Chapter 7: Pinned between Greg's thrusts and Kevin's cock in his mouth, Josh is reduced to frantically rubbing his own dick with limp-wristed strokes as commanded. 'That's it, princess,' Kevin sneers, slapping Josh's cheek with his limp cock. 'Make those slutty noises when Greg makes you cum from getting railed like a whore.'
The office air tasted of recycled grief. Josh moved through the Monday morning routines like a machine with corroded parts: log in, open tickets, respond to emails. His body was a constellation of aches, each one a pinpoint memory of Barry’s floor, Barry’s hands, Barry’s indifference. The phantom weight of the collar was gone, but the sensation of its constriction remained, a psychic leash he could feel tightening with every glance at Barry’s closed office door.
His attempt at defiance—the stupid, childish knife—had been discovered and discarded. He had offered Barry not a fight, but a deeper, more entertaining form of submission. The shame of that was a chemical burn in his gut.
A chat window popped up on his screen. Kevin.
: Server Room 4. 11:30. Bring the thermal paste from the supply closet.
It wasn’t a request. It was a summons, disguised as a work order. Josh stared at the pixels until they blurred. He had avoided them since the incident in the break room, since Greg had whispered his filth and Kevin had held him down. The memory was a splinter in his mind.
At 11:25, he collected the tube of silver thermal paste. His palms were damp. The walk to the isolated server room felt like a march through a vacuum, the usual office sounds—keyboard clatter, phone chatter—muffled into nothing.
Server Room 4 was at the end of a poorly-lit corridor, a heavy door with a keycard swipe. His own access badge, still new and unrevoked, blinked a green light and granted entry.
The hum hit him first—a deep, relentless vibrational thrum from a hundred cooling fans and spinning drives. The air was ten degrees colder, dry and laced with the sharp scent of ozone and dust. Blue and green LEDs glowed in the dimness, casting pulsating shadows between the towering black racks.
Kevin and Greg were already there. Kevin leaned against a rack, his tall, skinny frame looking especially insectile in the half-light. Greg was sitting on a low wheeled stool, his stout body spilling over the edges. They stopped talking when he entered.
“Right on time,” Kevin said, his voice flat. “Got the paste?”
Josh held up the tube.
“Good.” Kevin pushed off the rack. “We’re re-seating a CPU on the backup array. Hot aisle.” He pointed a bony finger towards the back of the room, where the heat from the concentrated servers was vented.
Josh followed. The hot aisle was a narrow canyon between two rows of roaring equipment, the air warm and thick. Kevin gestured to an open server node, its innards exposed. “There. Old paste is dried out. Clean it off. Apply new.”
Josh knelt, pulling an anti-static mat closer. He set to work with isopropyl wipes, meticulously dabbing away the gray, crusted thermal compound from the CPU’s metallic surface. The focused, physical task was a relief. For a few minutes, he was just a technician doing a job.
He felt them move behind him before he heard them. A shift in the air. The hum of the servers seemed to grow louder, drowning out all other sound.
Greg’s voice, close to his ear, cut through the noise. “Look at him. Kneeling. Just right for it.”
A hand, Kevin’s, landed on the back of his neck, not gently. It pressed him forward, until his forehead was almost against the cool metal of the opposite server rack.
“Weekend with Barry went long, didn’t it?” Kevin whispered. “We saw you leave with him on Friday. Looking all tense. He teach you your place?”
Josh squeezed his eyes shut. The thermal paste tube rolled from his grasp.
“I think he did,” Greg said. He was close now, on his other side. Josh could smell his cheap deodorant fighting a losing battle against body odor. “But Barry’s got a soft touch, for a boss. Lets you keep your clothes on sometimes, right? We’re more… hands-on.”
Kevin’s hand left his neck. Josh heard a zipper. He stiffened.
“You know the drill, Josh,” Kevin said. His voice was casual, conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Don’t make us wrestle you. It’s unprofessional.”
A different pressure, at the back of his trousers. Greg’s blunt fingers yanked his belt open, then unbuttoned his jeans. They tugged everything down to his knees in one rough motion. The cold air of the server room kissed his exposed skin.
“There we go,” Greg cooed. A hand slapped his ass, hard. The sting was bright and shocking. “Such a pretty little pussy on you. All ready for us after Barry’s weekend warm-up.”
Josh gritted his teeth, his forehead against the metal. He couldn’t breathe.
He felt Greg spit, a wet, warm glob landing between his cheeks. A thumb, Greg’s, smeared it around, pushing clumsily against his hole. “Gotta lubricate the entry port,” Greg chuckled, his breath hot on Josh’s back.
There was no preparation, no care. Greg positioned himself and pushed. The intrusion was a blunt, burning tear. Josh gasped, the sound lost in the server hum. Greg was not large, but he was relentless, forcing his way in with short, punishing thrusts.
“Fuck, yeah,” Greg grunted, grabbing Josh’s hips, his fingers digging in. “Tight little cunt. Tighter than Barry leaves it, I bet. You clenching for me? You like pretending it’s a real one?”
Josh remained silent, his eyes screwed shut. The pain was a white-hot wire inside him. Greg set a rhythm, a shallow, rapid piston motion that was less about pleasure and more about violent occupation. The server racks vibrated in time with the thrusts.
“Look at him,” Kevin said, his voice dripping with bored contempt. He had moved to the front, leaning against the server to watch Josh’s face. “Taking it like a champ. Or a whore. Same difference.” He unzipped his own pants. “Since you’re so good at multitasking.”
Kevin took his cock out. It was thin and uncut, already hard. He slapped it against Josh’s cheek. “Open.”
Josh turned his head away. Kevin grabbed his jaw, fingers pressing into his cheeks, and forced his head back. “I said open your fucking mouth. Or do you want me to tell Barry you refused a direct order from a senior team member? He’d enjoy that. Give him a reason for another ‘correction’.”
The threat was a cold spike. Josh’s resistance shattered. He opened his mouth.
Kevin pushed himself in, hitting the back of his throat immediately. Josh gagged, tears springing to his eyes. Kevin held his head still and began to fuck his face with short, brutal strokes, each one choking him.
Greg, behind, was getting louder, his thrusts deeper. “Yeah, take it, you slut,” he panted. “Take my dick in your fucking pussy. You love it, don’t you? Tell me you love it.”
Josh couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe. He was a thing suspended between them, being used in both holes, his body a mere conduit for their contempt. The world narrowed to the choke of Kevin’s cock, the burn of Greg’s, and the deafening, mind-numbing hum of the machines.
“Look at him, Greg,” Kevin said, pausing his thrusts for a moment, his cock resting on Josh’s tongue. “Pathetic. He’s getting hard.”
It was true. A traitorous, shameful arousal had sparked in his groin, a purely physiological response to the relentless stimulation. The horror of it flooded him, hotter than the pain.
Greg laughed, a wet, nasty sound. “Of course he is. That’s what sluts do. They get wet. They get hard. Their bodies know what they’re for.” He reached a hand around, his fingers clumsily wrapping around Josh’s erection. “See? He’s fucking dripping.”
Greg began to jerk him off, his grip too tight, his rhythm discordant with his own thrusting. “You wanna cum, Josh? You wanna shoot your little load while my cock’s in your pussy?”
Josh moaned around Kevin, a sound of pure abject misery.
“I think he does,” Kevin said, resuming his pace, fucking his mouth with renewed vigor. “But sluts don’t get to cum unless they’re told. Do they?”
Greg’s hand worked him faster. “No, they fucking don’t. You beg for it. You beg for permission to cum like the girl you are.”
The coil in Josh’s gut was tightening, a wave of nauseating pleasure building against his will, amplified by the degradation, by the utter loss of control. He was going to. He couldn’t stop it.
“Please,” he garbled around Kevin’s cock, the word mangled and wet.
“Please what?” Greg demanded, slamming into him harder.
“Please… let me…” Josh choked, saliva dripping down his chin.
“Let you what? Say it.”
“Let me cum.” The words were ash in his mouth.
“Louder.”
“Please let me cum!” he sobbed, the sound tearing from him.
Greg grunted, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Yeah. Okay. Cum for me, you little bitch. Cum on my hand.”
It was the permission that did it. The orgasm ripped through him, violent and shuddering, a convulsion of shame. He cried out, his body seizing as he spilled over Greg’s fist and onto the anti-static mat below.
Greg came a moment later, with a stifled groan, pushing deep and holding there. Kevin, seeing them both finish, gave a few final, harsh thrusts into Josh’s mouth and pulled out, coming across his face in hot, sticky stripes.
For a long moment, there was only the hum and the sound of their ragged breathing.
Greg pulled out. The sudden emptiness was its own ache. Kevin stepped back, tucking himself away.
Josh slid from his knees onto his side, curling in on himself on the cold floor, his pants around his ankles, semen cooling on his face and stomach. He felt hollowed out, scraped clean.
Greg wiped his hand on Josh’s discarded wipes. “Good. See? Teamwork.” He zipped up. “Get the CPU reseated. And clean this mess up. We’ve got a deployment in an hour.”
Kevin looked down at him, his expression one of mild distaste, as if viewing a spilled drink. “Barry’s got big plans for you on Friday. He told us. Said you needed… reinforcing.” He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Think about this while you’re lying in your bed tonight. This is just the maintenance. Friday with Barry? That’s the upgrade. And you’ve got no say in the specs.”
They left, the heavy door swinging shut behind them with a final, resounding click.
Josh lay in the hot aisle, surrounded by the indifferent machines. Their lights blinked, their fans whirred, processing endless streams of data. He was just another system to them, one that had been forcibly reconfigured, his code overwritten with someone else’s commands. He pulled his pants up slowly, each movement sending a fresh jolt of pain through his body. He used the clean side of the anti-static mat to wipe his face.
Then, mechanically, he finished cleaning the CPU. He applied a perfect, pea-sized dot of new silver thermal paste. He reseated the heat sink. He screwed it all back together.
The job was done. The server would run efficiently.
He stood on trembling legs, gathered the soiled materials, and disposed of them in the hazardous waste bin. He washed his face in the utility sink until the skin was raw.
When he returned to his desk, no one looked up. The office hummed with its own mundane energy. He sat down, logged back into his system, and opened the next ticket. His face was neutral. His hands were steady.
Inside, the hollowness had begun to fill with something new, something quiet and cold and infinitely patient. It wasn’t hope. It wasn’t a plan.
It was the silent, observing eye of a machine waiting for its next command.