all-night convenience store on the corner. He went inside, the bell jangling. He browsed the aisles, his footsteps loud on the linoleum. He stopped in front of a display of cheap, serrated kitchen knives, sealed in clear plastic blister packs.
He picked one up. He tested its weight in his palm. The plastic edges dug into his skin.
He paid in cash. The clerk didn’t look up from his phone.
Outside, Josh slid the package into his coat pocket. The weight of it bumped against his thigh with every step. It was a new kind of reminder, a hard and definite geometry. Tuesday was coming. Conference Room 4B was waiting. But the function was about to change.